Hungry Harry: An Orphan in the Ranks

by Andrew Wareham

“Maybe. Not likely, so I reckon. They thinks they know what I am, and as long as they know where I am and what I’m doing, they’re safe. Get rid of me and the Revenuers would only pay another bloke what they don’t know. Anyway, Jessie keeps her ears open for me – she’s likely to hear if any bugger wants to do me in.”

  Harry looked just a little shame-faced as he named the girl; he felt that he might be taking an unwarrantable risk in keeping company with any young lady.

  “Jessie? Who is she, Harry?”

  “You knows the Green Man, down by the south quay? She’s the daughter of the landlord there. Met ‘er a few weeks ago. Good-looking lass, so she is, and she’s got a soft spot for me as well. Her old man don’t seem to mind me seein’ ‘er. Mind you, ‘e thinks I’m a Revenue Man as well; I expect ‘e reckons I’m good for a wage and a little house somewhere. I dunno what ‘e’s goin’ to say when ‘e finds out what I am, really.”

  “Don’t tell him for a few weeks, Harry. If we get a warehouse and can bring in good cargoes over winter, then I’ll make sure you’ve got money enough to keep him happy.”

  It was not the first time that Paul had hinted at a prosperous future for Harry. He might well be telling the truth, Harry thought, but nobody had ever been able to see what might come about tomorrow; he would count on Paul’s half-promises when they came to be true. For the while, all he could do was the job he had fallen into; finding a warehouse was the task - looking about him for a house to keep a missus in could wait on another day. It was close to midday, a good time to wander down to the Green Man and eat a bite and natter a bit with Jessie.

  Jessie was a very handsome young lady, perhaps somewhat older than Harry – but not too much, he assured himself. She was a striking blonde, little more than five foot tall but with the attributes of a considerably taller lady, well displayed every day at the bar. In the nature of things she had many suitors, but she had shown a preference for Harry from the day she had met him; Harry did not recall that he had bought a meal and a couple of pints and had changed a golden guinea to pay his shot on that first morning. Knowing him to be a stranger, she had volunteered to show him the sights of the town and they had very soon been walking out together whenever both were at leisure. She had not yet shown him all the sights he much wanted to see, and lay hands upon, but he had little doubt that would soon come about. Over one winter they had become very close and Harry had realised that he wanted to set up home with her; he was waiting only the correct moment to suggest marriage, though he was not entirely certain how he would recognise that time when it came. For the while, he discussed his daily doings quite openly, though he had not quite admitted the actual source of his income.

  “Just been lookin’ about round the warehouses on the other side of the fishing docks, lass. One or two of them don’t seem to be doin’ too good.”

  Jessie, pretty and knowing the fact, liking Harry and very much in love with the idea of a man with money and who would not smell of the fishing boats, was only too willing to talk, to show off her local knowledge, to display how useful she could be.

  “Trade with France is fallin’ off, me dear. Time were there was a dozen of local boats crossin’ the seas to Bordeaux port ‘specially and bringing in wines, and more what worked the Normandy and Brittany run for brandy and apples and corn, but most of the corn be grown over ‘ere nowadays and the troubles what’s buildin’ over in France means they ain’t sellin’ much at all. They tells I that what wine’s comin’ in be out of Spain and Portugal these days and none of our boats know those waters or the merchants there.”

  “What’s goin’ on in France, then? Are they setting up for a war again?”

  Jessie shook her head, proud of having the inside word.

  “Nope! From what I ‘ave overheard, servin’ the old bar like, me dear, there ain’t no bread and the ordinary folks ‘as ‘ad enough of it, of payin’ for them lords to tart around in Paris while they can’t feed the young’uns like. They be out on they streets, me dear, with pitchforks in their ‘ands!”

  “What they calls a revolution, you reckon, Jessie?”

  “Dunno about one of they, me dear. What I knows is that the weather’s been rotten bad for ten years and more, worse over there than it ‘as bin ‘ere, like. The corn’s rotted in the ground, year after year, and they can’t take no more of it. They lords still call for their taxes, and there ain’t no money to pay ‘em!”

