Illusions Of Change (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 6)

by Andrew Wareham

  It was, but not for bread, Gervase assured them. There was an old distillery not so far away that produced a very potable spirit from the grain, had done so for many years, though he believed there had been some disagreements with the Excise men on occasion.

  “This was always smuggling country, and the Excise go hand-in-glove with the Customs, cannot be well-loved hereabouts.”

  “Smuggling is fast dying, my lord, and a very good thing too! The Royal Navy, God bless them, has ships in plenty in the Channel waters now, at a loose end, one might say, for occupation and very willing to seek out smuggling craft. I believe, in fact, that uncustomed goods can be prized, and there is no other source of extra income these days.”

  Another advantage to the end of the long wars, though what poor fishermen would do now Tom could not imagine.

  Two days later they had the horses put to and travelled cross-country for an hour to reach the village of Piddletrenthide and Captain Burley’s new estate.

  Enclosure had only just begun to change the face of this valley, the hedgerows were young and straggly, the fences and gates made of bright, new timbers and the farm tracks not yet full of potholes. Labourers were out in gangs along the valley sides, the shallow slopes being cleared of clumps of blackthorn and acres of furzes. Children scouted along the sides, sticks and stones to hand for the rabbits that were disturbed; there would probably be a pheasant or two as well, to be taken out of sight of the Captain’s foreman.

  The river ran lazily in sweeping curves through the half-mile wide valley, small cut-offs and ponds to either side, reeds showing the extent of the mud and morass. The plan seemed to be to take crops from the valley sides in the next growing season and to bring the more fertile but hugely more expensive valley floor slowly to the plough.

  “A dozen or more of deep and wide ditches, my dear.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry, I forgot you were not used to the problems of English agriculture. The valley must be drained. Eventually the river must be constrained into a new, straight channel, but that will cost thousands and will demand the cooperation of every landowner. For the while, ditches will do a reasonable job.”

  They came to the manor house, a respectable dwelling for a gentleman, Tom supposed, built in drab local field stone in the style of the Jacobean age; Portland Stone, white and handsome, was available from the quarries a bare twenty miles away but would have been seen as too expensive. Old walls in the gardens suggested the house had been rebuilt on an ancient foundation. Two good floors and a dozen windows at the front to each, so probably fifteen or twenty bedrooms, sufficient to announce a degree of importance in the county.

  The front door was opened by a butler. Not a young man, presumably inherited from a previous owner, and building up the gravitas of his master, a manservant always a statement in itself.

  “Lord and Lady Andrews.”

  “Please to enter, my lord, my lady. If you will take a seat in the large salon my mistress will be with you immediately.”

  The butler ushered them to chairs, left the room, reappeared inside two minutes carrying a large silver tray. Freshly made little cakes, biscuits and almond macaroons next to ratafia, claret and hock, all ready for morning callers. The Burleys were to an extent leaders of local society it seemed, expecting frequent visitors.

  Young Mrs Burley entered the room and they exchanged bows, clumsily on her part, she being at least six months gone.

  She made the correct greetings and welcomed them to her house, all showing proper training in the genteel courtesies, before explaining that the Captain was at the Home Farm this morning and would be a few minutes in returning.

  “You have a fine house here, Mrs Burley. I presume it is named?” Frances knew that only the largest and most important manors had a name of their own, carried over from one generation or owner to the next, was gently bolstering Mrs Burley’s self-esteem. The young lady had little experience of the peerage and had almost certainly entertained very few titled morning callers; she should be reminded that she had a place in their world.

  “Yes, my lady. The house has been called River Hall for many years. I believe that in Queen Elizabeth’s day the family of the time also had Purbeck Hall, over in the hills behind Wareham, this the seat of the heir when he married. They fell upon bad times for holding to the old religion and the family grew lesser and poorer, eventually dying out just five years ago. My husband came into a legacy and was able to make the purchase after the land had been untaken for some two years.”

  Conversation broadened for the ten minutes or so before Captain Burley entered the room, settling his frock coat on his broad shoulders, very evidently rapidly brushed down, changed and made respectable. Tom presumed he had brought his batman from the regiment to become a valet in civilian life; it was the normal thing to do if the retired officer could afford it.

  “My lord, my lady! This is a very pleasant surprise! I had not hoped to see you here.”

  “My circumstances changed, as you know, sir. As a result I will be found in Dorset more often than could otherwise have been the case. I saw driving in that your enclosure is very recent…”

  Conversation grew and their stay stretched well beyond the conventional thirty minutes of a morning visit. Frances left the room with Mrs Burley while the men walked outside a few yards, a little way up the slope behind the house where they could see across the Captain’s lands.

  “As you see, sir, your generosity has given me potentially a very fine estate, nearly thirteen hundreds of acres, a fraction greater than two square miles. Only two hundred acres, one half of the fields, went to wheat last year, and the same this, but we shall have, I hope, an additional four hundred on the lower, shallower slopes this spring. The remaining five hundreds will take many years, I fear.”

