“Very true, my lord! I believe that there may be a way of bringing them into line, as it were, however…”
Quarter Sessions sat and, to the amazement of many, found verdicts of not guilty in almost every case of disorder, their hands forced, it would seem, by failures of legal process in the arrests and treatment thereafter of the accused. The gross inefficiency of the Yeomanry and the constables had left the Bench wholly unable to convict, much to their regret.
A month later and Mr Charles Latimer became Sir Charles, a baronetcy awarded him at the age of thirty in recognition of his long and distinguished service to the County, while two of his cousins were made Knights, again for the work they had done so nobly for the benefit of all. The Lord Lieutenant kept a straight face whilst informing the delighted, but not especially surprised, recipients of their virtues and Tom was nowhere to be seen.
The Thingdon works was busy, wrought iron coming off the rollers and being cut, welded, bolted and riveted into the various metal parts of the increasing number of agricultural machines being invented and spread to active farmers. Cairncross, the manager, a Lowland Scot, short, lean, apart from a middle-aged pot, very nearly bald, escorted Tom in duty bound, pointing out all that was occurring, as he had a hundred times before. He knew what was right and proper, insisted on a correct performance whenever the master appeared.
“It seems to me, my lord, that we would be very well-advised to change our activities to some degree, to move up and away to an extent from our reliance on iron. A process, sometimes, I understand, referred to as one of ‘vertical integration’. You are, perhaps, familiar with the works of David Ricardo, the economist?”
Cairncross’ manner made it very clear that he expected denial from Tom and was ready to give a learned lecture.
“Successor to Adam Smith, and in his way as ground-breaking a scholar, I believe. He is referring, I think, to the expansion of a firm, ‘horizontally’ being to purchase competitors in exactly the same stage of production whilst ‘vertical’ is to proceed up or downwards along the chain to another set of processes. Thus, we could purchase our own iron or coal mines, but, of course, we possess them already, so you must have it in mind to manufacture the whole of the finished good, not merely its iron parts.”
Cairncross, disappointed, deprived of his disquisition, agreed that that was his intention.
“So… the wooden parts of dung carts and chaff cutters, I presume?”
“Yes, my lord, and steel for the blades, where such is necessary.”
“A crucible, you would say?”
“Two, my lord. The demand for sharp blades is growing all of the time. In their own workshop, of course, close to the furnaces. At a distance for the woodworkers, for obvious reasons, my lord – drays, carts and wagons as well in the first years, not carriages, we do not need the fashionable trade, my lord. In time, of course, we could give thought to the newer engines entering the agricultural world – threshing machines, my lord, we are surely in an age beyond that of men with flails!”
“I have heard them mentioned. Steam powered rollers rather than thumping levers, shaking sieves and streams of blown air across to winnow the grain – it is possible, I would think. Have you a design, drawings, dimensions, costs? How big an engine would you require, and could you run a steam boiler and furnace safely in a barn? What of coals, the farms would need to buy them in, obviously enough – where from?”
“First things first, my lord – I would regard such machinery as a longer term project, as it were.”
Tom nodded – no drawings, the man was an air-dreamer not a practical designer. No matter, he would send a letter to Alec Fraser, ask him to discover all he could about new machines others were building.
“How many carpenters will you require, Mr Cairncross? Are there skilled men available in the area, and if not, where will they come from? How large a workshop? Where do you plan to locate it? Who will sell our output for us?”
To his surprise, Cairncross had answers to all of these questions, a folio for each, neatly written out and precisely costed.
“Go ahead, Mr Cairncross. Start the builders as soon as you can and take on the men as you need them. Keep the costings separate, as far as may be, from the rest of the works – twenty per centum of net profit to your hand at the end of each year, sir.”
“Quillerson, is there word from your son, lately?”
