The Gallows Pole

by Benjamin Myers

  David Hartley shook his head and looked away in disgust.

  To tamper with a horse is the act of cowards.

  They didn’t kill it, brother.

  Then what?

  They sent the bastard a message. That’s all.

  And this message said—?

  Isaac Hartley looked at David Hartley in confusion.

  I don’t understand.

  I’ll tell you what this message said. It said: we are cowardly men who would rather harm the horse that carries a man across the moors in innocence than meet the man himself. It said: come and get us, for we are nothing but yahoos full of wind and piss. It said the coining lads of Cragg Vale are nothing but hackums and hectors. Bouncers and merry-begotten bastards ourselves. Dung-dwellers and needy-mizzlers. Laming or branding or mutilating his horse will not deter that black devil William Deighton. It will only fuel his ire. Think on, man.

  Brother, you need more ale in you, said Isaac Hartley. You have the look and words of one who has the gallows in his eyes.

  I have seen signs.

  What signs?

  Omens and portents, Isaac.

  Isaac Hartley grinned a crooked smile. In the pit one of the bantams had pinned the other to the ground and was pecking furiously at its neck. Around them the men were shouting it on. Tiny flecks of blood dotted the dirt.

  Omen and portents brother?

  Yes, said David Hartley. Omen and portents – like birds flying backwards and swans born with two necks. Signs of bad things afoot.

  This is the talk of old crones and hedgerow-hoppers, David.

  Are you denying all those dead animals, brother?

  Isaac Hartley considered his answer.

  No, he said. No, I do not. That was something I cannot yet explain.

  And the storm that split the trees but two nights ago?

  That is just nature’s way.

  David Hartley shook his head.

  That evil wind only blew upon the village of Cragg Vale; the vale whose name we Coiners carry. It didn’t even reach us up top on the moor. It passed right on by below, not but three hundred paces away. That was no mere hand of nature. That was a message from darker forces; a warning sent to us Hartleys. Yet still you talk of good luck and fortune and rivers running gold.

  Are we not lucky not to have had Bell House blown away?

  It was a sign I tell you, said David Hartley. They say a tinker went missing too.

  He was no tinker.

  Then you know about him?

  It’s just rumour, David. You need not worry about that. Are our pockets not full?

  At what cost though?

  Isaac Hartley shrugged.

  The people of the valley are fed and clothed and understanding happiness for the first time, he said. We all are. The land is ours.

  The land is not ours, said David Hartley. Changes are afoot.

  What changes?

  Great changes. It starts with traitors amongst us.

  I’ve had one beady eye on the Alchemist for some time now, said Isaac Hartley. Perhaps it is he who is responsible for the animals. Shall I fix him brother?

  And then what?

  Isaac Hartley pointed to another barn whose sides were quietly thudding with the movement of the three dozen creatures from whom Piggy Ratchard earned his name.

  And then feed him to Ratchard’s guffies over there.

  David Hartley shook his head.

  Killing him will bring more trouble. And anyway who will clip then? This magic man is a master of metallurgy.

  Isaac Hartley shrugged.

  We were clipping before that man was brought on.

  And look at the coins we made, said David Hartley. Crooked crowns and dirty guineas refused by half the traders in Jórvíkshire. Shit bits.

  But we have those people on our side now. Our might is known. Fear has worked its wonder.

  No, said David Hartley. The Alchemist is a man of magic with the metal and fire. So long as the coins keep coming in he is needed. After that – well. But it is not he who brings trouble to our door. I believe there are other forces at work. I’m thinking now perhaps it is time to cease.

  Isaac Hartley looked at his brother, aghast.

  Stop our clipping?

  David Hartley nodded.

  The two brothers looked around at the other men swaying and jostling, some of them smiling and singing, others sullen, but all with money in their pockets and meat in their stomachs. They saw their other brother William and their father too, smiling with the warm glaze of liquor in their eyes.