  With his allowance that would give Captain Burley an income of more than a thousand pounds clear of the Poor Law rate. He could live well on that and find a hundred or two every year to fund his improvements. He would probably have spent most of the two thousands he had received on selling his commission on his first outlays on the enclosure, but he should find himself comfortably circumstanced within a decade or so, able to build a respectable little sum in his bank.

  “Is all well with you now, my lord?”

  “Better than I had ever hoped for two years ago, Captain Burley. I am easier in myself, which I had never expected, and your brothers are flourishing. Robert is occupying himself in the world of banking and is building strength for the family’s future. James, you will not have heard, became a member recently and is remaking his life. Joseph married earlier this year, too young, but they knew their own minds it would seem. Charlotte has a son and her husband is now master of what may be the largest steam shipyard in England, unless Mr Rumpage’s yard on the Thames has outstripped him!”

  “As I am sure you noticed, sir, my lady expects to bear our first born soon after the New Year, much to our pleasure. I have not mentioned you to her, in specific terms, sir, but I believe her to have surmised that we have a relationship. I am quite sure that she will make no mention of the fact to her own parents.”

  Frances responded to Mrs Burley’s delicately phrased questions with a full exposition of the circumstances as she knew them, having discussed the matter with Tom on the journey, their first opportunity to be alone and out of the earshot of the servants during the week.

  Mrs Burley was sufficiently genteel to be upset to discover her husband’s illegitimacy, practical enough to be thankful for the estate it had provided. Very little thought sufficed to persuade her that to be mistress of River Hall was greatly preferable to being the wife of a four shillings a day half-pay captain.

  “I would expect, Lady Andrews, that your husband will maintain his interest in mine for his lifetime. May I enquire whether my husband’s half-brothers are fully aware of his circumstances?”

  “They are, ma’am and Mr Robert has assured me, privately, that he considers your husband to b
e part of the family.”

  There would be advantages to that when, for example, the time came to secure employment for a younger son; it might as well be possible to send a daughter who had just come out to stay with the family in London and possibly come to the attention of a rich husband.

  A fortnight passed, slowly, and it was allowable for the Andrews to farewell the Payntons and to proceed about their business in other parts of the country. Tom could not ruralise for more than a week or two, bearing in mind the unending demands business and the estate made upon him; he was forced, he said, to tear himself away.

  “Do you know of a hotel in Southampton, Mr Drew?”

  Gervase did not; indeed he rather doubted the existence of such, the town being so decayed.

  “Roberts has established a yard for the construction of steamers, sir, so there is a small hope that the port may grow again.”

  Gervase did not approve of steamships. The wind had served England well enough for many centuries.

  The Dolphin posting inn proved adequate for their needs for two nights, giving Tom the day in between to descend upon the new yard, located just upstream of the patented block works whose machines produced for the rigging of every naval vessel and a large proportion of the national merchant fleet. Tom wondered how the workers in the block manufactury would behave when they realised that steam would, sooner or later, drive sail off of the world’s oceans. Time to deal with that problem when it actually arose, there was no sense to creating it by taking precautions against its eventuality.

  The yard was located very sensibly on a bend on the River Itchen where it flowed past the old village, and new slum, of Northam. Evidently the block workers lived there, in the cheapest of terraces.

  There were five slipways, each with a hull part complete and workers busy. The slips all pointed into the bend, where the water would be deepest and the current a little slower, or so Tom had been told. He called the carriage to a halt a furlong up the slope from the river, stood to inspect from a distance before going in to introduce himself. There was a single tugging boat at the wharfside, fitting-out by the looks of her, workers on the deck and painters active everywhere. She was one of Captain Star’s new design, he saw, with a bridge built across the paddle wheels for her master to stand on and give his orders, higher above the waterline and the steam and coal smoke and better able to see.

  There was a closed gate, and a pair of guards in a small but brick-built shed with barred windows giving a view all of the way round. Either there had been trouble or the manager feared it. The carriage pulled up and one of the guards came out. He saw the crest and pulled off his flat cap, came to attention, army style.

  “Good morning, sir. How can I ‘elp thee?”

  A sergeant at least.

  “I am Lord Andrews, from Roberts Ironfounders.”

  “Please to enter, my lord! If you would excuse me one moment.”

  The guard swung the single gate open and then ran into the gatehouse, beckoning urgently. A few seconds later and the second guard was scampering towards the offices.

  A sergeant-major, used to covering for his officers.

  “Thank you, my lord. If your man would drive across to the larger of the brick buildings on the right, my lord, he should be met by one of the senior staff.”

  A good start. The guard knew that the manager might well be elsewhere in the yard, did not expect always to find him sat at his desk. Interesting as well to observe that the guard tailored his speech to his audience, far more genteel in his diction now. Definitely a very senior non-commissioned officer.

  A young man in a frockcoat came out to hand Tom down from the carriage.

  “Ronald Hathaway, my lord, undermanager to the yard. Mr Knowles is at the wharf at the moment, making his inspection of the first of our tugging boats which is to be handed over in three days, my lord.”

  “What have you got on the slips, Mr Hathaway?”

