Hungry Harry: An Orphan in the Ranks

by Andrew Wareham

  “Gawd! A hundred guineas, Harry! A house, with three or four bedrooms, and a bloody great garden, with apple trees in it as well! I could live like a lady in that – with you as my man, of course, Harry!”

  It did not occur to Harry that he was an afterthought in that little speech; he handed over one hundred and ten gold coins, assured her that he still had enough to run with. He took her back to the Green Man in good time; she worked in the bar every evening for her father, could not miss her shift.

  She found time when trade was quiet to talk long with the old man, showing him the golden guineas to prove her tale.

  “The Revenue catches him, gal, they could say that the money was the profits of crime and come and take it off you.”

  That thought appalled her – one hundred and ten guineas was more money than she could expect to save in a lifetime. She discussed the matter further and between them they decided that the simplest solution was for Harry to leave Brixham and never come back again. If he was never caught and put before a judge, they could not confiscate his cash.

  It was a pity, she thought, for he was quite a pleasant sort of fellow – but she comforted herself, much as Mollie had before her, that a young lady in possession of her own cottage and a few acres and an orchard of apple trees would soon discover any number of fine young men knocking on her door.

  “I might ‘ave to leave Brixham, Dad.”

  “Don’t see why, gal. It’s not as if you’re goin’ to be tellin’ everybody what you peached on ‘im, is it?”

  “They can guess, and you never knows what some Revenuer might say when ‘e was taken by liquor, Dad.”

  “Worth the risk, gal!”

  A brig was due in from Brittany early on the Thursday morning, one of the regular cargoes; Harry was woken by a frantic scratching at the door of his room in the White Hart. There was a young boy, a street urchin he had never seen before.

  “Is you ‘Arry?”

  “That’s me.”

  “You got to get runnin’. So ‘er said to I. The Revenue done bust Barrett’s place. Her gave I a tanner to tell thee to bugger off quick!”

  Dressed in two minutes, pistols tucked away, his bag over his shoulder, all of his spare clothes always ready-packed just in case. He left the musket, too big to conceal. He wondered who ‘’er’ was; Jessie he supposed. He ran downstairs and into the kitchens, grabbed a slice of bread as he made for the back door.

  “Got to go, Cookie! See you!”

  Paul could pay the bill at the inn, he supposed; it was none of his business.

  The streets were still half dark, shadowed first thing of a cloudy morning; he made his way through the alleys to the far side of the port, to a point he had located weeks before, the road climbing a few feet on the way out of town and giving a view across the harbour. Even at a quarter of a mile distant he could make out uniforms clustered around the blue warehouse.

  ‘You bloody fool, Paul,’ he said to himself. ‘You just ‘ad to get greedy.’

  He had nearly twenty guineas in his pocket; two or three months and he could sneak back and talk with Jessie and see what was best for them to do next… For the while, it was the road for him. He had learned how to ride over the winter and could pick up a horse from one of the lads. Godbegot was the closest and he normally had a couple of Paul’s nags in his little stables; he had to see him in any case, to pass the message to the rest to keep their heads down.

  “Revenuers, Godbegot, in Barrett’s place. Somebody gave ‘em the word. I reckons meself it was one of the London blokes. Paul’s up there just now, trying to get into the business there, to make more money.”

  “Bloody fool, ain’t ‘e, boy! Don’t thee ever step outside your place, not in this game, boy. I shall be seein’ old Walker this mornin’ and I’ll put the warning across. What about you, Harry? You’re the bloke every bugger knows, for being Paul’s face in the Trade. Only the few of us knows ‘im, but you carries the messages and does the talkin’. Was I you, boy, I’d get a few miles under your belt before nightfall.”

  That aspect of his involvement had not occurred to Harry; he had simply not realised that Paul had been hiding behind him. Now that it was explained he was rather annoyed; he had been taken for a fool.

  “You got any of Paul’s horses, Godbegot?”

  “Got a good cob in the yard, Harry. I’ll put a saddle on ‘er for thee. Makes good sense for me, boy, I don’t want nothing of Paul’s in my place if they should come visiting!”

