Hosts of Rebecca

by Alexander Cordell

  Black Boar was silent and in darkness save for a chink of light. The world of night was silent here, the barn as black as gravestones at the entrance, but the lamp still burned dimly in the feeding bars below the rafters, and I went in on tiptoe, knowing that Jane was somewhere around, soon to come to her bed of straw. Dry in the throat I crept inside, peering, wondering what I would do when she came; cursing myself for the coming, wondering why I was there. Shivering, I laid myself down in the darkness, hands clenched, waiting, and my heart beat faster as the straw rustled to footsteps; moved over a bit as she laid herself down.

  “Jane,” I whispered.

  “Gipsy,” whispered Waldo Bailiff.

  And we put out hands and gripped each other. Up scalded, me – skidded through the door and into the night with Waldo Bailiff howling.

  A damned good spring, so far. Enjoying every minute.

  CHAPTER 19

  QUEER PEOPLE were getting into the country just now – that is the trouble with a decent revolution, said Tom Rhayader. We take to arms with Genesis behind us, play fair, fight fair against oppression and for the word of God, and in comes scum. In comes the scum for easy pickings, the adventurers who fight for a shilling a time. Men like Dai’r Cantwr and Shoni Sgubor Fawr, there’s a mouthful, said Rhayader.

  Take the last one first, the polluted.

  I first met Shoni the night after dusting Justin, and was resting with my feet up and watching people from slits, getting tender glances from Mari, digs from Morfydd and mouth from Mam, she being dead against pugilists.

  “Shameful,” she breathed, laying the table. “God knows I have done my best to bring you up decent, and the poor man is over at Bayleaves with the Hughes putting on beef to bring down his swellings.”

  “Two to make a fight, remember,” said Morfydd, and whispered, “lucky I was there in time to stop another slaughter, too.”

  “Hush,” I whispered back, my eyes on Mari who was stitching as usual.

  “And you keep from this!” Mam swung to Morfydd. “Fight decent, then. Osian says someone has been into him with an axe. Damned mutilated, he is.”

  “Some of his own medicine,” I said, rising. “And I am off from here.”

  “Somebody will be killed,” said Mam. “That will be the end of it.”

  “A joyful death, mind,” said Morfydd on one side.

  I gave her a look to settle her. I had to go out with Morfydd talking in riddles. Mam might have been bad at hearing but Mari had ears like a bat.

  “And where are you off to this time of night, pray?” asked Mam, hands full of cups. “Supper in ten minutes, trust you to be off.”

  “Back by supper time,” I answered.

  “Kiss her for me,” said Morfydd, and I got her with my finger and thumb as I passed, pinching open her eyes.

  “And keep from Black Boar tavern, mind,” said Mam.

  “And Jane’s stable straw,” murmured Morfydd, and I saw Mari glance up.

  But the walk was an excuse for I’d heard something more above the chatter of the women. Never heard screech owls as near to our shippon before.

  Toby Maudlin.

  Toby Maudlin sure enough, standing clear of the light as I opened the door, with his hair on end and his eyes as saucers.

  “What is wrong?” I asked him.

  Gasping, he patted his chest. “Rhayader’s been taken.”

  As the sickening bite of the bread knife.

  “Taken,” gasped Toby. “I am rounding them up – midnight up on the mountain. Flannigan’s called a meeting. …”

  “But Tom Rhayader!” I gripped him, and he was shivering.

  “The St Clears dragoons,” gasped Toby. “Six of them, and special constables. They came down to Tom’s place at dusk, and took him. God, there’s some wailing and gnashing of teeth down his place I can tell you, his woman’s gone demented.”

  “But on what charge?”

  “Burning Pwll-trap gate – papers they had, and signatures, all very official.”

  “And Tom just went?”

  “Just as you please, they told him – come dead or alive. Got him coming from chapel.”

  “God,” I breathed. “And we haven’t been near Pwll-trap.”

  “But somebody has, that’s what Flannigan says. And he says something more – an informer,” and he shrank at the name.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t ask me,” said Toby. “That’s for Flannigan to find out – midnight, at Pengam, to elect a new leader.”

  “Go,” I said.

