Bloodie Bones

by Lucienne Boyce

  Lord Oldfield handed Dan a full purse. “You’ve earned this, though I’d rather give you one earned in the ring.”

  “Thank you, My Lord. I prefer to get my rewards this way.”

  “All the same, if ever you change your mind my offer is still open. You could choose whoever you liked as your trainer. We’d have a rare time, Foster. I’d have you fighting at Newmarket – Brighton – Epsom…No, don’t naysay me. Just promise me you will at least think about it.”

  Dan hesitated. It was unwise to turn good offers down with too much finality. “Very well, I will think about it. I’ll promise nothing more. But in return, may I ask you something?”

  Lord Oldfield flicked a gracious hand.

  “I know the lands are yours: Barcombe Wood, the heath, the farms, the village. But in a manner of speaking they belong to the people too. Their families have lived here for generations, like yours. They’ve depended on the country for firewood and food, just as yours has for revenue and rents. Taking it away from them will make them poor, and that will make them desperate. You’ve seen yourself what that leads to.”

  “You think that I should give in to mob rule as the nobles of France have done? That I should reward the villains who terrified my household, damaged and stole my property, and even desecrated my family tomb?”

  “No, I don’t think you should give in to mob rule. I do think that if you’d been a little more careful, none of it would have happened.”

  “You think I’m to blame?”

  “I think as a law officer. I see the peace broken and I see that it could have been avoided, that further outbreaks can still be avoided. You’re a rich man, Lord Oldfield. You don’t know what it’s like to rely on a few sticks of wood or a handful of berries just to survive. Don’t drive them to destitution. Open the wood to them, at least some of the time. Let them take kindling in due season, let them forage, turn a blind eye to the loss of the occasional rabbit, hare, or fish, as your father did.”

  “I have deer in those woods and I plan to increase my herd. I can’t have them racketing through the place, disturbing the does and butchering the stags.”

  “No, and I agree such acts should be punished. But if you fix the times they may come in to gather a few logs or acorns, you can manage it. If your fear of the disturbance they might make is so great, cut the wood yourself and distribute it. Gather the food and herbs and hand them out.”

  “I don’t intend to give them a thing, not after the ungrateful way they’ve behaved.”

  “You’ve given them nothing to be grateful about. You’ve robbed them. That’s how they see it. They see that you can afford to be generous, and they see that you refuse. How can you expect their gratitude?”

  “They are worthless dogs. I will give them nothing, I tell you!”

  “Not every object of charity is deserving, but some can change. Look at me.”

  He did, surprised.

  “I was once a thief. I broke the law because I was starving. Then a generous man saved me. You can let Barcombe turn into a nest of sullen, hopeless criminals, aye, and nurture revolution on your own doorstep. Or you can treat them with kindness and reap the benefits of peace.”

  “Well,” Lord Oldfield said after a moment, “I wasn’t expecting that from you. A law officer who defends the lawless.”

  “I defend the peace.”

  “I won’t deny that you’ve given me something to think about. So I’ll promise you the same as you promised me. I’ll think about it.”

  “Then you will soon see that my way is the wisest.” Dan smiled. “Speaking as a law officer. Until Taunton Assizes, Lord Oldfield.”

  They rose and shook hands. “Until then.”

  *

  In the stableyard, Dan asked Lord Oldfield’s driver if it was possible to avoid driving through Barcombe. Since the riot a brooding peace had hung over the village, and he did not want to provoke a renewal of hostilities or rub the people’s noses in their defeat by bowling through the streets in His Lordship’s carriage.

  “It’ll mean going a deal out of the way,” the man said, “and tire the horses more than usual, without His Lordship’s permission too.” But Dan was popular with the servants at Oldfield Hall, and the driver agreed to his request. The young groom who was to accompany them said he was game, so instead of turning left on the Bath Road and following it through the village, they went in the opposite direction then turned off to strike the road circling Barcombe Heath. Eventually they came out on the Bath Road with the spire of Barcombe church behind them. Above them was a long wooded ridge like the one Dan had gazed upon on that first morning when he had woken under the hedge. Idly, he looked along the hedgerow as they passed, wondering if he was near the spot.