  Harry nodded his understanding.

  “So, the French are about the business of killin’ off their lords… Don’t see that as a bad idea, meself. They asked for it! But, they ain’t got the wherewithal for trading and so the warehouses in Brixham is empty.”

  “They do say that old Tinker Barrett be close to shutting down for lack of trade. You won’t know ‘im, got the blue-painted place over on the south side. Six blokes what work for ‘im and don’t know if they got a wage comin’ in next week! So they was sayin’ in the bar, last night. You know old Jabez what sits in the corner most nights? Well, ‘is son’s boy do work at Barrett’s and ‘e do say the place be damned nigh empty!””

  Harry wandered quietly along the quays that afternoon, coming to a blue warehouse, the paint peeling, not refreshed in the past two years at least. The big doors were open but there seemed to be very little activity, just a single wagon being loaded; no horses in sight so it would not be pulling out that day. There was room in the loading bays for a dozen wagons, at least. He walked inside, looking about for an office or an obvious master. He spotted a desk in a small, partitioned-off cubicle.

  “Mr Barrett?”

  “That’s me.” He had seen Harry wandering about the harbour, had been told what he was thought to be. “Nothing to interest the Revenue here, mister. Not much to interest any bugger at all, when it comes down to it!”

  “Pity that, mister, but I ain’t nothing to do with the Revenue. People seems to think so, but that’s their worry, ain’t it!”

  Barrett, in his forties perhaps, thin and worn, worry lines creasing what had once been a chubby, welcoming face, looked vaguely interested; anything to take his mind off his own troubles, perhaps.

  “So, what are you, mister?”

  “A Gentleman what minds ‘is own business, Mr Barrett.”

  He gave the word its emphasis intentionally, saw the message strike home.

  “What could I do for a gentleman, sir?”

  Harry noted the change from ‘mister’ to ‘sir’; the man was open for business.

  “It might be that a trading ship or two could be comin’ across from France off and on, like, Mr Barrett. Tying up on your wharf early in the morning when the boats are all in with their catches…”

  “Harbour’s a bloody shambles every morning when the fishermen are pushing to be first to the auction and the gutties.”

  The gutties - self-employed and subservient to no man - as their name suggested, gutted and sometimes filleted the catch, first come first served; the fishermen preferred this should be done quickly, especially in the hot days of summer, so that the fish could go into salt or to the smokers or the wet-fish shops within reason fresh. The boats cut in front of each other; the fishermen bellowed; the on-shore porters roared; there was an occasional outbreak of fisticuffs; at least once a year there was something close to a full-scale riot. The authorities, such as there were, had no time for anything else when the boats were coming in.

  “That’s what my boss thought, Mr Barrett.”

  “It’s a risk – they might stretch my neck if they found run cargo on my racks.”

  “My boss knows that, Mr Barrett. So ‘e’s in the way of paying for the chance that you might ‘ave to cut and run.”

  “I can’t run – I have a wife and children. I am a respected businessman of the town…”

  “The warehouse is bloody near empty, Mr Barrett. How’s your purse?”

  Barrett bridled, came close to ordering his offensive visitor out of his premises – but he did not dare, this was the only chanc
e of survival he had seen this year. He must take the risk, however much he disliked it.

  “The bailiff will be here inside the month if I don’t find some trade, sir.”

  “Then maybe we can do business, Mr Barrett. My name’s Harry Belper.”

  Barrett extended a hand to shake, accepting Harry as his equal.

  “Good enough, Mr Barrett. You won’t ever see my boss – I’ll do all of the talkin’. What I reckons is best would be for you to tell me what you pay out each week to stay open. Wages for your blokes, what the warehouse costs, all of that. If it’s reasonable, my boss can pay you that as a starter and then add on a bit for each cargo. You keeps on tradin’ like normal and that’s all yours, acos of that’s the cover for our stuff.”

  “That would be very generous, Mr Belper, but I have to admit to you that it is not enough to keep the doors open. I owe some eighty pounds sterling which I must pay within the month or face debtor’s prison.”

  Barrett was begging, and was close to tears of humiliation for the fact.

