The sailor wove his way down the gang way of the cattle transport ship once the heaving mass of beef on the hoof was herded off the reeking vessel. The herd made its noisome way along Commercial Road on their way to the slaughterhouses of Whitechapel and Spitalfields.
He wiped his nose on the blood stiffened sleeve of his coat. The stench of cow shit and offal clung to his person as surely as the muck did to his boots. At least the tide was in and they’d been able to discharge the bleeders directly onto the wharf without the bother of messing about with the transport vessels. What a relief to be free of the stinking floating hell, despite the diversion the injured cattle had provided during the long voyage. He headed for the nearest public house, pushing through the thronging crowd of recently landed deck hands and locals.
One of the women put a hand out to slow him before she got a decent look at his excrement covered garments. Jake shoved her as he passed and was heartened at the sight of her wallowing on her arse in the raw sewage of the gutter. Ignoring the screamed curses, he continued on to the Black Horse for a well-deserved ‘arf and ‘arf.
Jacob Winncott elbowed his way to the bar through the seething mass of humanity that frequented The Horse. The scruffy patrons quickly hid their glowers after one look at the broad shouldered man who bulled his way past them. Jake revelled in the fear that flashed across the coarse features of the faces in the mass of humanity as it parted before him. Some he recognized as crew from the Swansea Star. A grim satisfaction surged in his gut when they averted their gazes and pushed back into the crowd in their haste to avoid his interest.