  I stood against the wall as Toby scampered away. Cool to my face, that wall, for my head was thumping. It seemed impossible that Rhayader could be taken, and I bled for his wife. A pretty little thing was Mrs Rhayader, prim for chapel and with lovely children, and they worshipped Tom. I clenched my fist and hit the wall. Gates were one thing; dumb wooden things ready for tinder, but Tom was flesh and blood, and the tongue put a limit on the thumbscrew, the bawlings and kicks of drunken tormentors. Not the dragoons, for they were disciplined – not the serving constables under men like George Martin the Welsh-speaking Englishman. It was the special constables we feared, the hired thumpers; scum like Shoni Sgubor Fawr who would break a man’s arm for the price of his silence. Yet deep in me I knew Tom would not talk. If they set him on fire he would spit in their faces. Tramping Boy Joey rose up like a vision. Joey would sell a man’s soul for the price of a dinner, because Tom was leader, that was enough. I fisted the wall, wanting Morfydd. Lost, I wanted her. And she came as if called by the heat and sweat of me, slowly into the yard, peering into shadows.

  “That you, Jethro?”

  “Quick,” I said, and she ran the last yards. “Tom Rhayader’s been taken.”

  “O, God,” she said, her hands to her face.

  “Morfydd, go down to Mrs Rhayader.”

  “Now, directly. No. Supper first, or Mam will be suspicious. You too, boy – supper first.” She paused, her eyes steady. “Who?” she said.

  “Who informed? God knows. We are meeting tonight.”

  “Is Osian Hughes in this?”

  I shook my head.

  “Who do you think, then?”

  “We’ve got Joey,” I answered.

  “Tramping Boy Joey?” she peered, horrified. “Give me strength! Do not tell me you gave house room to Joey Scarlet!”

  “Workhouse boy. Entitled. You try keeping him out.”

  She drew herself up. “Revolution, you call it, and you bring in Joey! Perhaps my revolt failed but at least we were organized – at least we had oaths and people tried and trusted. But you are throwing away your lives!” She snatched at my hand. “Jethro, do you know what this means? Joey’s tongue is loose – a pint of ale it needs, no more. He will gabble Rebecca all over the county, to dragoons, constables, anyone handy. He is gabbling now, can you hear him? Spouting it in bars – Rhayader, Flannigan, Maudlin, Mortymer – shouting it in markets – little Joey Scarlet grown to six-feet-six. And he has spouted Tom Rhayader because he hates authority – Rebecca or magistrate, they are all in authority, so Joey brings them down, can’t you see?”

  “Flannigan brought Joey in, not me.”

  Morfydd sighed. Sweat was lying on her face and she wiped it into her hair.

  “I am disgusted with Flannigan,” she whispered. “He is begging for Botany Bay. Listen, Jethro. Find Joey Scarlet or you will not last the night.”

  “You seem damned sure it is him,” I said.

  “Lay my life on it,” said she. “Find Joey Scarlet, quick.”

  “And Mrs Rhayader? You will go down?”

  “I … I will wink at Mari and get Mam steered early to bed. Leave it to me.” At the door she turned. “O, you fools,” she said.

  Dark was the night with a hint of sleet in him from rolling black clouds running before the bloom of spring. With Morfydd down with Mrs Rhayader I set out early for the mountain meeting in the disused quarry, but took the path through Waldo’s preserves. Nothing stirred in the w
oods and beyond the Reach Squire’s mansion stood gaunt and lonely, shuttered and barred. No gentry carriages came there now. Empty it stood save for Lloyd Parry and old Ben since Tessa died. Nothing stirred as I went past it to the lime kilns where the cauldron burned the builders’ lime, and the bee-hive kilns were as camels’ humps against a crescent moon. Beside the slaking-pit now I looked around. Here was Joey’s bed of straw; a half eaten crust nearby, the peat scarred here by the thrust of a boot. No sound save the cry of a distant bird and the bubbling of the pit where steam wisped up. I stood alone, listening, then turned and ran down the bank to the trees that reared as hunchback skeletons, stripped bare by the Atlantic gales. Leaping the peaty places, handspringing boulders I got to the foothills of the mountain and began the climb. Far below me I saw a light in Rhayader’s cottage and imagined Morfydd there with Mrs Rhayader. Strange it would be without Tom tonight. Flannigan was standing at the entrance to the quarry, a dog’s leg entrance that obliterated light.