“He is returning to England, my lord, next month he expects, for a short time. He is setting up as an emigration agent, I believe, with the intention of encouraging some thousands of skilled farm hands to go to America and make a new life for themselves there in the states of New York and Pennsylvania and further west as becomes possible, towards the Great Lakes and possibly somewhat to the south. From all he writes it is a very practical endeavour, one that will make him wealthy in America, and very useful to us here.”
“Good! I am glad for him. Will he be able to act as agent for us in procuring supplies of good timber, hardwood suitable for wagon making and for machinery?”
“I will ask when I see him, my lord – it would not be possible to get a letter to him and receive a reply before he was here in person.”
Henry Star presented himself at Colonel Miller’s office in downtown New York, a box of cigars under his arm. He had given careful thought to his appearance and was dressed New Orleans style, white linen suit and broad, curly-brimmed hat, his hair unfashionably long for New York and carefully combed and brushed into flowing locks. His boots shone brightly and there was a pearl pin in his necktie; he wore a diamond solitaire ring and a watch-chain of heavy gold. A bulge under his left arm hinted at the short, double-barrelled percussion pistol he carried. He looked, as he intended, like a prosperous and self-reliant Southern gentleman, at home in the elegant salon and the frontier backwater quite equally.
“Mr Star! A pleasure, truly an honour!”
“Colonel Miller, I have heard much of you and am glad indeed to meet you, sir! I have taken the liberty of bringing a few Cuban cigars with me, sir, in the hope that you might enjoy them.”
Miller did not smoke but accepted the cigars graciously – he intended to pass them along to an acquaintance who sold a substantial part of the better tobacco in New York and who could assess them for quality and suggest a sensible price.
“I have an interest in the lands to the west of the Mississippi, Mr Star, and believe that a partner based on New Orleans could be of great value to me in running my business there; it goes without saying that the rewards would be substantial. I understand you to have contacts in the Spanish colonies, sir, and to have a direct knowledge of how they work.”
“The French colonists, Colonel? They have taken up lands along the coast, in the east of the Texas presidency, and are hoping to grow cotton, I understand. The Spanish have little trust in their loyalty, I am told, and they are being watched carefully, the word is that the Army is to build at least two forts along their shores. As well, sir, the land is not the best for cotton – my informants insist that they will have to run cattle and export hides for cash, growing their own corn and food crops besides.”
“So… not as rich as the lands of Louisiana, you would say?”
“Not yet, colonel, but they could be – horses and cattle by the tens of thousands, eventually, but, of course, there is no sensible way of bringing meat to the markets, so it is leather only. For the while, there is a demand for slave-food in the Louisiana plantations – few wish to waste good cotton or rice or tobacco land on corn and yams, and the market for hogs is vast. As well, the sugar plantations of Cuba will buy in quantities, foodstuffs are exempt from the Spanish embargo on trade and there would be business enough for a number of ships to be gainfully employed.”
Colonel Miller smiled – their minds were clearly working on the same lines – legitimate trade between the mainland and Cuba could cover any number of other activities.
“Was I to station an agent of mine in New Orleans, I am sure you could point h
im in the right direction, Mr Star?”
“It would be my pleasure, Colonel Miller!”
“You are an English gentleman, I believe, Mr Star? An unusual name, are you connected to the Lancashire Cotton King, Lord Star?”
Henry thought quickly – his instinct was to deny, but he doubted that Miller would ask any question without first knowing the answer.
“I am his youngest son, Colonel Miller. I chose to make my own way in life rather than be dependent on my father’s generosity. I had not heard that he had been rewarded with a peerage. He will be so pleased! My eldest brother, Thomas, should also be delighted, as am I.”
“He must, I am sure, be proud of your success. It occurs to me that you might be able to recommend my son, Thomas, to him. I had thought of visiting England myself, with my wife, but I fear I am growing too old for such a voyage – Thomas, however, who is unwed, might well enjoy the trip. He would be sure of a welcome from Lord Andrews’ son, Robert, who was here a couple of years ago, but he would also very much like to see the new industries for himself, and meet some of the great families.”