  “Makes sense, mate. Good luck to you.”

  “And to thee, boy! Was I you, Harry, it would be the road to Bristol I should take. Sell the old ‘oss for what you can get and then take ship for America and don’t never come back no more!”

  “Maybe, Godbegot, but, I needs to come back, old mate.”

  “Young Jessie, Harry? Don’t look so bloody surprised, boy, there ain’t nothing secret when a man’s face is known. She’s a handsome lass, but there’s a lot more of ‘em about, lad. She ain’t worth the risk of coming back and getting’ your neck stretched. They’ll know your name and they’ll want a leader of the gang to stand on the gallows tree… Think on it, boy! Off thee goes now!”

  Harry made quiet time cross country, avoiding the highway, keeping strictly to back lanes and the drovers’ ways over the moorland; part of the route he had ridden before, carrying messages for Paul and much of the rest he had heard about from the pack-pony men. He let the cob amble as it would, happy to make a little better than walking pace and not be seen to be in a hurry. The countryside around here was poor land, ran a few sheep and little else and as a result travellers stood out. The sensible man tried to be invisible, and the best way to do that was to fit into the slow pace of poverty.

  If there was a pursuit, he never saw it. He put up overnight in a hedge pub outside a small hamlet high on the moorland that, suspiciously, had a stables and a groom; the landlord had to be up to some sort of no good as he would have almost no passing trade in the ordinary way of things. That made him the best sort as far as Harry was concerned for he would certainly not be one to open his mouth.

  He had turned into the yard and let the ostler call the landlord to the back door.

  “Got a bed for me and a box for the old nag, mister? A bite to eat tonight and breakfast as well?”

  The landlord stared blank faced, eventually spoke.

  “I don’t know thee, mister.”

  “Good. Keep it that way, shall we? I don’t know your name either. Got a shockin’ bad memory for a face, as well.”

  “Five bob.”

  “Christ, mister, I’d reckon to buy the pub for ten!”

  “Five bob or find someplace else, and there ain’t nowhere for ten miles from ‘ere!”

  Harry paid up, letting the landlord see that he was carrying gold, and also allowing the butt of a pistol to come into sight.

  “There’s a room in the back of the place, out of sight. Got a few locals in the taproom, you don’t want to meet they.”

  “That’s right, mister, I don’t. They don’t need to see me at all, or know I was ‘ere.”

  He sat at a table in the small back room, thinking his way round the problems he faced. He decided that he had no idea what those problems might be, so all he could do was take them one at a time. No point to planning.

  After an hour or so and a couple of pints of mild ale, the landlord brought a bowl to him, a surprisingly thick stew containing beef and potatoes and beans, tasty as well, with slices of bread to mop up the gravy. It was out of character for a small place in the back of the country to be able to afford beef. The countryside was too poor to support a highwayman, there was too little traffic on the roads, so it was probably the Gentlemen, and they were none of Harry’s business; the different gangs had no interest in each other, never met and did not exchange names. Harry asked no questions.

  “Got word just now that the Revenuers been busy down to Brixham. Found themselves the warehouse owner what was running all th
e stuff through the harbour and over the beaches either side. Goin’ to hang him, that’s for sure. Rough luck, so they said it was, him not bein’ a lot more than a mug what got caught. Word is that some bugger in the town watched ‘em, worked out what was bein’ done and then got a reward from the Revenue for turnin’ the poor old sod in. They dunno who, not yet. They thought it was a bloke called Harry at first, but there’s a price on ‘im now, so it can’t be ‘im what peached. They find the bloke what done it and they’ll top ‘im, that’s for sure.”

  “Nasty! They sure the word came from the town? I was told that the boss ‘ad stepped out of line a bit, was tryin’ to sell more stuff up in London.”

  “My bloke’s got a brother works for the Revenue. What ‘e says is right, mister.”

  Harry had to accept the landlord’s word; his information was correct. He could not think who might have turned him in – most men in the town thought he was with the Revenue and he had not opened his mouth that he knew of. In fact, the only person he had ever talked to was…

  “Ah well, let’s just ‘ope she gets to enjoy ‘er apple trees. What price did they put on this bloke Harry’s head, do you know?”

