“With the gates flying up and the tolls going higher the price of producing is rocketing. The Corn Law levy is ruining us. Wheat at sixty-two shillings, is dropping; barley at six shillings a bushel, is plunging lower. Butter, which we cannot afford for our hungry children is at sevenpence a pound, half its price. The upland farmers like me are throwing away their stock, too dear to feed them, for we must raise corn to live. But worse lies ahead, for the country is being invaded by the colliers and ironworkers of Monmouthshire, where pits are being closed and furnaces blown out since the fall of the Chartists. And where are the authorities who guide our destinies? I will tell you – roystering in the London taverns!” His voice rose to a shout of sudden anger. “The squireen landlords are bleeding the counties to death – drawing incomes of thousands in rents for farms they see once a year, if that. But they depute their responsibilities, mind, O, yes, they depute – to the crooked little Napoleons you find in every corner of Wales – and not only English, remember – Welsh, too – by God, we’ve got them, for easy pickings bring up the dregs of a country. So we are dominated by the little landowners who have the power of life and death over us – the crooked little magistrates. Heaven help you speaking Welsh at the hands of their interpreters – pleading guilty before you go in. God help you more if you have deducted a single penny from their profits. And some are Church clergy! Is it the function of men of God to send their neighbours to prison or transportation, even death?” His fist came down on the box and he glared around us. Pretty worked up now. He stopped for breath.
“Listen,” he ended. “We cannot burn investments or bonds or tithes or Corn Laws or Poor Laws, but we can burn the things that stand as other injustices – the gates! We cannot feed the starving in their thousands or succour our poor, but we can fight the moral wrongs, break down the workhouses that shame our country and carry the transgressors on the wooden horse – from squireen to clergy we will carry them and bring them to ridicule, because they dishonour us and the law of God. ‘And they blessed Rebekah, and said unto her, Thou art our sister, be thou the mother of thousands of millions, and let thy seed possess the gate of those which hate them.’ Amen.”
“Amen,” came the grumble of voices.
He spoke again.
“Flannigan – the first gate?”
“Two, sir – the bar and gate, Kidwelly to Carmarthen. And while we are in that district I know a couple of ricks for tinder – the Reverend John Jenkins, for unfair gathering of tithes.”
“His crime?” asked Rhayader.
“Sold a labourer’s Bible, being a shilling short of his tithe.”
“Good God, forgive him,” said Rhayader. “We will not. Have his ricks, then, every one in sight. Give the labourer a Bible, present from Rebecca.”
“I will see to that, sir,” came a voice from the back. “My old Gran’s got two and she’s pretty well blind.”
“Good. Enough for one night,” said Rhayader. “Back here in half an hour, every man. Bring horses those who have them, for the way is long – hooves covered with grain sacks, reins tied against chinking. The dragoons are out near Kidwelly, remember.”
“Dragoons moved to St Clears, maister – night ’fore last.”
“Good.”
“What about snow, Tom Rhayader? Making fair tracks, mind!”
“God will smooth us out.”
“Isn’t the dragoons scaring me, mind. Case my old woman do follow us!”
Roars at this, with Flannigan hushing at us for silence. Rhayader said;
“Those who have powder-guns, carry them, but God help the man I find with shot. Bring hatchets, axes, pikes and levers – saws and scythes. And hearken. We do not fight unless cornered. We drift back into the night where we came from. If we become divided then make your way home separately, not in parties. The man who returns to this barn gets my gun – with shot.” Laughter at this. “If you are taken tie up your tongue – you cannot even spell Rebecca – or Justin Slaughterer will have it out the day you are loosed. No man knows his brother, his Rebecca sister, his daughters, and, by God, no man knows me. The informer dies. Right, away! Fifty-three strong we start from here for the march on Kidwelly. But we will gather them from the villages in hundreds. God bless us as God-fearing men. And may God help us. Back in half an hour. Away!”
Flannigan doused the lamp and we filed out into the snow.