  Look at the old man, said Isaac Hartley. At death’s door from starvation but two winters back but now given a stay from Old Nick himself. You did that, our David. You’ve made the Hartley name great. But now you talk about giving that up just as we’re getting started?

  David Hartley nodded.

  Kings don’t give up, said Isaac Hartley. Kings get dragged off their throne. They get beheaded or overthrown but they never walk away from their duty.

  David Hartley turned to his brother.

  What fucking duty? he said in a low tone.

  Your duty to this rabble, said Isaac Hartley. And the rest of them. They fucking love you. Without you—

  Without me what?

  Without you I’m certain this valley will fall fallow. The coining will die off and the men will lose their will to fight because no man will go back to the loom after having the taste of gold on his tongue. And these others you speak of with their plans and their mills and their giant spinning machines, and their weaving machines and their fucking water wheels and their canal boats, they will be the death of all of us. They say they can spin a hundred unbroken yards of yarn in them factories, David. I heard tell of it. I heard that in the Black Country there are already mills the size of cathedrals. Is that right?

  I saw one with my own eyes, said David Hartley. Water does the work of a hundred men and it’s a mile of unbroken yarn they can spin if they desire it.

  Isaac Hartley shook his head.

  No good can come of it. These buildings will not last, brother. We’ll make sure of that. We’ll burn them to cinders.

  David Hartley stopped him.

  It is too late, he said. Know this: we will not recognise this valley ten years hence. We will not recognise it and there will be no place for the likes of our lot.

  But this valley is our valley, said Isaac Hartley. You’ve said the words enough yourself to the boys. They’ve sung it in song. A song to ring down the ages. The land is ours and the sky is ours and the moor is ours—

  But David Hartley had already turned and walked away. He pushed through the men around the cockpit where one of Piggy Ratchard’s setters on was holding a broken ruffled flaccid thing aloft, its eyes gone, beak shattered, its dimpled skin as white as the moon that lit the path that he walked upon, and behind him the men cheered and then cheered again.

  It began to rain.

  Yes yes I remember the night at Piggee Ratchids well as that nite the moone appeert as if it were a hole in the sky throo witch feerless moths did fly Cold it was too and the cocks kept coming and that pit it did begin to fill with the blood of them what looked black in the moonlite Black as pitch beneath the lanterns old Pigghe had strung from strings out the back of that fine hostillry he keeps that they do call the Red Lione And what it is I wud give now to have just wan or a cupple of jugs of that ayle he serves there Aye Piggy’s foamin ayle would set me just rite in the cole darkness of this stone toom they’ve gorrus in.

  Becors here in Yorke assises they do give us naut but pewtreyde water that maykes you weeke as a citten if you tayke it and they saye the fud they give you in the shotbox was allso yoosed to bild the jale itsel They says this stickee shyte is what holds the briccs together and thats eesy to beleeve becors when I squat
to scwees one out mornentimes often it is like passen a brick A big thic brick And other times it is like the Rivver Calder itsel is flowern out me erse anin that momunt I says to mysel I says sweet jeesus what a life yoov made for yersel King Daevid What a bleeden life sitting here in your stink with naut but wet straw forra bed and these big fuken nite rats chewing the dead skin off the soles of your sweet stinken feet when yer sleep and nothing to do but rite this memwar for my chillen to reed with pride if they learnit to.

  But that nite at the cockpit I had a bad feelun Corl it premmynishun call it omens and potents call it a sense of superstisheen but I do beleev the stagmen was sent to guide us and to warn us and the stagmen that nite they was sayan to us gerrowt Kinge Divaid get out wiile you can They was saying do the peeple not love you for all that you have done for them and will they not sing your praysus up to the heavens for feeden them and clothen them and making the valley a place of plenty even for just a few short seesuns and fertharmore have you not showern them a new way and just becors the big men with the big plans is comern over the horisum with all this talk of takern down the looms and bildin mills and diggin canals and increasing the cloth trade a hunnered fold doesunt mean the valley folk have to go back to sucken stones and mashen oats and eaten docks Heck no They say this is Gods cuntree so why not live like a God then.