  “Ten guineas, mister.”

  “She could ‘ave sent them to get me in the night, but she must ‘ave thought that ten weren’t enough for the risk. She’d got ‘er bloody ‘ands on more nor a hundred of mine already – ten more ain’t important, I suppose.”

  “Bad luck, mate! We all learns the hard way! It might not be her, you didn’t ought to say it is until you know for sure.”

  Harry laughed.

  “You reckon I ought to go back to town and knock on her door tonight?”

  The landlord laughed in his turn, said that was a risk he would not take himself.

  “Just saying, mate, it might not be her.”

  “Pigs might fly, so they say – but not very often!”

  “Right enough, mister. What are you reckoning to do now? If you wanted, I could perhaps find you a bloke to talk to. Always need a man to think as well as just lead horses.”

  “No thanks, mate. Kind offer, but not within a day’s slow ride of Brixham. Too big a risk, I should reckon.”

  “You’re right at that. North coast maybe, there’s a fair bit comes in by way of Lundy, but I suppose you’d do better going far distant. Plenty of business along the shores of Sussex and Kent, if you want to stay with the Trade. Was I you, I’d think about America. Two guineas would pay for passage; four and you’d get your own cabin and decent meals thrown in. Easy to get to Bristol; you could be sailing inside three days, with any luck.”

  “Not for me, mister. They says America’s a good place for a man with a trade, but no use for a labouring sort. My trade was soldiering, or working in a coal mine. I ain’t going down a mine, not never again in all my natural life, that’s for sure. As for soldiering, well, if I go back to that I might as well stay in England. I reckon I’ll just take a ride for a day or two, see what turns up. Dunno what I’ll do with the old ‘oss, though. No papers sayin’ I owns ‘er.”

  “Easy dealt with, mate! Five bob and I’ve got a bill of sale from Trehenny down in Penzance, says you bought ‘er from the auction there for eight quid, being as how she was in bad condition from working for a tin mine. You looked after her proper and she’s good now. I’ll tell Jonas in the stables to fill in the details, he knows what to do.”

  A crown and Harry was the lawful owner of the mare, or so the papers said, and they were properly signed and witnessed, so they had to be true. It meant he could sell her for a fair price and to an honest owner; he would not have to let her go on the cheap, probably to pull a job carriage in town for twelve hours a day and almost no food. Horses rarely lasted a year in the carriage trade and Harry was disinclined to let her go to that sort of treatment.

  The landlord pointed him on his way in the morning, glancing at the sky and forecasting rain if he was lucky, snow if he was not, and before midday.

  “Better make your way down to the lower ground, mate, over towards Honiton way. If you get that far, then go through the town and two miles on the far side to the Black Bear pub and into the yard and say that Abraham be the name – just in those words.”

  “’Abraham be the name’; easy to remember. Thank’ee, landlord. If ever I should be back this way, then I shall come and have a pint with thee.”

  “You’re welcome, lad. Was I you, though, I’d never be back ‘ere at all. You lost a hundred, you says – that’s big money, but you ain’t got your neck stretched so be thankful for the small mercy. I’ll ‘ave a quiet word with my bloke – I’ll be seein’ ‘im this morning – and ‘e can take a nose about in Brixham and maybe find for sure if it was ‘er what gave the hard word. They don’t like informers in these parts.”

  Harry was cold and the mare was tired when he walked into the yard of the Black Bear and gave the word. There had been a light snow falling for the past four hours and he wanted a fire and a meal and a warm bed.

  The ostler took both into the stables block, jerked a thumb towards a door to the side and started on the mare, unsaddling her and rubbing her down before leading her into a box and a feed. Harry was not surprised – humans rarely featured high on a groom’s priorities; he opened the door and found himself in a back room of the pub. There was a fire and he moved straight to that before even looking about him for a man to talk to. The landlord appeared after a couple of minutes; Harry suspected he had been watching him from the bar, weighing him up.

  “Cold out there, mister?”