A marriage into the English aristocracy would be politically very valuable for Thomas, Henry realised, would make him a certain Senator or Governor, might put his feet on the path to the Presidency, would certainly compensate for any paternal lack of respectability. What could he gain from it? Was his big sister wed yet, he wondered – she might well be seen as a prize.
“I have lost contact with my father over these last years, Colonel Miller – I should write to him, I think, to tell him of my prosperity – I could certainly mention Thomas’ name to him when I did. I have no great desire to return to England myself, sir, not yet, certainly, though I should be thinking of marriage myself, now that I consider it, perhaps to a good American girl to strengthen my roots here.”
The colonel nodded understandingly – a young lady with a substantial inheritance and a father who was under an obligation to him would be the ideal; that could be arranged, in time.
Henry remained a month in New York, returned to New Orleans potentially far richer than he had left, promised a market for every cigar he could lay his hands on and profitable outbound cargoes for Cuba as well. Before he took ship, the colonel had a final word with him.
“Texas, Mr Star, a large place and with very few Spanish colonists in it, I believe.”
“A number of French, as you know, sir, and some Germans and, I am told, an increasing number of Americans who have bought or married into Spanish land grants, some of them claiming thousands of square miles of range for their cattle.”
“The Spanish are in fact only a minority and we have little use for foreign conquerors on the mainland of America – European kings should go the same way as Mad King George, don’t you think, sir?”
“That Texas should be independent seems quite obvious to me, Colonel Miller, or do you believe it should become part of the United States?”
“Free of the Spanish, at least, Mr Star. Questions of its later government can rest until its freedom is achieved, I believe, sir.”
“I believe that the Spanish army plays some part in suppressing the wild Indian tribes, Colonel Miller. The settlers might have a hard time without the army there.”
“Perhaps they need more guns for their own protection, Mr Star, not just rifles but larger pieces, field artillery, as well.”
Henry nodded understandingly – he was to look at the possibilities of procuring cannon and smuggling them into the Spanish lands. He would wish to think long about that particular endeavour, though he would show enthusiastic to Miller, at first, at least.
Tom had barely left the breakfast table when Morton informed him that Sir Charles Latimer was in the little salon, begged the favour of a few words with him.
“Did he say what, Morton?”
“No, my lord – a matter of business, I believe, he has a portfolio with him. I could not see quite what the label was on it, my lord.”
“Refreshments will no doubt be welcome, Morton. The Madeira will be too good for his palate – something light, I would venture.”
Morton bowed. He almost smiled.
“Sir Charles! Good morning, sir, how d’ye do?”
They shook hands, exchanged brief pleasantries, established that the weather was set fair, Sir Charles seeming nervous, pre-occupied, ill at ease, unusually so for such a bumptious little man.
“Bankrupt? Been speculating and hopes for some assistance? I had not heard he was a gambling man.”
Tom’s musings were brought to an end when Latimer produced his portfolio and drew out half a dozen sheets of legal quarto.
“I was entrusted, my lord, with the enquiry into the circumstances of Mr Nigel Hunt’s untoward death, as no doubt you know, and I find myself in need of advice from a confidential source. My attorney would be constrained by his duty as an Officer of the Court and the Sheriff would have to take official cognizance of all that I said to him. You, my lord, have some knowledge of the law and are renowned for your judgement and your interest in the well-being of the whole locality and could perhaps offer unbiased and impartial suggestions as to my best course of action.”
Unsaid, but coming through strongly, was the recognition that Tom’s patronage had secured his baronetcy, the title which his father had sought for years. Where there had been one honour, there might be more, or a profitable place on a Board or as trustee, perhaps, of an inheriting minor – Tom was to be consulted whenever any difficulty arose.
