Free The Revenge of Captain Paine by Andrew Pepper Page A

done.
    ‘That’s James Munroe,’ Godfrey whispered. ‘He’s a moderate voice together with chaps like Lovett and Cleave. They’re part of the national trade union movement. On the whole, they’re a respectable but tiresome bunch; the type that wash their faces, clean their teeth and fuck their wives in the dark.’
    Pyke had once seen the renowned radical ‘Orator’ Hunt, who had died earlier in the year, whip up a crowd of working men into a frenzy with his plain-speaking approach. By comparison, Munroe’s speech carried all the charge of a gobbet of rotting meat.
    ‘We all know Peel and the Tories hate us but the present Liberal government has done nothing for us, will do nothing for us in the future and never wanted to do anything for us in the first place.’ Pausing to receive the polite applause of the men packed into the room, Munroe nodded his head, seemingly pleased with his lacklustre performance.
    Pyke felt like asking him whether anyone in the room believed that a government elected only by propertied voters would ever act in the interests of the working man.
    ‘What we need, friends, is a wage that reflects the work we do. Today, more than ever, workmen do not receive a price for their labour that allows them to provide for their families. The devil-capitalist who has risen from our ranks and who lusts after money has become our enemy; he sits in his mansion revelling in his abundance while hard-working men are ground into the earth. These grubby money-mongers prey on our labour, require it to fill their pockets, exploit it and encourage others to exploit it, turn greed into a virtue, and in so doing make us not into slaves but machines, brethren of the very tools we use to do our work.’
    This time the applause was more muted. Munroe seemed puzzled, unable to work out why he was not receiving more wholehearted support from the rambunctious mob.
    From his vantage point at the back of the room, Pyke studied the gathered crowd, mostly shoemakers and tailors, he supposed, with a handful of labourers. The latter wore grubby shooting jackets and torn velveteen coats while the former were dressed in either smockfrocks or monkey jackets. He saw Emily right at the front of the room, having an animated talk with a young man sitting next to her. They looked to be sharing some kind of joke.
    ‘Do you see Emily there? Who’s she talking to?’
    Godfrey put on his spectacles. ‘ Ah , that’s a chap called Julian Jackman.’
    ‘Why do you say it like that?’
    Up on the platform Munroe was trying to explain the merits of the Grand National Consolidated Trades Union.
    ‘His mob is a different kettle of fish altogether. They might be a ragbag mixture of types but at least they’ve got some balls. They talk a good game but they’re interested in the ordinary man, too.’ Godfrey hesitated, his expression clouding over. ‘In the current climate, I’d say that any association with Jackman and his lot is not going to be conducive to Emily’s good health, though.’
    Pyke felt the skin tighten across his cheek. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ At that moment, his view of Emily and Jackman was obscured by someone sitting a few rows ahead of him.
    ‘As far as I’ve heard, there’s going to be a big clampdown on radical activity,’ Godfrey whispered, ‘and when it comes, the authorities won’t concern themselves with someone’s rank or station.’
    ‘And has this information come from someone inside the government?’ he asked, thinking about Peel’s interest in Jackman.
    ‘They’re willing to tolerate the unions up to a point. But what they do not want is every Tom, Dick and Harry joining these organisations. Look around you, Pyke. Folk are rightfully angry. Reform hasn’t changed a damned thing and they’re disillusioned. That’s why this figure Captain Paine has become something of a hero to them.’
    ‘What do you know about him?’
    ‘Who, Captain Paine?’
    Pyke nodded.
    ‘No more than