  “Bloody freezing, mate! Getting worse as well. My name is Abraham, I ought to say.”

  “Thought it was, or Arty wouldn’t have let you in. Room and meals, half a crown a day; shilling for the nag. You’ll be lucky to get away in the morning, the way the snow’s setting in. Can you pay for a week?”

  Harry handed over a guinea.

  “Six days, if need be, mister. There’s more in me purse, but I don’t reckon to be ‘ere that long.”

  “Two or three days snowed in, never been more nor that, mister. There’ll be change as needed. There’s a bigger fire in the taproom, and few men to come in tonight, not in this weather. You ain’t one of the local men, are you.”

  “Nor you, from your way of speech, landlord.”

  “Come down from London way, ten years back. Me missus comes from Honiton and ‘er old man died and left the place to ‘er, for neither of her brothers being alive and in England.”

  “I’m up from Brixham most recent. Afore that, I was in a coal mine, up north, left there for the army and come back from the Slave Coast, damn nigh eighteen months ago now.”

  “Lucky to come back at all from there, so they tell me.”

  “Went out four hundred men, came back less than a hundred and forty and damned near two score of them sick almost to death; we did better than some, so I’m told.”

  Harry took a pint and sat by the big fire, slowly thawed out.

  “Beefsteak and spuds do you, mister?”

  “Do me a treat, mate!”

  Harry ate and felt human again; it had been rawly cold on the tracks down from the high moorland. He had heard tales of travellers freezing to death up there, was glad he had only had a shortish distance to cover.

  Harry idled over a late breakfast, with nothing to do and no wish to be seen in the little town, looked up as the landlord came in, glad for anyone to talk to.

  “Brixham, you says, mister?”

  “That’s right, landlord.”

  “Bad doings there, so I’m told. Revenuers arrested a warehouse keeper and his workers two days back. I heard tell that a pub on the waterfront got burned out next night; landlord and his family lucky to get out with a whole skin but lost everything.”

  “Green Man, was it?”

  The landlord nodded.

  “Well, they got money to rebuild with, what with rewards and the hundred they took me for!”

  “They’ll need go a goodly distanc
e away before they try starting up again, mister. They ain’t going to be wanted any place in the West Country. Informers ain’t loved round these parts. Any man with ten guineas on his head, as it might be, is safe round here.”

  “I thought I was safe round there, landlord! Reckoned we was goin’ to be settin’ up together. Know better next time, I reckons!”

  It snowed for two more days, Harry warm and comfortable indoors, eating well for his money and talking obliquely with the landlord about the possibility of taking up the Trade in the area. There was always a need for a man with experience on the organising side of things, he believed. He delayed for another day to let the worst of the thaw pass by, was sat playing a quiet game of cribbage with one of the regulars when the landlord came to him and begged him to have a quick word later on, at his convenience. He finished the horse, paid his penny down as loser, grinned and was sure he would do better next day, then wandered into the back room, unnoticed.

  “Got word up from Brixham, Harry. Hell to pay there! The warehouse owner came up in court yesterday and named you; said you bought up his debts and forced him to turn use of the place over to you under threat of debtor’s prison. He knew nothing and did nothing, so he said. Revenue man stood up and said as how it might be true and they was putting up a big reward for you, it being thought you had ridden off to Bristol, where they are searching hard. Because of the snow, they said, you was likely holed up in a pub or inn along the road and they were looking all over. You are, they say, a dangerous man, having arranged for the arson of the premises of a loyal citizen of the town.”

  Smuggling commonly resulted in a sentence of transportation, or had done when the American colonies had been open; of late years it had been the prison hulks most commonly, although a few had still been sent to the Sugar Islands or as convict labour to Gibraltar. Whichever it was, a man with friends could expect to be out very quickly; it was rare for a professional criminal such as a smuggler to stay long in custody and most escaped before trial. Arson was a different matter; it was a capital crime and one which was rarely reprieved. Arsonists could expect to be chained in a guarded cell before a quick trial – no waiting on remand for months or years for them – followed by a very speedy hanging. In towns where the majority of roofs were still thatched setting fires was very poorly regarded.