Back home I went for Randy, for it was some way to the gates beyond Kidwelly and I did not fancy the walk. Besides, he was always looking for trouble and here was his chance for some; so far spent the winter eating his head off and dreaming of straw and women. Cae White was iced as I crept into the shippon and slipped up the peg on the stable door, and the smoke from the kitchen chimney was standing as a bar in the still, frosty air. Randy wagged at me as I went round his hind legs, snorting and looking ugly as I hooked up the saddle, so I gave him one in the chops to quieten him and he lifted up his hooves as a lamb while I tied them with corn sacks. Strap down the reins now to stop them jingling and Tara was whining at the kitchen door, knowing I was there. Crept to the door and opened it and she came out sideways with wriggling, then leaped into my arms. Had to laugh at the thought of it – it would have shortened Grandfer’s span had he seen me just then – a shrouded ghost with a blackened face, creeping over the shippon with Tara in its arms. I thought I’d got away with it but a window grated as I led Randy out.
Morfydd was standing by the landing window, face white, diamonds for eyes, and her hair black against the crusted sill.
“Jethro, for God’s sake take care!”
I nodded and climbed into the saddle, leaned down and hooked up Tara. And together we went up to Rhayader’s barn.
I didn’t look back, but I knew she was there.
CHAPTER 16
OVER FIFTY strong, we started, about thirteen horses between us, some two up, but most on foot. But we gathered them in scores on the road to Kidwelly where groups of the daughters were standing in the woods. Powder-guns shouldered, pikes swaying as a forest, we moved through the woods single file just short of the town; Tom Rhayader leading, sitting proud on his mare. Excitement mingled with awe within me as we drifted on in the misted silence; could not drag my eyes from Rhayader, my first Rebecca. His head was turbanned with silk, the back-knot flowing over his long, white shroud. Erect he sat as born to a horse, peacock feathers waving high, glass earrings flashing in moonlight. In his right hand he held a sword, wielding it for direction. Behind the magnificent leader came the gigantic Abel Flannigan. Drooping in the saddle was Flannigan, long legs trailing the snowladen undergrowth, confident, dark with anger. Good to have Flannigan about for he was spawned in these parts and knew every track as the hairs of his hands, every escape road home. Behind him came Justin Slaughterer, a barrel with legs, bowing his horse to the weight of him, bareheaded, his new-grown spade beard flecked with snow. Tramping Boy Joey was walking alongside Justin, gripping his stirrup. This disturbed me. Just plain mischief had brought Joey Scarlet, for he had no gates, and there was a roll in his eye I distrusted. Joey hated people; magistrates, bailiffs and Rebecca alike; come to destroy, nothing else. Only an inch of tongue was needed to send us all to the hulks, and Joey had yards of it, and I could not make out why Flannigan had sworn him. On, on, silent, dozing to the muffled clops and the stuttering crunch of boots in snow. A curse here and there as a man slipped flat and the crack of a twig was enough to send Rhayader swinging in the saddle. Keep clear of the roads now; whispered consultation as we lost direction in the depths of the woods with Joey whipping up from Flannigan to point out the way. A hand gripped my stirrup and I gave him a glance. Stranger to me, this one, with a sallow, pinched face and the big dull eyes of hunger. Just a boy by his looks, and he brushed snow from his wheat-coloured hair and smiled, his face coming alive.
“You weary, boy?”
“After my bedtime,” said he.
“Kidwelly you belong, is it?”
“Pembrey.”
“What is your name?” I asked.
“Matthew Luke John, last being the surname – the whole New Testament.”
“Heavens,” I said. “You got gates down in Pembrey?”
“Not me personal but my dada has plenty, back home in bed.”
“Then rake him out of it. Anyone can lie in bed.”
“Different, man. The old bull got him,” he answered. “Last spring, it was – ripped him something cruel. And there’s only me working – me and my mam. Five kids to keep, see, the youngest six weeks. O, it’s a bastard. You got kids?” He wiped snow from his eyes, peering up.
“Sort of,” I answered.
“And these damned old gates, see – cannot get moving. Couldn’t bring in the lime last carting season, hadn’t got the toll money. Poor harvest this year because of it.”
