The thought was, horribly, a relief.
“Hell,” Silas muttered.
Dominic frowned. “What?”
“I just thought, I’ll need to stop writing for a bit. Concentrate on the shop. On myself.”
“Yes…?”
Silas shut his eyes. “And it felt like a rest. Like putting down a burden. I want to run my shop, and have Wednesdays, and not fight anymore. Let someone else do it. Not keep risking my neck. I want to walk away. I’ve never walked away from a fight or a duty in my life, and I want to do it now.”
Dominic was silent a moment. At last he said, “In ancient Rome, under Augustus, a legionary’s term of service was twenty-five years. One gave the best years of one’s life, and retired with the respect of one’s fellows and a plot of land to farm. That seems a reasonable exchange to me. And you haven’t even had the land.”
“Shame we don’t do that for soldiers now. No. I see what you’re saying, but no. This ain’t a job of work; it’s what I believe. For me, for others. What sort of man doesn’t fight for what he thinks right?”
“Most of them.”
Silas snorted. “Aye, true. That’s the problem.”
“You lost your home and business,” Dominic said. “It is not selfishness or greed to rebuild your own life before you return to changing the world.”
Return. He hadn’t even thought of return.
Dominic gave Silas an affectionate, exasperated look. “Good heavens, you are the most absolute of men. There are points in between martyrdom to the cause and renouncing it altogether, you know. Declare yourself a holiday.”
A holiday from principle, and Dom wasn’t even questioning that it would be a holiday. Silas could just stop for a while, regain his energy, think again. Take a breath.
Surely he was entitled to take a breath?
Chapter 12
On Tuesday, Silas went back to Fox Court, to Brunt’s room and the Spencean Philanthropists.
He was reluctant, truth be told. The hopeless fantasies of the Spenceans were too painful, and even the thought of saying that he was walking away made him churn with guilt. He had not been to one of their meetings in more than a fortnight, and they had doubtless assumed he was another apostate. He might as well never go back. It would have been easier not to, and therefore he went.
He was greeted with a little surprise, a lot of warmth. Davidson clapped him on the back. “Good to see you again, Mason. You’re the very man we want, and just in time.”
“That’s right,” Thistlewood said. “We need determination now. Steady hands and unwavering courage. We will prevail.”
He didn’t look like he’d prevail. He looked ravenous, as they all did, with sunken eyes and dull skin. Unwashed, unshaved, animal, because they’d been pushed too far down to be men.
Silas couldn’t stop fighting this. Nobody should stop fighting this.
“And d’you see what we’ve got?” Davidson said, with an effort at enthusiasm. “See this? This is going to do it. This’ll strike our blow!”
Silas looked around him. It was dark, even during the day, in this poky space with the shutters closed and nary a candle, but he could see enough.
“Bugger me,” he said.
The place was an arsenal. He could see hand grenades, finished pikes, a couple of pistols, balls of rope yarn. “Dipped for fireballs,” Ings said proudly.
“The West End Job,” Silas said with a sinking feeling. “It’s on?”
It was. Thistlewood, Ings, and Brunt spoke over one another in their haste. They and their forty or fifty men would divide up, some capturing the cannon at Grays Inn Lane and the Artillery Ground, others spreading out to assassinate as many government ministers as possible. “We’ll meet here,” Thistlewood instructed, indicating the cramped little room that barely held twelve, “and draw lots for the duty of assassinating each minister. He who fails in his task shall be run through on the spot.”
Silas took a deep breath to give his opinion of that, but Adams was already speaking. “I told you all. I warned you. Mr. Hobbs from the White Hart says there have been officers from Hatton Garden and Bow Street asking—”
There was a general groan. Thistlewood said, “Be silent, curse you.”
“I shall not. The officers have asked if radical meetings were held at the White Hart. Mr. Hobbs says there is information laid at Lord Sidmouth’s office. They know of us.”
“Ha!” Thistlewood exclaimed. “Mr. Hobbs is a poltroon and a turncoat.”
“Adams is right. The Home Office know something’s up,” Silas said. “I’ve got a…an informant there. I don’t know what they know, but they expected you—us to strike on the day of the mad king’s funeral—”