Ill Will

by Michael Stewart

  The farmer’s wife fetched more victuals. After bread and cheese and porter, the men brought out their pipes. One of them took a spill and lit it from the fire, lighting first his pipe, then passing it around. There was some conversation on the hardness of the times and the dearness of all the necessaries of life. There was talk of reform.

  ‘Why bother? It’ll only end up the same, either way,’ Jethro said.

  Sticks butted in. ‘Listen, laa, why should the wealth be in the hands of so few? And why should they get to say how it goes, when we don’t get a say at all? Have we, as grafters, no right to get what’s fair? I’m talking about the courts of this land. They’re corrupt. Have you no opinion about that, soft lad?’

  ‘Opinions cost lives. That talk is high treason,’ Jethro said.

  He pointed out that the penalty for which was to be hanged by the neck, cut down while still alive and disembowelled.

  Jethro pulled a fork from the fire with a faggot on the end and blew on it to cool it. ‘And then, as if that’s not bad enough, his entrails burned before his face. Then beheaded and quartered.’ Just in case Sticks hadn’t got the message, he took the faggot and bit into it.

  ‘But apart from that, what’s the punishment?’ Sticks said.

  There was much laughter at this.

  ‘Look, all I’m saying is that every man should have a vote. Whether lord or labourer, jack or judge,’ said Sticks. ‘Give every man his own acres so that he’s not beholden to any landlord. And give him a voice. Give him a say-so over his own matter, that’s all I’m saying.’

  There was more grumbling and protestation.

  ‘I’m talking about universal suffrage, for heaven’s sake. God made us all equal.’

  ‘You won’t get that without a civil war, I’m telling you that.’ Jethro again, between bites of his faggot. ‘Mark my words, there’s them at the top and there’s men like us, and there’s no changing it.’

  ‘We’ve already had a war and where did that get us? Bloody nowhere, that’s where,’ said another man.

  ‘The only way you’re going up in this world is swinging from the gibbet,’ said yet another.

  I let the sounds of their arguments drift over me. I had no interest in universal suffrage. Only in a particular form of suffering: yours and Hindley’s.

  They talked some more, then the cards came out and I watched the men play.

  ‘Is that gypsy boy laikin’?’ Jethro said, pointing to my corner.

  ‘He’s no gypsy,’ Sticks said.

  ‘His skin is gypsy.’

  Different games of cards were played and money changed hands. Jethro was well oiled by this point, and throwing his coins around. I watched him stroke his red hair distractedly as he chucked his money about. I saw him lose his hand, once, twice, then a third time, and in so doing, lose that week’s wage. I must learn to play this game, I thought. Jethro sat in his chair in the dark, smoking his pipe and supping ale. He was muttering under his breath, ‘What will she say? What will she say?’ Sticks, who was the winner, was smiling and laughing, dealing one more hand. Here was another man reaping where he had not sown and gathering where he had not strawed. There are more ways than one to skin a rabbit, Cathy. Ask a weasel.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Sticks to Jethro, ‘I’ll give you a chance to get even. How does that sound?’

  Jethro pretended not to hear and sat in the dark sucking his pipe, which had now gone out.

  ‘Tomorrow even, bring that cock you were bragging about. I’ll bring one of mine, and we’ll have a little skirmish.’

  Jethro grunted.

  ‘Suit yourself, then.’

  But despite Jethro’s apathy, the next night after supper he disappeared for half an hour, returning with a cock in a willow cage. Inside was a black-and-red bird of some considerable size. A proud fowl with a penetrating gaze and a lustrous plumage. The men gathered around the cage to get a closer look. There was nodding of heads and a general air of admiration. Dan Taylor turned to Sticks.

  ‘Well then, get your battle stag, let’s see a bit of cocking.’

  Sticks nodded. He stood up and shook the straw off his breeches. He walked off and returned with a cage containing a mottled brown-gold rooster, a similar size and weight to that of Jethro’s. It looked like the comb and wattle of both birds had been dubbed, so there was just a lip of red on the head of the birds, and a line of red under the neck. A party of men gathered around. I was introduced to Dick, Dan’s eldest son, and took an instant dislike to him. He had the same petty meanness in his eyes as Hindley. He was smaller than his father, with black hair and red skin. Where his father was broad and meaty, Dick was all bone with muscles like knots in string. The outline of his skull beneath his skin protruded. The men talked about which cock would win and bets were laid.

  ‘My money’s on Jethro.’

  ‘Mine’s on Sticks.’

  ‘Tha’s more a dunghill than a gamecock.’

  Some men shuffled the bales of hay and straw so that an enclosed area was formed and the birds were released. The men jostled to get the closest. I watched the fight from some distance. The men were positioned at the furthest extremes of the makeshift arena. Before the fight the birds were slapped and their feathers ruffled to agitate them. At first the men held their birds by their back ends, lifting them up and down and towards each other. The spectators shouted encouraging words. The men approached each other so that the birds, still being held, could peck and squawk at each other to further agitate them. Then when the birds were fired up, the men let them go and they flew at each other. The feathers on the backs of the birds’ necks were stiff like a turned-up collar and what was left of their combs were gorged. Their tail feathers stood proud and they held their chests out. They faced each other, their necks protruding. The black one bobbed his head and the brown one followed. I imagined these cocks as me and Hindley. With me as the black one and Hindley the brown.

  Then the brown one flew up, making a piercing squawk, striking out with his spurs. The black one retaliated by jumping over his opponent. They turned to face each other again. There was a stand-off before the birds squared up once more, strutting and sticking their chests out, clucking and squawking. A flapping of wings and the birds flew up. The black one was on the back of the brown, but then the brown bird flipped over and the table was turned. More strutting, then they squawked and pecked some. They started to spar more aggressively and it was hard to follow the action. There was screeching and blood. Feathers and dust. I couldn’t make out the details. The men cheered on.