“Aye,” I said.
It was snowing harder now, riming his lashes, painting up his hair, changing his sex. Lovely he looked just then but he grinned of a sudden and spat like a man.
“Eh,” he said, “my mam’s an old witch. Comes pretty hard on her – working her fingers to the bone with the old man lying stitched – and one on the breast, did I tell you? Our Glyn – rare little savage, he is, always at her, but you don’t make milk on potato soup. You get those gates down, Matthew Luke John, says she, being Welsh. You Welsh?”
I gave him some, pretty rough, and he answered me back, delighted, though I thought his accent was Cardie.
“Up here in the saddle, boy,” I said. “We’ll give you a spell.”
“Whee, bloody jakes!” he said and took hold of Tara while I dragged him, and Randy turned with hate in his eye. “Easy on the cloth, Rebecca,” he added. “Sackcloth and ashes if I tear the old girl’s petticoat. Eh, there’s delightful!” and he fingered the lace of Morfydd’s nightshirt. “That come from a real woman, never mind my mam, is she better with it off?”
“Hush, you,” I said, for Flannigan was trotting towards us, face thunderous.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded – “a Rebecca burning or an Irish Wedding? Shut your chops or I’ll damned soon shut them, the pair of you!”
“God, he’s a brute. Who’s he, then, the Spanish torturer?” said Matthew Luke John. “Send him back home for a week with my mam, she’d damned soon settle him.”
“Abel is right,” I said. “Hush.”
On, on, plodding, drooping; feeling like death at that time of the morning after a hard day of it farming. The boy drooped on Randy and I drooped on him; eyes wide open I caught myself snoring.
Big country now, rolling and jagged, the limestone outcrops of a shattered world painted into artistry with the hand of snow. The woods stood loaded in sombre silence and the stars were as fire above the stark outline of Kidwelly; dear little town, this, hit sideways by the Trusts. Dead and gaunt it looked now to my drooping eyes; flat and dreary, strangled into silence by the garrot of the moon. A dog barked, yelping, as frightened by its shadow, for nothing moved in Kidwelly save the sick, denied sleep by weariness; and babies seeking food and fisting at ribbons for the sleeping breast, for one cried plaintive. We straggled past, and I thought of the town and its low, thatched roofs quilting the sleepers; the sharp-nosed widow lying flat on her back; jaw-sunk, eye-sunk, snoring for a grampus with widow weeds behind the door, the high-laced boots with their toe-kissing postures, laces dangling beneath the iron bed. Brass knobs on this one, with clover-leaf railings, romantic one time, holding up lovers, now creaking its sadness at feather-bedding widows. Grey-haired, she sleeps, hands entwined on stomach, third finger left hand being ringed with gold. Sam Lent was his name, girl, thirty years dead, girl, what a waste of loving – knew he was for it the moment they brought him in, girl; knew he was past it when they laid him on the bed. Half past two from the house, girl – knew it the second I saw him – never strong in the ticker, mind, just like his dad, God rest him. Went the same way, girl, didn’t know what hit him, expired without a word. Looked lovely in his box, mind – did him a world of good that week down at Tenby, bless him. Had him done in medium oak, him being in the timber business. God grant him peace, girl, he is happier dead.
Creep on, drooping, snuffling, plodding.
Silent he sleeps, smooth-faced, and mottled, his blood-pressure up with that little tot of brandy, hands as if in prayer flat beneath his head. Smiling, he sleeps, and with every breath exhaling the little bit of pillow-down leans over gracefully, struggling upright as he draws back in. Shiny black coat is hanging on the hanger, trews with seat to shave in are under the bed – creases, see – sharper for pulpit next Sunday, for the matron in the front row gets the best view. Black Book, black cassock, me – very Church of England; John chapter eleven for my sermon next Sunday, got to get it off by heart, the raising of the dead. For Lazarus is my name, and that is my sermon. O, there’s a lovely story of our Jesus of Nazareth! Parson of Kidwelly, me; trying to be decent, but would to Heaven people would give more love to neighbours. Nothing wrong with this town, mind, O, grant the world be like it! Welsh as me this town, but full of Nonconformists – like that little serving-maid living down the way – will have to win her round one way or the other. O, God, she is pretty, that little Rhiannon – not a patch on her is that front pew matron. Wonder if she’d have me if I tried her quiet – married to a maiden as sweet as my Rhiannon! Ten years older, but I still keep my figure … a bit flabby in places though she doesn’t seem to notice. In a little ring of gold I circle my Rhiannon … and Jesus my Master and His raising of Lazarus.
