“And I have a good stallion and six more mares, four of them in foal, waiting outside Albany in a stables there. Driving horses, not riding stock. Suitable for farmers. I have my eye on a pair of great horses as well. I left England a while ago, having come into a legacy, and married Mrs Merton, who was a widow lady, last year.”
The three were step-children, but they seemed to have a great affection for Merton, standing at his side, the littlest, a girl of five or so, holding his hand.
“You will wish to look at the land, Mr Merton. If you find a section that you wish to file on then we will organise amongst the other farmers to have a cabin building day. We all help each other here, sir. We intend to build a sickhouse later this year, having suffered grievously from the smallpox less than two years ago. Are you all vaccinated, sir?”
Merton pulled the little girl’s sleeve up, showed the crown sized mark as proof.
They raised the cabin three weeks later, the men peering in fascination into the small shed where Merton had woven four straw bee skeps, waterproof, he said and ready to house swarms of wild bees as he came across them.
“Sooner him than me,” was the general comment, but they all liked the idea of honey.
Later in the month the men returned to the Merton section and put the roof on his stables, discovering Mrs Merton to be a notable cook – she had baked cakes in her clay Dutch oven!
Quiet enquiry disclosed the Mertons to have flour for the year and a good supply of other staples. They had come well prepared, his legacy put to good, sensible use, and promised to be valuable members of the new community.
The single young men, the hunters and would-be walkers of the woods, had all filed on sections, as suggested by Mr Quillerson, but had not settled on them. They were venturing farther afield every month, out for several days at a time, discovering the possibilities of winter trap-lines, seeking out the haunts of elk and bison, locating wolf-packs, looking hopefully and unsuccessfully for traces of gold. In fact they were enjoying themselves, able to kill enough meat in a day or two of each week to meet their obligations to the farmers and at liberty to wander as they wished, to see what was over the next hill, to live a free life. After their years as soldiers and then the anxious time of the peace, when they had had no place and barely enough to eat, they had reached a Promised Land. The opportunity to settle down was one they had no hesitation in rejecting; maybe in ten, or fifteen, years, when they felt they were getting older and their backs were starting to ache, that would be the time to put down roots.
The four young women who had come out with the settlers were less content with their existence. The plans made back in Finedon had not quite come to fruition; they had in fact been wholly unrealistic. There was no call for a schoolhouse, would be none for a generation, particularly bearing in mind the shortage of children of an age. They kept a hundred or so of chicken and had plans for ducks and geese, when they could get hold of some eggs, but there would be no creamery, every farmwife making her own cheese if she had a milch cow. They were handy with their needles, but so was every other woman in the area and there was no spare money to buy clothes.
White was concerned that the girls would leave the village and drift, inevitably, down to New York, where they would, equally inevitably, come to a Bad End – he would not put his precise fears into words, even in his own mind. He prayed deeply and long for guidance, for a solution to their plight, but inspiration avoided him. He had hoped that the young hunters might provide an answer; he had ensured that there were four young men, one to each of the ladies available, but that plan had not worked out either. Young Mr Quillerson had not come forward as a husband, although he had taken dinner at the Whites in company with all four.
There were other villages within two hours on his wagon, and they must have elders or mayors to be spoken to, and there were said to be far more young men than women amongst the general run of settlers. That could be a way forward. He would wait on the safe delivery of his lady wife and then pay neighbourly visits, it was only right that he should, after all.
On the topic of neighbours, he had never asked the young men whether they had come across any of the savages in the immediate area. Perhaps Caleb, the old frontiersman and their source of information on everything about their new country, would know.
“Not this side of the border, Mr White. Most of those that there was headed north at the time of the Revolution, for joining up with the English and ending up on the losing side and reckoning Canada was going to make more sense for them. The rest that there was - more peaceful, farming sorts - came to agreements with the Federal government about land, and soon found they’d signed away everything worth having and got ‘emselves left with a heap of sand and rocks and not much besides. They was too few to make war, and not in the habit of it anyway, so they took ‘emselves off north as well, and good riddance to ‘em, says I. All I ever heard says they been turned into imitation whiteskins up there, all settled down and polite with houses and schools and churches and missionaries, poor sods!”
