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

by Andrew Wareham

  The chances of a steady flow of briefs and fees were often greater outside of London, for lack of competition, and the suspicion of mercenary motives was often voiced, as if the ordinary run of lawyers should be above mere pecuniary considerations. It might in fact be argued that every barrister was drawn from those people who possessed private incomes, so they had no need to lower themselves by actually earning money; that did not seem to stop them from doing so, however.

  Lacking certainty of what was the best course he must be content to bury himself in his work, to burn the midnight oil and to display his virtue. He suspected he was being observed in any case, watched to see if he was sufficiently upset at the untimely death of Christopher as to make intentional contact with other violent Radicals.

  He was upset, of course, but primarily with himself because he had been so wilfully blind, had refused to see Christopher for what he was. In court, he would have been scathing with any defendant who claimed to have been unaware of the nature of any bloody-handed Jacobin he had lived with. How, he would have demanded, could any thinking, intelligent man have failed to see the wicked Red for what he was. He could not find an answer, except to blame himself for moral inadequacy, for self-serving cowardice. He would not be so self-indulgent ever again.

  He had withdrawn his funds from all of the organisations that Christopher had put him into contact with. So-called soup kitchens that were far more likely to have been the cover for recruiting the poor and unfortunate into revolutionary conspiracies – he would have no more to do with them and their false charity.

  He had recently been invited to dine with the Lord Lieutenant, had been pleased to accept, had come into contact with the local member there, had been offered his hospitality as well. He had every expectation now of gracing any number of functions in the town, of being seen as he should be at concerts and dinners and balls, all with the right sort of people, a respected scion of the Star clan. He would never again stray out of his own sphere, would never permit himself to be used by so-called reformers.

  He had met his brother Thomas and his wife in company with the member and both had been delighted to see him in his proper place, had suggested that he might wish to be with them on election night, to publicly celebrate the inevitable success of the Party.

  He would be there, visible to all who might care.

  Thomas had told him about the Private Bill that was to go forward in the next parliamentary session, to organise the area around St Helens, to enable roads and sewers to be built and to embody a local council. There would be a need for educated men to stand and to take a lead in the new body. Mark thought that it might be well to put his name forward, to make a show of virtue as well as to accept his share of the family’s responsibility.

  He was inclined to congratulate himself on the streak of native common sense that had kept him out of Christopher’s plots. Something in his character, he knew, had acted to protect him from contamination, he was not sure what, but was glad that it had. If he had only been a little more foolish he could have been at Christopher’s side, gun in hand, bomb-making plans in his pocket, his life, quite rightly, forfeit. Never again!

  How could he make a further public display of his new rectitude? A difficult question to answer because he had to preserve the honour of the Bar, he must show himself to be even-handed, able to represent any and every citizen at need. Not to worry, something would come up to announce that he was on the right side.

  Patience Fletcher worked her way through the mound of washing, copper on the fire, soap and soda bubbling and stinging her eyes, boiling water spitting on her arms and face, back aching from pounding away with the laundry stick.

  ‘Laundry maid to bloody Lady Latimer, the sour bitch, and lucky to get it!’ She took a drink of water, threw another log on to the flames, eased her back a moment before returning to the labour. She should have been wed, settled in a cottage of her own, but that would never be now. Her man had hanged with a dozen others the previous year, him one of the three with jobs, a hand in the smithy, a farrier in his own right, but one who had concerned himself too much with ‘rights’ and ‘liberty’ for his own good, or hers.

  She had been upstairs maid at the attorney’s house, a far superior place, but Mr Higgs had thrown her out for being ‘associated with a bloody-handed felon’ and she had come a long way down in the world. But she had to work, both parents dead and her brother Godby only just fourteen at the time and unable to find any master to take him.

  Godby had been in line to be a printer, his indentures to be bought for him by the parish fund for poor boys that the vicar ran. He would have been in Northampton by now, living-in and learning one of the best paid of all trades. He had had a head cold, sniffling and sneezing on the night the Burton Blacks came to their end, otherwise he would have been out with them, and the vicar had heard that to be so and had very loudly refused him his charity. The parish fund would be spent on the deserving, so he said.

  Godby had nothing now, no work, no hope of anything at all for he was on the unofficial blacklist known to every employer.

  He was growing increasingly bitter and reckless. He was out poaching most nights and the gamekeepers knew it, would catch him red-handed soon, and that would be transportation, unless he fought as they took him up, in which case he would hang. The Latimers would want their people to give him special attention and they might well set a watch on the cottage, just for him. He was a strong lad for his age, not unintelligent and more and more unwilling to listen to anything she had to say to him, more determined to be his own man.

  She went home in the dark of early evening, tired-out, smelt cooking as she came through the door. Two thick slices of three-day old bread, toasted over the open fire, half of a trout on each, newly fried in a smidgeon of butter, all that they had. Godby had the same.

  “They’ll send you down, you bloody fool, if one of the water-bailiffs comes by and gets the smell of them!”

  “Eat up quick then there won’t be owt for ‘em to find. I buried the heads and guts already.”

  She was too tired to argue any more, and she was hungry, and the fish smelt good.