  No becors what you did King Dayvid says these voyses that I did heer was you showed that no man need live to the lors of another man just becors that other man has welth and whiskers and land and an educayshun No you have shown that valley folk belong in the valley becors the valley is thers and the moors is theres and orl of it is thers and yours too It is in you And Grayce has your hart and Bell House has your hart an the sky has your hart an the mooers have your hart and the crags have your hart and the hetha an the mud and the rain an the milstoene grit an the spelter stamp an the spyder web an the incummin clowd an the cawing crow an the mooing cow an the fox an the hawke an the sow and the priyze winnen bantam an all of it The hole big Yorkshyre lot of it has your hart becors when you come from a place you want to stay in a place And you are a place You make it and it makes you.

  But did I lissen to them werds of the Stagmen did I buggeree Cors if I had I wudna be sat here riten these thorts these peoms these lassed werds offa grayte man aye but a desprut man to.

  He left Bull Close Lane. He strode down Cheapside into Halifax. William Deighton walked briskly towards the centre of it. To George Street. To George Square.

  To the guts of the town.

  He passed clusters of people. Some singing, others vomiting. He saw a woman squatting in an alley, her skirts hitched, dark piss trickling and steaming in the October night and when he stopped and looked she laughed and pointed as if it were he, a family man in employment and of good standing, who was without shame or dignity.

  He turned into Southgate. Here the street narrowed and the sky was blocked out by the shapes of buildings on either side. No stars. Around the back way he went. Into Old Cock Yard. Narrower still. He walked towards the inn on the corner after which the dead-ended street was named. Two hundred years it had stood and two entrances it had, one on the corner with a painted gallows sign swinging on chains above it, and a side entrance. William Deighton knew its history – how the Cock had belonged to the wealthy Saville family and had once housed them, but now was a hostelry that played host to crooks and forgers.

  William Deighton walked on. Once more round he went. Round the block. Once more for luck; for security. Once more to check the doorways and alleys for eyeballs, for the shadow forms of the watching.

  Then he walked back into Old Cock Yard and he pushed open the street door and he entered the inn.

  In the hallway Robert Parker was waiting. He nodded to William Deighton then he tipped his head towards the tap room. William Deighton looked through the glass of the door and saw that it was deep with the bodies of men in coats and shirt sleeves, crowded into the space with their drinks in hand. Fine blue ribbons peeled away from their pipes to join a canopy of smoke that hung above them.

  The light from the oil lamps was low, but nevertheless through the room he could see seated sideways at a table in the corner one David Hartley. He was surrounded by men. His men. Seven or eight of them, all clippers, raucous in the drink, their hats discarded and some with their shirts unbuttoned. In their centre David Hartley held court.

  William Deighton stepped back into the hallway as two men entered the inn from the same street door. When they saw him they discreetly touched their fingers to their forelocks. Arkle and Baker. They were both burly men. They filled their clothes and their eyes were black beneath furrowed brows. Both bailiffs had been brought over from Huddersfield, hired for no reason but their bulk and availability. To meet muscle with muscle.

  William Deighton introduced them to Robert Parker. The men appeared wary and then one of them spoke. Baker.

  Two hours or more Hartley has been here he said in a voice that was surprisingly high for such a squarely-built man. We saw him come in ourselves.

  He is well on his way, said Arkle. I would not like to interrupt his flow.

  That is the last ale King David Hartley of Cragg Vale will drink, said William Deighton.

  Beside him Robert Parker solemnly nodded. The bailiffs said nothing but both the exciseman and the solicitor noticed that neither of them could stand still. They fidgeted. They shifted. They appeared as if they were coming undone.

  Are you men frit? asked William Deighton.

  The bailiffs looked at one another but said nothing.

  Come on – speak upon me. Are you scared?

  Hartley is with many friends, said Baker.