It sounded like paradise on Earth for them, as far as White could tell – they had been civilised, and what better fate could they ask for?
Godby Fletcher sat at casual ease in his saddle, walking a string of five horses, three miles out of York and the sun saying at least another hour of full daylight while he wanted to reach his drop-off close to twilight. No matter, the nags would do better for a slow walk, he had pushed them hard enough during the day, and the track he was following was rough, too many potholes for his liking, too easy to break a leg. This close to town the traffic was much busier, mostly farmers and villagers returning home from the market and their day out at the shops, but a few heading into the city as well. He had turned off the Great North Road and taken to the lanes thinking it better to be where no questions could be asked and his face would not be remembered.
He took a swig at the water bottle dangling from the saddle horn. Water only, the booze had been Johnny’s downfall earlier in the year, pushing into the bar in the pub where they had laid up overnight and loudly boasting to one of the whores he had taken upstairs a couple of hours later, telling her what a hard and rich villain he was. She had given him all he wanted and then gone down to the landlord, warned him that one of the boys was mouthing off, no harm done this time, but…
Godby had woken up alone in their room next morning, had padded silently into the back saloon for his breakfast, been greeted by the landlord and two other, big men.
“Friend of yours, the bloke what was wiv yer?”
“Grew up in the same village, up in Northamptonshire, so ‘e’d got to be. What’s ‘e done?”
“Reckons ‘e’s likely to do summat, do yer?”
“Born bloody stupid, Johnny was, and ‘e’s practised at it since. I told the daft bastard to keep out of the bar, but ‘e’ wanted a drink and fancied a bit with one of they old scrubbers what ‘e could see in there.”
“Started gobbin’ off, so ‘e did.”
“If I told ‘im once to keep ‘is chaffer shut, I told ‘im a dozen times. Somebody ‘eard ‘im, did they?”
“Nah! Bessie was upstairs wiv ‘im when ‘e started off on what a big bloke ‘e was. She gave I the word, quick time.”
Godby shrugged his shoulders resignedly. The only question was whether they would want to make a clean sweep, to be tidy, but they probably would not have talked to him if they were intending to kill him.
“Am I all right with you? I ain’t never talked in all me life, and I ain’t a pisshead.”
“You ain’t worried what’s ‘appened to ‘im? You don’t want to know, like?”
“I can guess pretty good, mister.”
“Old squire up the lane keeps the better part of two ‘undred fat pigs. They got extras for breakfast this mornin’.”
“Right! Fair enough! What’s done is done, and there ain’t no point weeping for a bloody fool. What you got for me?”
“Three good ‘orses, riding stock,
to go over to Worcester. Three days.”
They were at a village close to Chelmsford in Essex. The direct road would lead him into London and then on the highway to North Wales; far too exposed and busy, but cross-country would take a lot more than three days, especially as the weather looked set for a storm.
“Twice that, mister. I ain’t going down the High Road.”
“You’ll do, young’un. If so be you’d taken it on for three days I’d ‘ave booted yer arse out the back door. I’ll get a bite to eat brought in.”
“Thanks. Not bacon though, not this morning.”
They laughed, but sent a plate of cold beef through.
Since then Godby had worked on his own, but, knowing for sure now the sort of people he was dealing with, he had dug into the belt he wore round his waist under his shirt and had used five golden sovereigns to buy a pair of short percussion pistols and a couple of dozen loads. The seller, an anonymous man in a pub he called at every three or four weeks, asked if he was going up in the world, told him it was a bad idea, the day of the highwayman was over.
“There’s patrols riding out of London these days, and the word gets sent from town to town on the mail coaches, as fast as a man can ride. And they’ve put good money up as rewards, so you can’t rely on nobody to keep silent no more. No future in it, boy, none at all.”
“Not what I’m in for, mister. Just to look after meself, that’s all I want.”