  “They’ll catch you one day, Godby, sure as eggs they will.”

  “They won’t, Patey, you see. I’m gooin’, away from ‘ere, there ain’t bugger-all for me nor never will be. Me and Johnny Jackman, we both gooin’. There’s new pits openin’ up north of ‘ere, so they says. It ain’t easy work, but they reckons you can get jobs there and put a few bob together. A couple of years and I’ll be back with a few quid in me pocket, and a firelock in me hand. Lay up for that scar-face bastard what ‘ad our lads all killed and then leg it all the way to Bristol and off to Americky, that’s it for me. Soon as I got money enough for the tickets for us both, I’ll be back, Patey, then it’ll be a new life for the both us. You wait and see!”

  Johnny Jackman was the same age as Godby, less intelligent but equally wild, so much so that his parents had almost given up on him, had threatened to have him taken before the bench as a delinquent boy. The magistrates would listen only to the parents in such a case; it was not a trial so there would be no question of a defence. They might just ask the constable to confirm that the boy was a local nuisance, did not always do that. Nine times out of ten they would have the youth taken to the local lock-up to be birched, two dozen or so strokes, before being put into the cells for a fortnight or a month of solitary confinement. The odd exception was warned first time.

  During the long wars the normal procedure had been to then discharge the unruly to the care of the army, a few years of military discipline being held to be beneficial for the boys. Now that the army was less available the authorities generally contented themselves with an additional thirty or forty strokes of the birch on discharge, coupled with the warning that if the young man ever came before them again he would be transported without further ado.

  Most of the boys ran away after their first taste of punishment, which was a satisfactory sol
ution in many ways. The wise absconded before being birched. The birch was a bundle of thin twigs tied together to form a loose baton; it bruised far less than the cat and never broke the skin, was therefore used for the admonition of juveniles. Those who had experienced both punishments said that the birch hurt less but humiliated more for always being applied to the bare buttocks.

  “He’s a bad lot, that Johnny Jackman. You’ll get into trouble in his company, you see if you don’t. He won’t be one for working for a living. He’ll go thieving, and he ain’t bright enough to get away with it. He’ll get caught and so will you if you’re with him.”

  “They ain’t goin’ to catch me. I ain’t goin’ to swing. They can bloody kill me, but they ain’t goin’ to take me up. Not never!”

  She feared he was right, and was sure that he would not get away with it, whatever his intention was. She did not for a minute believe him when he said that he was going to the mines, was certain that he and Johnny had a criminal career in mind.

  Neither had pistols or a horse, so at least they could not have it in mind to be highwaymen, the ambition of so many silly boys.

  Godby and Johnny set off next morning, shaking the dust of Burton off their boots very publicly, walking off on the road towards Leicester, going up to the new mines in the north of the Midlands. A carter gave them a lift as far as Market Harborough, happy to have company rather than the normal silence of the road.

  It was not as busy as the Great North Road but there was a steady flow of carts and covered wagons in both directions, north to the stocking and glove makers around Nottingham and south to Bedford and London. Most of the carters stopped overnight outside one of the recognised inns that catered for their trade, distinguished by a fenced and gated paddock or yard where the wagons could be parked and the horses or, less commonly, mules could be watered and baited. There would be a watchman on duty and many of the drivers would eat in the inn but sleep in their own carts to save money and protect their goods.

  Perhaps a quarter of the carters brought a boy with them to help with the animals and learn the ways of the road, so Godby and Johnny did not stand out, looked as if they belonged. Careful observation told them which wagons were empty, which had a sleeper in them and, usefully, which drivers were drunk. They had to guess what was in the wagons, but there was a good chance that the southbound carriers would have goods to sell in London.

  Midnight saw them slitting the canvas wrapping on a soft bale and pulling out knitted stockings, stuffing their shoulder bags full, two dozen pairs apiece. An hour and the boys were on the hill above Market Harborough, taking the footpaths that led to Desborough and then along the banks of the River Ise towards Kettering. They laid up in the rough woodland near the river, just outside of the town, slept and idled the day before venturing down into the outskirts as it grew dark.

  They tapped at a door behind the Buccleuch pub, the home of a market trader known to them who had taken a few items they had come across during the year.

  “’allo, Mr Yates. Got something for you.”

  The door was pulled half open and they slipped through, laid their booty out on his kitchen table.

  “Four dozens of frame-knitted stockings, white, good quality, boys. I can sell these, a few at a time over the next month or two. Twelve bob.”

  Yates never bargained. They knew it was take it or leave it, and there was no other fence in Kettering, or not that they had dealt with and who would trust them not to be working with thief-takers. There was no police force but private firms existed who would accept commissions, charging a percentage for the discovery and return of stolen goods and often claiming a reward from the authorities for the criminals they delivered to them; they tended to be unscrupulous in their dealings, willing to plant stolen goods on the vulnerable and unpopular of the town.

  They made their thanks and took six shillings apiece. It was not enough, they could not hope to make their fortunes that way.

  “Are you boys goin’ home tonight?”

  “Not never, Mr Yates.”

  Yates had suspected so.