  “I ain’t got that meself, Mr Barrett, but my boss will ‘ave, and more. If I talk to ‘im, then it’s ‘is choice whether he coughs up or not. I can’t speak for ‘im on that. It’s goin’ to take four days to get the answer. Can you write up what you reckons it will cost ‘im in that time?”

  “I can have everything prepared for Saturday morning, Mr Belper.”

  “I’ll see you then, Mr Barrett.”

  Harry would speak to Paul that evening, but there was no reason to let Barrett know that the master of the smugglers lived near to hand in town. He was quite certain that any reward payable by the Revenue would be far less than eighty pounds; it was unlikely that Barrett would peach on him, but it was still as well to be careful.

  Harry delayed till mid-morning on Saturday, thinking that if Mr Barrett was waiting on him he would be close to despair as the hands moved round the clock face. An addition to the pressure on him could do no harm. If there was a posse of constables hidden inside, they might become restless. He watched for an hour from an alleyway, saw no movement and made his way into the warehouse. Barrett was sat at his desk, head in his hands.

  “Mr Barrett?”

  “Mr Belper! You have come! I had feared that…”

  “I got caught up wi’ another bit of business. Took longer than I reckoned. Sorry, Mr Barrett.”

  “No matter, Mr Belper. You are lucky to be busy these days. What did your principal say, sir?”

  Harry dug into his pocket, came out with a leather purse.

  “He gave me this to pass on to you, Mr Barrett.”

  Barrett opened the drawstring, poured coins out in front of him, quickly counted.

  “One hundred gold guineas, Mr Belper!”

  “That’s what he told me, Mr Barrett. That covers your debt, don’t it?”

  “More than, Mr Belper. I can make the payment on Monday morning and be clear of all of my problems. I could only barely pay the men this week. I had to scrape the pennies together to set their packets to one side and my wife has seen almost no housekeeping; that at least I can remedy in a few minutes!”

  “If you are happy to go ahead, my boss says, Mr Barrett, there will be a first load on Thursday. He says as well that if you can put together smoked or salt fish, then it can go out to France on the empty boat. They’re short of food there, willing to buy in anything you can lay your hands on.”

  Barrett promised to examine the possibilities; he might be able to discover some barrels of flour as well.

  “The greater the legitimate trade, the better, Mr Belper. I shall see what I can do.”

  “Good. There will be wagons turnin’ up from about noon on Thursday. Load ‘em up, no fuss, no bother and send ‘em out. The drivers will know where they goin’.”

  Harry came back on the Thursday, watched the last wagons pull out of the warehouse an hour before dark. He leaned against a wall to watch a fast Breton lugger cast off and sail away, small enough that she did not have to wait on the tide to clear the harbour. There was no activity that he could see, no sign of Revenuers observing what was happening. He wandered quietly inside.

  “Thirty-four tons of cargo, Mr Belper. A small load and quickly handled. I was able to half-fill her hold with fish and flour and two tons of turnips. I can have potatoes and more turnips next week, as well as fish.”

  “Do that, Mr Barrett. Get as much in as you can and my boss will see to French boats to pick it up. They won’t all have a cargo to come in, so the trade will look straight enough if there’s any questions. There might be some loads of honest stuff in from France, so the boss says, though I ain’t sure what. Might be some lead, or copper or ship’s stores. From what the boss says, things are bad in France and some shipyards are shuttin’ down and sellin’ off their stock. Might be sailcloth as well. Dunno for certain. If you can move some of it for us, then the profit goes into your pocket. Worth it to keep you lookin’ right. The boss says do you want gold coins again, or will you be able to use paper notes from the banks?”

  Barrett would prefer gold, in the nature of things, but would have no objection to paper, or even a sackful of brass farthings, just as long as it was money.

  Before the year had ended three other warehouse owners had learned from Barrett’s example and were trading with France, selling foodstuffs and bringing in a great range of goods given in barter. The increase in activity all helped to hide Barrett from curious eyes. The whole port took notice though when one of the luggers offloaded six great Percheron dray horses, four of them uncut stallions who would do a great deal of good to the local heavy horse lines.

