“They have deliberately unloaded my ice this morning and put it in the smallest warehouse, allowing half of it to melt out here! And look! They have scraped off most of the sawdust. The sawdust insulates the ice. And they used the warehouse on the end, facing east. This was deliberate! My ice-it came all the way from Greenland, merely to melt on these God-rotting docks! I will kill the man who did this to me!”
I stepped into the entrance of the building beside my employer. Inside, it was cool, but the floor was a mash of sawdust and water. The ice in tall, concave blocks had washed away the shavings until one could nearly see right through them. He was right: they were ruined. If he and his men hurried now, perhaps they could save half the shipment.
Cyrus Barker passed to the ship unloading cotton and came over with Ben Tillett. The Englishman gave a low whistle.
“What happened here, then?” he asked. “Who unloaded this?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Gigliotti said.
Tillett checked the schedule. “This wasn’t meant to be unloaded until tonight.”
“I just said that!” the livid Italian cried.
“I’m not doubting your word, sir,” the foreman said diplomatically. “Let me go into the office and see what has happened.” He trotted off toward the East India Docks office while Gigliotti fumed and muttered to himself.
“There is not a moment to lose if I am to save what is left of this ice. I must have all my vehicles brought here immediately!” He turned and hurried off after Tillett.
I shook my head, looking at the melting ice, but I couldn’t help enjoying the cool air and shade. I glanced at my employer. “Do you think this was deliberate?”
“Of course it was,” Barker said.
“They are trying to rattle him.”
“They’re succeeding,” my employer growled. “In that note they said he’s had things too much his way, and they are right. No one here has dared try this sort of thing with him before. They’re scrappy, I’ll say that for these Sicilians. One has to earn their respect.”
“By that, you mean we’ll have to,” I muttered.
“Aye, lad, and it won’t be easy.”
A few minutes later, Tillett trotted back, full of news. “What a to-do,” he said. “Apparently, one of the Sicilians-and, of course, we don’t know which one-got the dock guard drunk early this morning and the ice was unloaded under cover of darkness. The sailors aboard ship said that the paperwork looked to be in order, but the waterman took it away when he was finished. He was Sicilian by the cap he wore, but he knew how to use the dock hoist. These blocks weigh a ton or more.”
“I suppose, if one were to question these dockworkers, they would say they were all snug in their beds this morning in Clerkenwell, and each could vouch for the presence of the others the entire night,” my employer said.
“Shall we report it, anyway?” I asked.
“Wasted breath. This was just a feint at Gigliotti’s head.”
Victor Gigliotti returned from the offices looking even less satisfied than he was when he left.
“Green will do nothing!” the Camorran cried, throwing his hands in the air. “Sir Alan would not have allowed such a thing to happen. He would have run off every Sicilian on these docks. My ice, my beautiful ice, all the way from Greenland. ‘Nobody saw anything, Mr. Gigliotti.’ ‘We cannot blame the Sicilians without proof, Mr. Gigliotti.’ Pfuh!” Here he gave an Italian gesture, a raking of his chin with the back of his fingers in the direction of the offices. “If he cannot even stand up to a few low-browed Sicilians, he is half a man!”
Gigliotti’s first wagon arrived about a quarter hour later. He moaned at the state of his ice all the while. The slush had crossed the threshold and seeped out across the docks toward the harbor. Finally, Gigliotti could take no more and charged toward the Sicilians, who were now done with the cotton and waiting for the next ship to arrive. The Sicilians united were not as docile as before. They charged back, breaking into a shouting match in Italian in the center of the dock with Gigliotti and his men.
“Wait for it,” Cyrus Barker said casually, pushing at a shell on the ground with the tip of his stick.
The shouting escalated. As a Briton, I had to marvel at the way these men argued: with expansive gestures and deep passion. It was like watching an impromptu opera. Gigliotti raised a finger and started to declaim something. I didn’t understand what he was saying until he got to the final word. That at least was one I’d heard before. It was “vendetta.” At once, Gigliotti turned, and with his entire entourage, stalked off, leaving the Sicilians jeering at his retreating form.
“There it is,” Barker said. “The Camorrans and the Mafia are officially at war.”
An hour later, Ben Tillett sat across from us at the Brown Betty having tea. He ate the cucumber and cress sandwiches but eschewed the sliced ham. Apparently, he was a vegetarian as well as a teetotaler.
“Mr. Green mentioned your politics,” Barker commented. “Are you a Fabian?”
“I am,” Tillett admitted, wiping crumbs from his mustache. “Do you consider that relevant?”
“Indirectly. The East End seems to be full of socialists these days.”
My understanding of my employer is based upon the slightest changes of his expression. In this case he turned his rough-hewn face a half inch toward me, which meant he was regarding me from behind his smoky black lenses. It was true that my best friend, Israel Zangwill, was a member of the Fabians, and he had been quietly agitating for me to join. Cyrus Barker was a staunch conservative and would have no use for a radical reformer in his household. Everywhere I turn it seems I’m stuck between Scylla and Charybdis.
“Our membership is expanding,” Tillett said with enthusiasm, “but there is a lot of work to be done in the East End.”
“I understand there is a problem at the dock regarding a promise of hours?” the Guv asked.
“Yes. We’re trying to get Mr. Green to agree to pay every laborer for at least three hours a day. The men have to stay whether or not a ship arrives in port, or the work goes to someone else. It only makes sense that they get paid for it.”
“I wish you luck convincing the dock owners of the need to pay idle men.”
“Something has to be done,” Tillett explained. “These men have families, mouths to feed. Green needs to bring an end to the casual labor system.”
“I understand the Sicilian workers have added to the trouble.”
“Yes, they have,” the young man said, pouring himself a second cup of tea. He had decimated his plate of cucumber sandwiches. “Their numbers have trebled in the last year or more, and they’ve become a force to be reckoned with on the docks. The long periods of inactivity while waiting for a new boat to arrive often lead to fights and drunkenness. They’ve taken up the issue of paid hours as well but are rather heavy-handed in their methods. Sometimes I wonder if there’s going to be a fight between the Sicilians and the rest of us.”
“Are all the Sicilians involved?” I asked.
“No. Perhaps I should have made that clear. Some of them are good family men, but pressure is being put on them to conform. I wouldn’t be surprised if their families were threatened.”
“Have you ever heard of an organization called the Mafia?” the Guv asked.
“I can’t say that I have. What is it?”
“It is a secret criminal organization centered in Palermo. I believe the leader of your dockworkers is a member. Have you seen a recognizable leader among them?”
“I haven’t,” Tillett replied. “But that’s just the thing. They seem to arrive each morning with a planned agenda. For example, the Sicilians will save space for one another, allowing their members to go off and cause trouble in Poplar, and then they’ll alert each other when a ship’s arriving. Frankly, we don’t know whether to disallow the practice or adopt it ourselves. It flies in the face of several centuries of tradition.”