  “I got a friend who’s lookin’ for a pair of likely young fellers. Riding ‘orses for ‘im. Takin’ a string of two or three each north or across towards Norwich, then some others someplace else, wherever they needs to go. On the move all the time, lay your ‘eads in a different boozer every night. Put a few quid in your pockets, too.”

  The boys were young but not wholly stupid – these had to be stolen horses. If they were caught then they would be likely to hang, transported for sure.

  Godby said as much, was told he would be well-advised not to get caught, then. If he had any sense he would buy himself something to keep in a holster on his saddle, that would deal with any ordinary constable or thief-taker.

  “Where can we find your friend, Mr Yates?”

  They slept on Yates’ floor that night, travelled in the back of his closed wagon in the morning, five miles out to a small farm close to the Northampton road. By nightfall they were outside of Cambridge in the company of six horses.

  Johnny’s immediate suggestion was that they should take the horses to a coper in the city, sell them and leg it, fifteen pounds apiece in their pockets. Godby had a strong suspicion that there would only be one or two dealers in the town who would touch horses sold by boys, without any paperwork to show they were the rightful owners. The news would very rapidly go back to their own current employer – the buyer delaying a day or so on one excuse or another while he fetched the coinage for them – and they would be knocked over the head and disposed of with no further ado.

  “You’m bloody daft, Johnny. This bloke what we got to go to, this Alfred King who we got to ask for at the pub, ‘e’ll be expectin’ us, and ‘e’ll put the word out if we don’t turn up. We don’t know Cambridge, we’d ‘ave to wait for the morning and then ask about to find a dealer, take us a few hours one way or the other to get a bugger what would even talk to us. They’d all soon enough know we ‘ad a string of dodgy ‘orses. Even if the constables didn’t get to us, you can bet this King bloke would. We woulden get no fifteen quid each. We’d get our bloody throats cut, that’s all us’d ever see out of it.”

  They pulled off the road, leading the horses to the back of a small unnamed beerhouse where they discovered a surprisingly large yard and a dozen boxes.

  “We got sent from Kettering,” Godby said, following his instructions. “They said us should say we wants to talk to Alfred King.”

  The stable lad took the bridles, pointed to a back door.

  They were led to a table, all in silence. They sat and there was a pint put before each. Ten minutes and a girl came with a pair of heaped plates, meat and potatoes and some sort of greens. They finished their meal and a woman came through to them, large, fiftyish, mobcap and blue stuff gown, well-off but not gentry.

  “First thing in the morning, before sunrise, there’ll be a breakfast in ‘ere. The lads’ll ‘ave a couple of hosses saddled and another on a hackamore each. You’s to go up to Lincoln with they. The boy’ll tell you in the morning, where you got to go and what places you stops on the road. You don’t go in the bar tonight, got it?”

  She counted out ten silver shillings each, told them they would get twice that in Lincoln.

  “You do alright, like you did this time, and you goin’ to get ten bob every day. Do anything stupid and you better run a long, long way! Get it?”

  They said they understood. In a country where very few people travelled at all it made sense to steal horses in one town and sell them a day or so distant, where they would never be recognised. They could make a good living for a year or two, cold in winter, maybe, wet whenever it rained, but far better than nothing in the village.

  Boys riding horses, stable-lads, would attract no attention; when they grew to man’s size they would stand out. Johnny did not think that far ahead. Godby could see nothing to do about it; he would keep an eye open for what came next.

  Miriam was huge a
gain. It had to be twins, Nurse, accoucheur and all of the staff agreed. She rather feared they might be right, trusted that her husband was accumulating a substantial fortune – there might well be a significant number of daughters and younger sons to be provided for by the time she reached forty.

  Her time came and within the day a pair of daughters made their debut, to her husband’s delight, he had really wanted female children as well, he said, and she believed him, his joy was obviously honest.

  “The new house at Higham Ferrers will be open this summer, my dear. I may think twice about sending the builders away, however. We might be well advised to put up another wing against future need. What of furnishing the place? I had expected you to pay a couple of visits to Thingdon Hall and supervise from there, but that will not be practical – you will not wish to be travelling for another two or three months, I suspect.”

  “There will be a decorator to be hired, Robert. I shall seek out one I like, not the ‘best’, but one we can live with.”

  He was unsure, Miriam’s taste was in many ways more European than English, tended perhaps to be ornate rather than worthy. Their place in the country would inevitably be visited by many of their acquaintance over the years and must express the stolidity of the banker as well as the ostentation of the peer. It would probably be better to put the whole matter in the hands of one of the commercial houses which had a living to make rather than allow free rein to an interior designer who sought a reputation.

  “It would be easier simply to give a commission to Trollopes to furnish the house all through. They have experience of country houses and will supply their own wallpapers in appropriate patterns for the various rooms, and they will procure suites of furniture as will fit. We need but specify that they will use Mr Sheraton’s books as their model and they will provide in the best of taste. We might also, perhaps, just to make a bow to fashion, have a Yellow Room with chinoiserie, though I am not an admirer of the Egyptian style – crocodile claw feet are not my choice.”