  “You seen Toby?” he asked. Vicious looked Flannigan.

  “Bringing in the men,” I said.

  “Don’t be too sure, Mortymer, you can’t trust your neighbour.”

  “Joey Scarlet here yet?” I asked.

  “Get inside, we can all talk there.”

  Must have sworn a few in since I came last. Nigh two hundred there that night; squatting shoulder to shoulder, leaning against the rocks, and they were as statues, making no sound, their faces shadowed and intense in the moonlight, and they grumbled like cattle as Flannigan followed me in.

  “Two missing,” said Flannigan. “Maudlin and Scarlet. Now listen, all of you know that Rhayader’s been taken. Somebody’s played Judas and we reckon to find him. Who saw Joey Scarlet last?”

  “Up in Carmarthen market this forenoon, Flannigan,” said a man at the back.

  “You are sure?”

  “Saw him plain as my face.”

  “Who’s that speaking?”

  “Evan ap Rees. Saw him right enough.”

  “What doing?”

  “Begging.”

  “Sober?”

  “More sober’n me, then some,” and the men laughed.

  “What time did you see him?”

  “Close on midday – walking round the horses, he was – telling the tale, hat in his hand – you know Joey.”

  “Do I?” asked Flannigan.

  “Don’t jump, don’t jump, man,” said someone at the front. “Just a kid he is and too bloody frightened to turn informer – what about losing his tongue to Justin – you there, Justin boy?”

  “Right here with the knife,” said Justin, and I saw him for the first time since our fight, his face humped and bruised like mine, but grinning.

  “Somebody’s been slaughtering you for a change, is it?” and men guffawed.

  “And he got his share,” said Justin, “eh, Jethro man?”

  I grinned back. One thing about fighting; you do it with men, but I still did not trust him.

  “You heard about the reward St Clears has put up?” asked Flannigan.

  This put them quiet. Pipes came out and they shouldered and muttered.

  “Fifty pounds a time for Rebeccas. A little bit more than they paid for the Lord. You heard they picked up four Rebeccas between here and Carmarthen at fifty pounds a time, Tom included?”

  “A fortune to Joey, fifty pounds,” said one.

  “Could have been any one of us.”

  “Some queer old boys been coming in lately, remember.”

  “You think Rhayader will talk – he can hook the lot of us.”

  “Shut your mouth,” I said.

  “Or I will shut it,” said Flannigan.

  We sat then, uncertain, lacking a leader. Flannigan wavered. I watched him walking about, thumping his hands, and I longed for Rhayader.

  “Where have they got Tom?” asked one.

  “St Clears.”

  “What about fetching him out of it, then?”

  “Talk sense,” said Flannigan.

  “Do we leave him to rot? He’ll get transportation next assizes for sure.”

  “And him with a wife and little ones.”

  “It was the chance he took,” said Flannigan.

  “Wouldn’t take a lot to winkle him out of it, you thought?”

  “We are not having bloodshed,” said Flannigan.

  “Half past two for Sunday School, prompt, mind. What is this, an outing?”

  “Just a little buckshot and a few little knives.”

  “Where’s your stomach, man?”

  “We are not going after Rhayader,” shouted Flannigan. “That’s final.”

  “Since when were you Rebecca, then?”

  “Not even elected. I say Rhayader comes out.”

  And Flannigan wavered, walking about. This is the time when the new man is born, the leader to be clutched at, revered. Up he got. He was a stranger to me, and never have I seen the like of him for size and power.

  “And you sit down, Shoni,” said Flannigan, eyeing him.

  “You try and sit me,” said Shoni Sgubor Fawr, and he came to the front.

  I drew my breath at the sight of his face. It was ravaged, with the flattened features of the mountain fighter. Bull-necked, mop-haired, grinning, this one, and his clothes were ragged, his shirt open to the waist despite the frosty night and his feet and legs were bare, his ragged gentry riding breeches tied at the knees. Shoni Sgubor Fawr. This was the trash that was hanging a stink on the name of Rebecca, the scum that gathers on the top of the brew. Emperor of China, this one – emperor of the hell’s kitchen of Merthyr called China where huddled a pitiful humanity. Wanted by the police in more than one county, this man; a kick-fighter, gouge-fighter. The men murmured at the sight of him.