  The chaos made it clear that France was into a full-blooded revolution, to the general approval of the English. The French kings had abused their power for too long and needed to be put under the control of a parliament.

  “None of this damned democracy business, Harry, but sensible government by the sound people of the country. Fools of aristocrats in France have acted the giddy-goat for too many years; time they behaved themselves, and if they can’t learn that lesson, the ordinary folk can teach ‘em!”

  Paul expressed the opinion of almost the whole of the British population in those words. The first months of the revolution were a time when it looked as if the world might be about to become a better place.

  It certainly seemed so to Harry. Paul paid him five guineas in coin every month and added a share of each cargo that was run through Brixham, amounting to another ten or fifteen. A large cottage on the outskirts with a couple of acres of kitchen garden cost no more than fifty and Harry began to look about him, Jessie at his side and showing herself much in favour of a change in her circumstances; she still kept Harry at arm’s length, however, implying that she would see a ring on her finger before Harry lifted her skirts – though she never said the words aloud.

  Paul became ambitious, seeking to turn prosperity into wealth, to make himself a county gentleman.

  “We could move twice as much through Brixham, Harry, if only there was a way to sell it! The trouble is that Devon’s too small a county, and too poor, and too far from anywhere else. I have been wondering, Harry, whether it might not be possible to load a coastal vessel and despatch a tonnage to London every month. There are wines and spirits merchants in plenty in London and it would surely not be difficult to discover one to take our goods, even if we had to cut our prices a fraction to be attractive.”

  Harry was alarmed – there must be other land smugglers selling into the London merchants already, established men who would not take kindly to a newcomer forcing his way into their trade. He said as much to Paul, admitting that he had never been to London and did not actually know the truth of matters there.

  “No, London is a huge place, Harry – there must be more than a million of people there! There must be room for a few more tons of goods in a month.”

  “Never been there,” Harry repeated. “Don’t know nobody there, Paul.”

  “That, of course, is
the great advantage of so vast a city, Harry. Everybody is an unknown!”

  “How big are the docks, boss?”

  “Big enough, Harry!”

  Harry subsided; it was obviously the case that Paul was determined to go ahead with his scheme. Evidently he wanted to grow bigger, perhaps he felt he needed more money for some reason. It was a risk, however; pulling the wool over the eyes of the Revenue was one thing, and none too difficult a task, but fooling others of the Gentlemen was a very unwise move to attempt. The problem was, of course, whether the Gentlemen in London would be content simply to warn Paul off; they might be inclined to be more vigorous.

  Harry took over the Brixham business for two months while Paul took a trip to London, to discover a taker for his goods there; he assured Harry that he would be very careful. It was, in Harry’s opinion, simple stupidity, liable to lose them all they had made; he needed to protect himself, he thought.

  Harry chose to take Jessie into his confidence, to explain to her that he might be forced to go away for a time, but that he would be back for her.

  “Thing is, lass, you knows I ain’t no Revenuer. I ain’t said so, but you got to ‘ave worked that out for yourself.”

  She smiled her satisfaction.

  “You’re one of the Gentlemen, ain’t you, Harry? I thought you was. One of the big men, too. The money you got in your pockets says that, let alone anything else what I seen.”

  “I works for the boss. You could say that if he’s the captain then I’m his senior sergeant – that would be how it was in the Fusiliers. Thing is, lass, the bloody man’s got a daft idea in ‘is ‘ead. Greedy, so I reckon. Not content with what we’re makin’, got to get more in ‘is purse.”

  “Stupid! A few quid one way or the other ain’t goin’ to make no difference to what ‘e is or the way things go on.”

  Harry nodded.

  “I reckons that ‘e’s in the way of treading on too many bloke’s toes. If they don’t just cut ‘is throat, then they’ll probably give ‘im to the Revenue. Either way, I’m likely to be on the run for a while. What I’m reckonin’, lass, is to leave most of me money with you. I can put more than a hundred guineas in your ‘ands to look after for us. Might be you could buy that place we been lookin’ for. Well, you couldn’t, being a girl, but your dad could do it for you if you gave him the cash.”