Yus, barked Ben, emphatically. I know where Wych Street was it was just sarth of the river, afore yer come to Waterloo Station.
It was then that the coloured man, who up to that point had taken no part in the discussion, thought fit to intervene.
Nope. Yous all wrong, capn. Wych Street were alongside de church, way over where the Strand takes a side-line up west.
Ben turned on him fiercely.
What the blazes does a blanketty nigger know abaht it? Ive told yer where Wych Street was.
Yus, and I know where it was, interposed Meadows.
Yer both wrong. Wych Street was a turning running from Long Acre into Wellington Street.
I didnt ask yer what you thought, growled Ben.
Well, I suppose Ive a right to an opinion?
You always think you know everything, you do.
You can just keep yer mouth shut.
It ud take moren you to shut it.
Mr. Booth thought it advisable at this juncture to bawl across the bar: Now, gentlemen, no quarrelling please.
The affair might have been subsided at that point, but for Mrs. Dawes. Her emotions over the death of the old lady in the street had been so stirred that she had been, almost unconsciously, drinking too much gin. She suddenly screamed out:
Dont you take no lip from im, Mr. Medders. The dirty, thieving devil, e always thinks es goin to come it over every one.
She stood up threateningly, and one of Bens supporters gave her a gentle push backwards. In three minutes the bar was in a complete state of pandemonium. The three members of The Gallows Ring fought two men and a woman, for Mr. Dawes merely stood in a corner and screamed out:
Dont! Dont!
Mrs. Dawes stabbed the man who had pushed her through the wrist with a hatpin. Meadows and Ben Orming closed on each other and fought savagely with the naked fists. A lucky blow early in the encounter sent Meadows reeling against the wall, with blood streaming down his temple. Then the coloured man hurled a pewter tankard straight at Ben and it hit him on the knuckles. The pain maddened him to a frenzy. His other supporter had immediately got to grips with Harry Jones, and picked up one of the high stools and, seizing an opportunity, brought it down crash on to the coloured mans skull.
The whole affair was a matter of minutes. Mr. Booth was bawling out in the street. A whistle sounded. People were running in all directions.
Beat it! Beat it for Gods sake! called the man who had been stabbed through the wrist. His face was very white, and he was obviously about to faint.
Ben and the other man, whose name was Toller, dashed to the door. On the pavement there was a confused scramble. Blows were struck indiscriminately. Two policemen appeared. One was laid hors de combat by a kick on the knee-cap from Toller. The two men fled into the darkness, followed by a hue-and-cry. Born and bred in the locality, they took every advantage of their knowledge. They tacked through alleys and raced down dark mews, and clambered over walls. Fortunately for them, the people they passed, who might have tripped them up or aided in the pursuit, merely fled indoors. The people in Wapping are not always on the side of the pursuer. But the police held on. At last Ben and Toller slipped through the door of an empty house in Aztec Street barely ten yards ahead of their nearest pursuer. Blows rained on the door, but they slipped the bolts, and then fell panting to the floor. When Ben could speak, he said:
If they cop us, it means swinging.
Was the nigger done in?
I think so. But even if e wasnt, there was that other affair the night before last. The games up.
The ground-floor rooms were shuttered and bolted, but they knew that the police would probably force the front door. At the back there was no escape, only a narrow stable yard, where lanterns were already flashing. The roof only extended thirty yards either way and the police would probably take possession of it. They made a round of the house, which was sketchily furnished. There was a loaf, a small piece of mutton, and a bottle of pickles, and the most precious possession three bottles of whisky. Each man drank half a glass of neat whisky; then Ben said: Well be able to keep em quiet for a bit, anyway, and he went and fetched an old twelve-bore gun and a case of cartridges. Toller was opposed to this last desperate resort, but Ben continued to murmur, It means swinging, anyway.
And thus began the notorious siege of Aztec Street. It lasted three days and four nights. You may remember that, on forcing a panel of the front door, Sub-Inspector Wraithe, of the V Division, was shot through the chest. The police then tried other methods. A hose was brought into play without effect. Two policemen were killed and four wounded. The military was requisitioned. The street was picketed. Snipers occupied windows of the houses opposite. A distinguished member of the Cabinet drove down in a motor-car, and directed operations in a top-hat. It was the introduction of poison-gas which was the ultimate cause of the downfall of the citadel. The body of Ben Orming was never found, but that of Toller was discovered near the front door with a bullet through his heart. The medical officer to the Court pronounced that the man had been dead three days, but whether killed by a chance bullet from a sniper or whether killed deliberately by his fellow-criminal was never revealed. For when the end came Orming had apparently planned a final act of venom. It was known that in the basement a considerable quantity of petrol had been stored. The contents had probably been carefully distributed over the most inflammable materials in the top rooms. The fire broke out, as one witness described it, almost like an explosion. Orming must have perished in this. The roof blazed up, and the sparks carried across the yard and started a stack of light timber in the annexe of Messrs. Morrels piano-factory. The factory and two blocks of tenement buildings were burnt to the ground. The estimated cost of the destruction was one hundred and eighty thousand pounds. The casualties amounted to seven killed and fifteen wounded.