“You’ll swing if they catches you with them in yer pocket.”
“They’re in me pocket so’s I don’t get caught, mister.”
“Better Botany Bay than the noose, boy.”
“Better in me coffin than both of they. I ain’t going down!”
“On yer own head be it, lad!”
Godby had never fired a pistol and would have much preferred to carry a long gun, but there was no way to conceal a carbine or shotgun and he could not ride openly armed – that was for the gentry, not stable lads.
He dropped off his string in York and was sent across to Sheffield to pick up four cobs there and take them the short distance to Derby. They were working horses, no doubt destined to haul wagons on the trackways of the few big lead and silver mines. Most of the ore was still moved by pack pony but a few of the workings belonged to the new century.
At the beerhouse a couple of miles outside Derby he was told he was too big, too old, he could not pass as a stable lad any longer. The constables would soon take to questioning him, they said, he could do the job no longer. They gave him his money and sent him on his way, on foot.
He was not used to walking, did not appreciate the exercise. He had no great desire to go to work for fifteen shillings a week, if he was lucky. Time to take a few risks, he suspected.
Godby found his way to the coaching inn and bought his ticket north over the hills on next morning’s rattler, to the nearest big town he had heard of, Manchester. He was known in Derby, even if only to a few, and they might be watching out for him, ready to silence him if he became a nuisance or engaged in crime locally with the chance that he might be taken up. Put in front of a court and he might offer to turn King’s Evidence, and he could give a long list of names and places where stolen horses could be found – he had the knowledge to hang fifty and send ten times as many overseas, himself receiving a pardon and a couple of hundred sovereigns, hard cash. Thinking the matter over, he wondered that they had not killed him out of hand.
It was mid-morning and he had paid for a room for the night, and he would have been seen to buy his ticket. He was probably being watched now, certainly so if they had left him alive only because they had decided that they did not want an inconvenient body at their own front door. It would not be difficult to enter his room in the night and put a knife to his throat, another stranger killed for the sake of the few guineas in his pocket.
The more he considered it, the less he fancied his prospects, his chance of actually boarding the coach in the morning.
“Sod this for a game of skittles! I ain’t hangin’ about like a chicken waitin’ to get its neck wrung!”
He wandered very casually through the town, looking into the shops, stopping at a pie stall for a midday snack, the picture of a man with a day to idle away. He turned into a livery stables, as if he might be looking for a job on the off-chance.
“I got to go over to Nottingham and then down further south, mister. I reckons it makes more sense to buy a ‘oss, not pay to ‘ire one from town to town.”
“It do, mister, especial because I woulden’ go after making a hire to a bloke what ain’t comin’ back ‘ere.”
“Gold sovereigns in your ‘and, mister, not none of these bits of bloody paper. What can you do for me? I ain’t lookin’ for a race’orse, but I wants somethin’ not too old to do a day’s work.”
“You knows ‘ow to ‘andle a ‘oss? One what’s a bad bugger in the wrong ‘ands?”
“Stable lad, but I didden stop growin’.”
“That ‘appens, mister, and bugger-all to be done about it, iffen you gets too big, well, that’s all there is to it! I got a bad-tempered bastard out the back. Don’t dare put ‘im out on ‘ire. Can’t sell ‘im to any bugger what knows me and lives local. I been reckonin’ ‘e’d ‘ave to go to the knacker’s yard, make glue and leather and pigmeat. Three quid, that’s all I’d get for ‘im there and I paid fifteen, because ‘e looks good and strong and ‘e was stood quiet enough at the fair. Well dosed-up, so ‘e was!”
“Can I take a look at ‘im?”
“Nothing much to see, mister. Just looks like any other nag, till you gets a bit dreamy-like, and then, soon as ‘e feels you ain’t right on top of ‘im, you’re scraped into a wall or under a tree branch, or ‘e just throws you off and then stamps on you a bit. Clever bugger, so ‘e is.”