On, on, harness creaking, on …
Parson Lazarus Frolic is lying on my pillow. Dear little man, he is, gentle as a baby. Wonder if he’ll speak to me a week next Sunday? Strange how he’s always strolling past the old chapel. …
Smiling, she lies, arms by her sides, eyes half open in her dreaming sleep, and her nightie is sideways and her breast is mother-of-pearl in moonlight, the leaded lights are prison bars black on her face. Red lips half open, she pouts and dreams: little serving-maid, second parlourmaid; Cook is a bitch, mind, but Butler most considerate. Black cotton dress is hanging on the wardrobe, wrist-lace on the marble slab gravestone to the china, hairpins on the floor, stays on the window sill crumpled at the waist – nineteen inches round, and the laces are swinging in the draught from the window. Bright red garters on the handle of the door. That old black suit he wears, now there is a scandal! I think he sleeps on it the way it is creased. Rhiannon and her flat iron would do something about it; little Parson Frolic, will you never bring it down? And that chap down at hotel stables coming very hot for winter … find it most upsetting. O, dear little parson, won’t you save my soul for Heaven? For the boys of the village are wicked and the men are even worse, save in Kidwelly where they come pretty tidy. …
Think I’ll turn over, and she pouts and dreams.
And that Church of England matron who eyes you every Sunday, smiling at your sermon with her ear inclined – you’d be shocked about that matron if I cared to open my mouth. Too mean for words, she is, lived next door for life, she has, and nothing on her washing-line in nineteen years. Mam says it isn’t decent – not even a pair of drawers, mind – perhaps she doesn’t wear them, shouldn’t be surprised. … O, why was my dad born an old Nonconformist when you know the path that will carry me to Heaven? And talking of trews, boy, yours are quite indecent – spit on that iron, girl, send up steam. O, little Parson Lazarus Frolic, don’t you ever dream …?
And the first slashing finger of dawn rose up behind Kidwelly and the cocks yelled like demons as we hit the tollgate.
I awoke from the swaying slush of my visions as Tom Rhayader hit the tollhouse, and the top window came open and out came a face; terrified that face above its nightshirt, sleeping-cap slipping sideways, bobble swinging.
“What the hell is happening, have you all gone raving?”
“Out, out!” and Rhayader’s sword was slashing, ripping at the tollhouse door. “Out this minute or we burn you alive. Out!�
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“And me with wife and children, man? Six children, last one hardly weaned?”
“Out!” cried Rebecca, his horse wheeling. Sword lowered, he clattered about while men and horses pressed about him.
“For God’s sake, pity!” yelled the face.
Flannigan said, “A tinder to that thatch would damned soon shift him, Tom.”
“He has two minutes,” said Rhayader.
“Two minutes could cost us our lives,” grumbled Justin.
“The chance we take. I am not burning people.”
The door burst open and the wife came out, hair in curlers, eyes stuck with sleep. One look at the wraiths and back she went, hand to her heart, moaning. A tot at the door now, barefooted, terrified. A girl was screaming inside; grunts and cries now as the keeper booted them awake.
“You, you,” said Rhayader, pointing. “Inside quick and give him a hand. Bring out his blankets, clothes, furniture – everything you can save and work like devils, every second counts,” and two men leaped to his command.
“But where will we go?” The woman now, recovering; down on her knees pleading, pulling at Rhayader’s gown. “For God’s sake, man, have mercy! Six children in here and the depth of winter – where will we lie?”
Hosts of Rebecca Page 15