  A man in a shapeless coat rose suddenly from the side of the road. He stood swaying at the roadside and watched the carriage pass. His eyes, yellow in his grey face, met Dan’s through the glass. At their mutual recognition his mouth fell open and he uttered a cry of panic which was drowned out by the noise of the vehicle. Stumbling, he fled.

  Why should Girtin flee from Dan? Spit at the carriage as it went by, yes, but run as if Bloodie Bones himself was at his heels? Or a Bow Street Runner…

  Dan pulled down the window. “Stop!”

  The driver pulled up, but Dan was out of the carriage before the wheels had stopped turning and running back along the lane. He came to the place where Girtin had been standing and looked about him. A movement in the opposite field caught his eye. He sprang forward, leaped over the fence and pelted up the hill. The old man was no match for him: in a few strides Dan was close enough to hear his laboured breath, smell the spirits on it.

  “Girtin,” he said.

  Girtin shuddered to a halt and faced him. Dan, a few feet below him on the slope, looked up into the terrified face.

  “The Tolleys lost their daughter. You lost your sons. Was it justice, Girtin?”

  Girtin trembled and his skin shone with perspiration but he did not answer.

  “You killed Sukie and the child you’d fathered on her, didn’t you? That’s why you started drinking – before your sons went away and your wife died; before you lost everything. You started drinking because of what you’d done. And you hang around the churchyard because all that’s left to you is graves.”

  Girtin’s gaze slewed over Dan’s shoulder. “And now Lord Oldfield is changing everything, I won’t even have that. There’s no place in Barcombe for me any more. I might as well hang.”

  He moved towards Dan, who stepped away, his hands at his sides. “No. I won’t take you. But before you go from Barcombe, you should tell the Tolleys that Sukie won’t be coming back.”

  Girtin’s knees buckled and he sank to the ground. Dan did not offer to lift him up. He knew Girtin would not tell; he’d been a coward when he slew the girl and a coward when he admitted it. It did not matter. When he was back in London, Dan would write to Mrs Poole with the information; she would know what to do, and be kindly about it too. He turned on his heel and walked back to the lane.

  Lord Oldfield’s carriage dropped Dan at The Lamb in Bath, where he took an inside place in the London mail coach. He got out at the Gloucester Coffee House at around eight the next morning, and walked along Piccadilly and through Leicester Square towards Covent Garden. He stopped at Old Slaughter’s Coffee House for breakfast, which was served by a waiter whose company was too cheery for a man who had spent a sleepless night in a coach.

  He still had his report to finish, as well as the descriptions of the men who had attacked him in the lane to circulate and file. Silas Singleton was on the run too, but most of the rioters remained unidentified. Dan was happy to leave it at that, and even Lord Oldfield saw there was nothing to be gained from transporting every last man in Barcombe and throwing all their families onto the poor rate.

  Instead of going to the office, Dan
went to Cecil Street. Noah was overseeing a sparring match between two boys who were much the age Dan had been when he’d met Noah at Blackheath. Noah called his assistant, Paul, to take over. The old soldier hurried up, his ready smile on his face. Unfortunately for him, it was not a smile that won friends, not until they got to know him and could see beyond the fearsome spectacle of his jagged teeth. It was the result, he said, of a French rifle butt in the mouth at Quebec in ’59. His looks had never bothered Dan. He had seen uglier faces in the brickfields, some ravaged by syphilis, some by gin, others badly put together after backstreet fighting contests that were as far removed from Broughton’s Rules as war from peace.

  It was the parlour where Dan and Noah sat and talked. ‘Parlour’ was too grand a word for the dark little alcove with its battered furniture and threadbare rug. Only a curtain separated it from the gymnasium, so the sounds of glove on flesh, grunts, and Paul’s shouts – “Elbows out”, “Arms up”, “Bear on the right heel” – echoing off the stone walls were an ever-present background.