  We’ll get him out of here before they know what is happening, just as we discussed, said William Deighton. Him and James Jagger.

  James Jagger is not here, said Arkle.

  Not here?

  He is in the Cross Pipes.

  What is he doing there?

  The same as he would be doing here. Drinking until his skin can hold no more I would say.

  William Deighton shook his head.

  Then we will have to move twice as quick lest Jagger hears about Hartley’s arrest and makes a run for it. Silver Street is but a minute’s sprint from here. We can hit both.

  Perhaps we should reconsider, said Robert Parker. Try another night.

  No, said William Deighton. It has to be now. It must be this day. Even just being here we will have been seen. Broadbent’s testimony will send Jagger to the gibbet. We cannot let him abscond. If he takes to the hills we may never see him again. We must take Hartley tonight. First him, then Jagger.

  The four men looked at each other and nodded in agreement.

  You will accompany me, said William Deighton to Baker, and then to Arkle he said: and you watch the street entrance as planned. No-one is to enter or leave. Mr Parker, perhaps you might now want to retire for the evening? For your safety of course.

  We’ll all be safer when Hartley is in shackles. Not likely Mr Deighton.

  The Cock is a rough house Mr Parker. The Coiners will know your face.

  As well they should. I’ll stay until this business is done.

  William Deighton capitulated.

  Very well, he said. With God as our witness let us bring the king of the Coiners in.

  The hand fell on the shoulder of David Hartley and fingers curled around cloth once woven by his own wife and cut to shape by the best tailor that the town had to offer. The hand clasped and pulled and dragged David Hartley to his feet, his tankard of ale sloshing across his hand and wrist, soaking his unbuttoned cuff. He turned to swing a fist but the bailiff Baker came around the side to clasp his arm and twist it, drawing it up his spine. David Hartley’s chair fell backwards and drinks wobbled and slopped on the table as he flailed in the grip of Deighton and Baker. The other men – his men – did not move; they were froz
en in the moment.

  Only then did David Hartley see it was the exciseman William Deighton that had him. He struggled in what space there was but the bailiff was pressed up too close – so close that he didn’t see the irons as they were snapped onto his wrists.

  David Hartley looked to his men to see who would strike either his captor or the burly bailiff whose hot breath he felt on his neck.

  But still his men were unmoving, torn between fate and consequence. They stood suddenly sober, caught between the passing seconds and a future that they saw suddenly unravelling before them like unspooling yarn. A future of patina-patterned coins turning green in the hidden troughs of fallow fields; of long winter weeks living on nothing but kale broth and chicken bones; of rope and chain; of forgotten pouches tucked into tree roots and tools turned blunt by the seasons; of crumbling cottages and rotting fruit; of sobbing wives and starving children; of farmsteads waterlogged and moss-covered and tumbling; of twisting creaking rope and desperate legs thrashing.

  This is what David Hartley saw in the eyes of these men he had grown up with – the closest of whom he knew as well as any man might. Hunched men, scowling men. Mean-eyed men, muscular men, lean men. Men who appeared as if risen from the soil. Tommy Spencer and Wild Willy Clayton. Big John Wilcox and Absolom Butts. Jonas Eastwood.

  None moved as they saw before them the ending of something, the collapse of an empire of dirt and clipped metal. They saw the falling of the good times, the death of the era of plenty and the dearth of abundance and freedom.

  None moved and David Hartley’s struggles ended with a final shirk of one shoulder. The unflinching hands that held him there were the ultimate humiliation.

  Deep from his throat he summoned phlegm and spat it to the floor, to the feet of the men whose pockets he had lined. Then John Wilcox turned and pushed his way through the crowd of the other drinkers beyond their immediate circle, who had slowly fallen into silence as one by one they realised who it was that was being arrested. Thomas Spencer put down his drink, picked up his coat and followed him. William Clayton was next. Other men – men on upturned barrels, men warming themselves by the popping fire or leaning on the bar – stood and left too.