“Yesterday, my lord, one of my tenants brought a labourer to me, and he in turn presented his son. The boy, young man rather, had been in the woods at the back of the quarry in Finedon, in sight of the road where Mr Nigel Hunt’s body was discovered.”
“Poaching, Sir Charles?”
“Not in the conventional sense, no, my lord – he was in the company of the daughter of another of my tenants, quite a well-to-do farmer and not one who would wish to see his girl wed to a penniless hind!”
“Which is why he has only just come forward, I presume, Sir Charles.”
“Just so, my lord.”
“What did he see? Was he close enough to hear anything?”
“They were behind the blackthorn hedge at the side of the road, had hidden away on hearing horses – both heard almost every word.”
“Who?”
“Two men, on horseback, coming from opposite directions and meeting fortuitously, it appeared. The one, Mr Benjamin Hunt, he knew by sight, the other, older but much the same in looks, he did not know. They met, greeted each other and almost at once set to quarrelling; the older man, the one he did not know, called Mr Benjamin Hunt ‘Little Benjy’, he says.”
“An elder brother’s contempt?”
“Just so, my lord! The exact nature of the argument was unclear to the witness – he is, obviously, not well-educated, though of some slight intelligence, I would say, and can read and write – but he thought it was a continuation of a previous disagreement. The unknown man refused again to spend money on something the younger wanted, he thought it was to do with building new tied cottages on a farm but was not wholly certain, but he swears he heard the words, ‘I will not waste my money on bloody joskins, I have better things to do with my wealth’.
“Mr Nigel Hunt, we presume, Sir Charles?”
“Definitely, my lord.”
“Did he hear more, Sir Charles?”
“He did, my lord, I have the words here,” he turned to the third page of the deposition. “Here we are, ‘Mr Benjamin Hunt said, ‘better things like gambling and horses and little boys, brother’.”
“Nasty!”
“Very, my lord, not the sort of thing we wish to hear in court!”
“What happened then, did they fight?”
“No, my lord, the man I presume to have been Mr Nigel Hunt swore at Mr Benjamin Hunt and snatched at his horse and kicked his heels in, so the witness says. He frightened the horse, certainly, and tried to turn him round tightly and mad
e him jib, and then, my lord, the real difficulty arises – Mr Benjamin Hunt took his riding crop and hit his horse – ‘caught him a real hard swipe across the arse’, the precise words.”
“Threw him?”
“Just so, my lord – headlong, temple striking the milestone, ‘laid down for dead’. Mr Benjamin Hunt dismounted, looked closely at him and then got back on his horse and rode away, making no attempt even to loosen his collar, for example. The witness says he laughed and said, out loud, ‘Good riddance…’”
“’To bad rubbish’,” Tom completed the old saying. “Your witness and his girl left, I presume?”
“He said that he went to the dead man, saw that he was no longer bleeding, felt his neck and could discover no pulse, could hear no breath. He could do nothing for him and was like to get into trouble if he raised the alarm, and he knew it was a busy enough road – there would be a traveller of some sort within minutes.”
“One can hardly blame the lad. What’s to be done, Sir Charles? The body has been buried these three months, and if exhumed would have little to tell us – we know cause of death to have been the blow to the head sustained in the fall. It was not a murder – we could not show intent to cause death, or anything other than an outburst of temper. A possibility of manslaughter, certainly an assault causing grievous bodily harm – there might just be enough to send Mr Benjamin Hunt to the gallows, provided he confessed. Otherwise, is the identification sufficiently certain? There would be no certainly attributable mark after this lapse of time, so could we prove the blow to the horse? We would break Mr Hunt’s reputation, that is certain, but I doubt we would bring a jury to convict on the evidence of this one young man. I believe him, there is no reason to doubt his word, but I do not think it is sufficient, even so. Will he talk to others? He has obviously spoken to his father, so he must be upset, worried, wishing to do the right thing. Do we want the people disturbed further in this year of unrest?”
The Pain Of Privilege (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 4) Page 14