  “Two tugging boats, my lord, both to work on Southampton Water where the wind can often be foul for sailing ships so that they have commonly had to tide it in and out.”

  Blank incomprehension.

  “Southampton has double tides, my lord, most unusual. Where the wind does not serve a ship can up anchor and drift in with the making tide or out with the ebb, dropping anchor when the tide turns. It may take two days to travel the whole distance into Spithead, but ‘twas better than simply being windbound. Our tugging boats will make four knots even against a spring tide, independent of the wind.”

  Tom nodded, a very clear exposition, the young man was good with words.

  “The other three hulls are to carry passengers and goods, foodstuffs mostly, across to the Isle of Wight. There is often a shortage of fresh produce on the Island, due again to the vagaries of the wind.”

  “Where did you work before joining us, Mr Hathaway?”

  “Immediately before, my lord, the last four years, I was an usher in a small school on the edge of the New Forest. It kept body and soul together, just, my lord. I passed for lieutenant in the Year Fourteen, my lord, was lucky to serve a commission which took in the Hundred Days, unfortunate that my ship, the sloop Bulldog, was sold out of the service almost immediately after peace was declared.”

  A lieutenant’s half-pay amounted to pennies and there were at least twenty competing for every vacancy in the peace-time navy. Without influence a new-made gentleman had no chance of getting to sea.

  “Mr Knowles was Carpenter on the Bulldog, as a very young man for the warrant. I believe his father is a master ship-builder along the coast in Shoreham so he had grown up with the trade. I met him in town of a holiday from the school and he was so good as to offer me this post.”

  A reversal of fortunes, one that said something for both men, Knowles that he should have a respect for Hathaway’s abilities, the ex-officer that he was willing to work for a seaman who had been his junior.

  Tom inspected the yard, as was demanded of his position. Every hand would expect to see him, would be offended if he did not come to their working place. It took two hours during which time a coastal brig tied up at their wharf and started to pull her hatches off.

  “No direct canal link, my lord, the one drawback to Southampton. All of our plate and engine parts have to be brought from London by sea. Mr Rumpage has a five hundred tonner on the stocks at the moment with which we intend to make the run along the Channel coast from next spring. There is trade and to spare, my lord, particularly in the way of fresh foods to London, and the ship will pay for herself.”

  Canals, it transpired, had tended to follow the mills and mines, which was where the bulk of trade was to be found. The South country was very poorly served by waterways.

  “Do we own that brig? What do we do for coal?”

  By the end of the visit Tom had discovered the need to make arrangements for the Welsh steam coal trade to be extended to Southampton. He wrote a letter to Captain Star as soon as he returned to the Dolphin. He wrote as well to his son Joseph, demanding progress in the matter of the handling of coals in port; men with shovels was just not good enough when dealing with steam coal in five hundred ton loads.

  “’I say to one go, and he goeth’,” Frances murmured.

  “Not at all, my dear! I say to one go and he had better start running! These were matters that should have been looked into already. I am not initiating anything new here, I am merely geeing them up to get on with the job they should already have started. Joseph, especially, is too much the butterfly – a few minutes of his attention here followed by a diversion into something else that looks interesting and no sustained effort to bring any task to a conclusion. He must be prodded to bring his many ideas into a few at least of useful machines.”

  Robert was sat in an office in Threadneedle Street, face carefully blank, his expression giving nothing away. A senior functionary from the Treasury stood opposite him, making a brief presentation of policy options open to His Britannic Majesty’s Government in the event
of a collapse of the cotton industry. He was standing, Robert presumed, to emphasise the importance of his words; three separate senior managers of the Bank of England sat at his side.

  “To summarise, Mr Andrews, the cotton industry has in the space of thirty years become the single largest producer of wealth in the whole of Britain. Agriculture, of course, produces more in simple terms of value, but generates far less in taxes and money income, much of the food being eaten by those who produce it rather than going to market. Was the cotton industry to experience a sudden shortage of raw fibre coming into the ports of England, then it seems to government that the result would be a catastrophic loss of employment and income that would rapidly destroy every other industry in the country. It is, I believe, no exaggeration to suggest that the result of a failure of the cotton industry would be mass starvation, famine on a scale that the government would be unable to alleviate. I doubt even that the nation would survive as war broke out between the starving in the towns and the farming communities trying to protect their own food supplies.”

  An unpleasant scenario, Robert agreed. What did he want?

  “The cotton fields live on the back of slavery. It seems to overseas observers, such as ourselves, that the end of bond-labour in America would inevitably result in chaos on the plantations and a massive reduction in the supply of raw cotton that might take twenty years to reverse.”

  The climate of opinion in the modern age was swinging rapidly to regard slavery as an outrage, quite rightly so, in Robert’s opinion. Slavery’s days in the Sugar islands were officially numbered and the navy was increasingly active in Atlantic and Mediterranean waters, pursuing the few slave ships still running, with the support of most of the people of the country.

  No British government could possibly be seen to support slavery.

  The British economy would probably not survive the abolition of slavery in the Southern States of America.

  There was silence in the room. They were waiting for him to respond.