  The chamber smelt of liniment and spirits. These last were not for drinking – Noah never drank intoxicating liquors – but for boxers to soak their fists in to toughen the skin. The table, floor and chairs were cluttered with old newspapers and yellowing notices of fights, rolls of bandages, odd gloves that had burst and awaited repair when Paul had a moment, ropes, weights, buckets, and a copy of Mendoza’s book The Art of Boxing that looked as if it had stood up to forty rounds in the ring. They had eaten their meals in here when Dan was a boy; the food came straight off the fire, hot and fresh, so the room also smelt of fried beef and onions.

  Dan sipped soda water while Noah looked at his injuries.

  “You’ll do,” he said, “but I wouldn’t move around on that knee too much for a few days. We’ll focus on some upper body work and weights.”

  “Fine. I’ll be in tomorrow as usual.”

  Noah sat down. “You look down, son. Was it a bad one?”

  “Not pleasant. When are these things ever?”

  “You’ve maybe had enough of it?”

  Dan laughed. “If I had, I’ve had another offer.” He told Noah about Lord Oldfield’s plan to make him a professional pugilist.

  “You could do worse. You’ve some good years left in you.”

  “And I’ve been trained by the best.”

  They both smiled at the old catchphrase. Noah sat back in his chair and watched Dan thoughtfully. Dan caught his eye and shrugged.

  “It’s nothing. I’m tired. I was travelling all night.”

  “Have you been home yet?”

  “No. Is all well?”

  “Same as ever.”

  Same as ever, and Dan could not put it off much longer. He said goodbye, and waved at Paul and one or two men he recognised as he went out. In the street he thought again about the work waiting for him at the office, but he still could not face it.

  *

  It had never been easy going through the door after a day’s or night’s work, not knowing what he would find. When he let himself in and the first thing he heard was the rattle and clash of dishes, he tensed. Then he noticed a savoury smell. Someone was cooking. It would not be Caroline.

  He put down his bag and went into the kitchen. Eleanor was bending over the hearth, stirring a pot of stew. Startled, she looked up.

  “Dan! You’re home…You’re limping. And your face is bruised. Captain Ellis said you were all right.”

  Somehow they were standing close together, their hands almost touching. “It’s nothing. Ellis called, did he?”

  “Yes, so I – we knew you’d be back soon.”

  “I would have been sooner, only – ”

  The back door opened and a stout little woman bustled into the room.

  “Don’t block the way like that, Nell. It’s brass monkeys in that privy.” She shut the door. “Keep the heat in…Heavens, it’s Dan, and we never heard him come in. Well, put the kettle on, girl. The man’s fair worn out.” She still had a Yorkshire accent: a warm, homely sound.

  Footsteps sounded overhead, and a voice croaked, “Is it him?”

  Mrs Harper went to the foot of the stairs. “Are you awake, love? Yes, it’s Dan. We didn’t hear him come in…I’ll come and help you get dressed.”

  Dan and Eleanor listened to her footsteps pass overhead, the murmur of voices – Caroline’s peevish, her mother’s soothing.

  Dan wondered why Ellis had called. He had not asked him to; had not sent him with any message. “Has Ellis visited before when I’ve been away?”

  “Once or twice. He’s always very polite.”

  “I bet he is.”

  She smiled. “He’s always very polite to Mother. I don’t always see him.”

  He knew he had no right to be pleased, but he was. Ellis was a good man; he ought to tell her that, he ought to encourage her to think kindly of him. Ellis was a good-looking man too. They would be a handsome couple.

  The thought was like a cut to the eye, a crimson, blinding agony. A fighter reacted to pain by instinct, protected himself from it without thinking, so his brain had to catch up with his body. Before he knew he was going to do it, Dan had seized her hand, swooped over her, pressed his lips on hers. Her arms went around his neck; her mouth responded to his; their pent-up passion cried for release.