The horse stood in the yard, perfectly still, not twitching or shuffling about, showing no signs of nerves. That meant he was intelligent, for a horse, chose to be a bad one. Thinking on it, Godby was of the opinion that if any great lump of a man put a saddle on his back and tried to ride him all day long then he might get bad-tempered too.
A good-looking chestnut, not too handsome, not a hunter by configuration, nothing to draw attention to him but within reason sturdy. Provided they could come to an agreement, him not to try to kill Godby and in return Godby not to take a quirt to him, then he would be a good worker, just what he wanted.
“What are you looking for, mister?”
“I’ll take a loss on ‘im, because I got to get ‘im out of my stables – do my name in town no good at all if the word gets out that I got a kicker in my boxes. Ten quid?”
“Split the difference on what you paid and what the knacker’s yard will give you. Nine.”
“Gold, you said?”
Sovereigns still carried a premium on paper notes, though it was reducing.
Godby felt in his belt, separated out nine coins, showed them to the livery master.
“Done! I’ll write you out a proper bill of sale, not just a receipt, bloke your age with a good ‘oss is likely to get asked questions. Nottingham, you says you’re going? Might just get there today, so long as you stays wide-awake!”
“Got a pair of saddle-bags I could buy as well, mister? If you ‘ave I can just get back to the inn and pick up me gear and be gone.”
All he possessed, a single change of clothing and a razor, was in a small knapsack over his shoulder, but he needed a reason to be seen going in the opposite direction to Nottingham.
An hour saw him on the road to Uttoxeter, intending once there to turn south to Birmingham.
He had taken a pair of horses, good bloodstock, to a big house outside Birmingham the previous year, not to a pub as was usual. The owner had paid him an extra sovereign and had sent him into town in his own gig, suggesting that a bad memory would be a good idea. He had also said that he was getting big for the trade and if he ever wanted to ‘make a few bob’ he could call on him, he was a likely-looking lad.
/> Godby knew no more of him, it would not have been sensible to have asked questions of his own people, but he might be a starting point – if he had no work himself then he could well point him in the right direction.
“What can you do that I might want, young man?”
“Name it, I’ll do it, mister. I ain’t got no workin’ skills, but I can look after meself, I ain’t a drinker and I can keep me mouth shut. I wants to put the money together to take me and me sister to America, out of this bloody country, and I ain’t too fussy just ‘ow I goes about it.”
The gentleman weighed him up, decided he looked as desperate as he sounded.
“There is a certain gentleman living a few miles outside of Wolverhampton who has defaulted on an agreement with me. I have sent a demand to him and he was so unwise as to have the messenger taken up by the constables. His father, it would seem, is a rich and important man and he believes that will serve to protect him.”
Godby weighed up the message, all that was not said.
“If you wanted to ‘ave ‘is legs broke, so as to warn ‘im, you’d send three or four blokes to do it, not just me on me own. So you wants ‘im to be topped. Begging your pardon, mister, but ‘ow will that serve you? If ‘e owes money then ‘e ain’t goin’ to pay if ‘e’s dead.”
“Neither he is, Godby! Quite right! He has three sons and it is holidays now. They will ride out on their innocent pleasures, no doubt, and one will be shot dead. That should serve my purpose quite well, I suspect. A shotgun loaded ball, to be thorough.”
One of the gentry. Why not? It would stop him hanging ordinary people when he grew up.
“I can do it, sir.”
“Good, I thought you would be capable, you have that look about you. My name is Brakespeare, and you will live in one of my cottages here, very quietly, and I will pay you five sovereigns every week and fifty whenever you perform a special commission for me. Generally speaking, you will stand at my side when I go out on business and you may be sent to make collections for me, just the routine, weekly side of the trade. To be quite open, Godby, I am a money-lender and I have a reputation to be maintained – my customers must all know that their contracts with me are not to be broken, whoever they may be. The word will be spread, anonymously, that our gentleman in Wolverhampton thought he could treat me with disdain – everybody will know, and none will speak a word of it!”
Illusions Of Change (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 6) Page 13