  “We can do without this one,” I said to Flannigan.

  “You can’t do without Shoni,” replied the stranger. “Not now you lack a leader, and if you want the proof of me I will take any three men here.” The smile left his face. “Informers, is it? And what are you doing about it – nothing. You’ve lost Rhayader, and you’re leaving him to rot. I say find the informer and slit his throat, march on St Clears and release Rhayader. Does the burning of the gates bring you respect – prancing round the countryside in turbans and petticoats? Where’s the belly of the county, men? By God, you should come to Monmouthshire if you want rebellion – look at the Chartists!”

  “Aye, look at them,” I shouted back.

  “At least they had the guts to fight it out. To arms, I say – take shot to your powder-guns, forge your pikes, build your cannon and blow the military off the face of the earth!”

  “I am out for one,” I said, shifting.

  “Who follows little Shoni?” yelled Sgubor Fawr.

  “Get out,” said a man. “We work it Flannigan’s way.”

  “And my way is Tom Rhayader’s way,” shouted Flannigan. “Which do you want?”

  The men waved a forest of hands. “Flannigan, Flannigan!”

  “Out,” said Flannigan, and jerked his thumb at Shoni, “You will find ten Rebeccas between here and Pembroke and I wish you luck, you are not needed here.”

  “And your informer?” yelled Shoni.

  “Yours if you can find him,” replied Flannigan, laughing, and turned as Toby Maudlin ran in.

  “Been searching for young Joey,” gasped Toby. “High and low I have searched – no sign.”

  “You tried the lime kilns?” I asked, and could have bitten of my tongue.

  “Why the kilns?” asked one.

  “Just wondered,” I said.

  “Then wonder again,” answered Flannigan.

  “Starts sleeping there in spring, Abel,” called Evan ap Rees. “Could be he’s just started. Worth trying.”

  “You and young Joey were pretty thick one time, remember?” mumbled Justin.

  All I felt was eyes.

  “Years back,” I swung to him. “And if Joey talks I go under same as you,” I said.

&
nbsp; “Go there tonight,” said Flannigan. “Any likely place must be searched, and if we find him he gets a fair trial.”

  “Like the other two hundred here,” I said.

  “You try the kilns and do less talking.”

  “What about the notice?” asked Justin, holding up a paper.

  “O, aye, the notice,” said Flannigan. “Now listen all! It was George Martin who pulled in Tom Rhayader, for he is behind the military, every move. We owe him one back and by God he’ll get it. We are taking his gates next, but first he’ll have notice – much more difficult to explain London. You with me?”

  Good humour, now, with the men nudging and loving every minute.

  “So hearken,” shouted Flannigan. “Justin by here is good at writing, so Justin turned this out,” which put the men into stitches for Justin was no scholar. “We will post this up tonight,” and he read from the paper:

  “‘Take Notice. I wish to give especial notice to those who have sworn to be constable in order to grasp ’Becca and her children, but I can assure you it will be too hard a matter for Bullin to finish the job that he began. …’”

  His voice boomed on, telling of the gates that were soon to come down, and ended:

  “‘As for the constables and the policemen Rebecca and her children heeds no more of them than the grasshoppers that fly in the summer, for the gates will be burned to the ground. Faithful to death with the county, Rebecca and her daughters.’”

  Muffled cheers at this, especially for the poetic bits about grasshoppers and summer, and Flannigan shouted. “George Martin will lose some sleep now that Justin’s started writing him love letters. Matthew Luke John – have this pinned up in the town before dawn light,” and the boy I had met on my first burning sprang up to take it. “Next meeting Wednesday,” said Flannigan. “Come armed and disguised, and we will burn every gate to do honour to Tom Rhayader, our old Rebecca. Right, meeting closed. Jethro!”

  I went to him.

  “You will search the kilns for Joey Scarlet?”

  “Yes, Abel,” I said, sickened.