  Someone blundered against the door and they leapt apart. Mrs Harper ushered Caroline into the room. “Here she is, here she is, all better now you’re home, Dan.”

  No need for anyone to tell him what was wrong with Caroline. Her face was puffy and her eyes bloodshot, but she was neatly dressed with a shawl about her shoulders. Her hair was loose but had been brushed.

  “So it’s you, Puritan.”

  “I’ve asked you not to call me that.”

  She laughed, slouched towards the armchair by the fire, and sat down as if exhausted by the effort. She closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed. She was still feeling sick.

  “Been in the wars, Dan?” she said.

  “A little. It was a tough job.”

  “And you’re the toughest man they could find to do it. Don’t you think he’s a tough man, Nell? So brave. Such a hero.” She yawned. “What’s that you’re cooking? A feast for the hero? Smells disgusting. It’s turning my stomach.”

  “It’s not that that’s turning your stomach,” Dan said.

  “What did you say? Did you speak to me? Well, I am honoured by your attention, I’m sure. You must have mistaken me for my sister.”

  “Now, now, Caro,” said Mrs Harper. “Let’s not bicker. We’ll have a cup of tea. It will do you good. You must be hungry, Dan. I’ll cut you some bread.”

  “Do you want a cup, Dan?”

  Eleanor was busy with teapot and caddy, her hands shaking, her face turned away from him. He could see a red spot on her cheek that was not put there by the heat from the fire. Her eyes glinted with tears she would not shed in front of Caroline, who would seize on them and revel in them as she always did, watching Dan for any sign of emotion as she taunted her sister. Nothing Dan did or said could turn her spite away from Eleanor. His presence only fed her rage.

  He snatched up his hat. “I haven’t got time. I have to get back to Bow Street.”

  THE END

  Notes

  Beat all hollow

  A man who is “beaten all hollow” in a fight never stood a chance of winning.

  Black Act

  In the early eighteenth century, a bitter conflict broke out between local people and government-appointed officials in royal parks and forests. The dispute was over rights to the produce of the land – the game, wood and so on. Armed protesters, known as Blacks because of their blacked-up faces, went on poaching raids, set fire to hayricks,
cut down trees, and sent threatening letters to local landowners. The government response was the Black Act of 1723 (also known as the Waltham Black Act) which made it a capital offence to go out ‘armed in disguise’, or to take game, or to damage property, or commit a range of other offences (some fifty offences were listed as capital). Thus going ‘armed in disguise’ without committing any of the other crimes could in itself be enough to attract the death penalty.

  Broughton’s Rules

  Champion pugilist Jack Broughton (c. 1703–1789), who ran a boxing academy for the gentry in London (the ampitheatre on Oxford Road), formulated the first set of rules for the sport in 1743. They included the requirement for the chalking of a square in the centre of the ring where the fighters were placed on the lines opposite one another at the start of a round or after a fall. Defeat was signalled by a fighter failing to come up to the mark within the allotted time (thirty seconds), or if his second declared him beaten. The rules also banned hitting a man when he was down, and a man on his knees was counted as down. Originally intended only for use in his academy, Broughton’s Rules were widely adopted, and were not replaced until the introduction of the ‘New Rules’ in 1838.

  Buggybow

  A bogeyman (such as Bloodie Bones).

  Doubler

  A blow causing someone to double up.

  Fleet marriage

  A clandestine marriage performed by an unscrupulous or unqualified person which did not conform with the legal requirements for a valid marriage. Clandestine marriages were available at a number of locations, most notoriously in and around the Fleet Prison in London. The Marriage Act of 1753 (known as Lord Hardwicke’s Marriage Act after the then lord chancellor, Philip Yorke, First Earl of Hardwicke (1690–1764) ) regularised the legal requirements for a valid marriage, stipulating, among other things, that marriage was only legal if banns had been read or if a special licence had been obtained, and that a marriage of minors (individuals under twenty-one) without parental consent was void.