  I noticed Dick Taylor, standing apart from the men, not joining in or cheering, but smiling inwardly. His black eyes seemed blacker in his red face. Unlike the other men, his pleasure didn’t seem to come from the game itself. His joy was derived from the suffering of others. After a time, the commotion was over but I couldn’t tell who had won in the chaos and confusion. Both birds seemed to be bleeding badly. Neither was the victor. Dick was still smiling as money changed hands, the smile only a skull makes from the grave. I realised it was a different kind of battle I wanted with Hindley. Where the scars are worn on the inside. Whoever the loser and whoever the victor, their cuts would heal in time and they would be ready to fight again. But I didn’t just want Hindley dubbed, I wanted to watch his very spirit crushed.

  With the exception of the red-skinned Dick, and the politically minded Sticks, the farm labourers were a simple enough bunch of men. As long as they had work during the day, ale and bread at night, card games and somewhere to lig down, they seemed agreeable. We all slept together in the barn, with a chaumin dish burning flaights. The arrangement being not that much more than I’d found in the hog barn, but I couldn’t really complain. It was dry and it was warm. We ate together in the kitchen in the morning. Cages hung from the ceiling beams with songbirds trapped inside. A blackbird, a nightingale and a throstle. An oak chest, a chest of drawers, a long table that accommodated us all around it, and chairs for us to sit on. The fl
oor and tops were strewn with bowls and tins, jugs and mugs, syrup tins and porridge thibles. In the back kitchen the food was stored, beer brewed and oatcakes baked. The farmer’s wife was helped out by Mary, the peevish wife of Dick.

  I decided I would stay here for a while. The work suited me and I enjoyed the company of this Sticks character. Or at least he didn’t lock me in with the beasts or take a whip to me. I kept my head down, sold my ale rations to the other men, and saved my pennies. I was biding my time until I had enough bunce to move on to Manchester town, maybe even Liverpool. I would save four pounds. That seemed a sum that would keep me from destitution and set me up wherever I found work next. I calculated that I could be back on the road again in eight weeks, if I kept clean.

  We worked all week on the wall and by the Sunday it was finished. We stood back and admired our work. The wall was good and strong. No wind and no beast would break it. I looked around at the landscape all around me. Meadow, pasture and field enclosed by stone walls and beyond that moorland. Walls that reached up steep cloughs and bridged over fast-flowing becks. Walls that marked who owned what and marred the land they squatted upon.

  It was the end of the first week and the farmer insisted that I accompany him to church. As you know, Cathy, I am no lover of the chapel, but it was easier to keep the peace. He loaded up a coach with the members of his family and me and Jethro and a few others followed on foot. Sticks refused to accompany us, saying that he could worship his God any place he liked. He didn’t need churches. When we got to the place of worship, we were expected to walk up the church and bow to the parson. The squire and other parish notables sat in state in the centre of the aisle and erected a curtain around their peers to hide them from the vulgar gaze of the likes of me and Jethro and the other men. The minister talked of virtue and charity. But I had neither virtue or charity, just bile and contempt. God was not my friend. I sought only the company of the devil. Indeed, I had much in common with him, for had he not been cast out of heaven and was he not now wandering the earth in search of his revenge?

  Days went by, then another week. I had saved a full pound as I’d planned to do and was a quarter to my goal. There were more walls to build and we worked steadily every day, taking it in turns, using hammer, wedge and chisel to break stones in the morning, then hand and eye to build the wall in the afternoon. The next day, we’d swap it around. It helped to break up the monotony of the job. I mostly partnered with Sticks and we grafted with me listening and him talking. His conversation ranged from the political to the personal within the same breath.

  ‘Have you heard of the tithe awards, laa?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A tenth of produce given to the rector of the land. One pig in ten, one egg in ten, one cow in ten. But the mill dun’t have to give a tenth of their produce. What do you think about that then?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘I tell yer, it’s unfair is what it is.’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘We’ve got to fight for a fairer system, laa. No one is going to make the world fairer, only us. By hard graft. You’ve got to fight for everything you get in this life. Even love. My first love was Mary. Fourteen years of age. I was seventeen. What a beauty. Like a painting. At the very first sight I was taken, I remember it like this morning. I had a feeling so strong for her that I forgot what I was supposed to be doing. I just wanted to be with her all day, morning, afternoon and evening. As soon as I’d finished my work I’d be there, like a dog. It was just like in the songs, when a temptress puts a spell on a man.’

  Oh, I knew that feeling all right, Cathy.

  The wall-building was slow but satisfying work. I liked holding the stones in my hands, turning them over. I liked their weight and hardness. Something that was solid and dependable. And it was good to stand back at the end of the day and look over what we’d achieved.

  When the wall was done there was more work for me. Dan had stable work I could do and to which I was accustomed, and plough work to which I was not but soon became so. Every morning I rose before four of the clock and would go into the stable. There I would cleanse the stable, groom the horses, feed them, then prepare my tackle. I would breakfast between six of the clock and half past the clock. Then plough until three. I took half an hour for dinner, attended to the horses until I don’t know what hour, when I would return for supper. After supper, for extra bunce, I would either sit by the fire to mend the shoes of the farmer’s family or beat and knock hemp or flax, or grind malt on the quern, pick candle rushes, or whatever the farmer bade me do until eight of the clock. Then I would attend to the cattle. There was not much time for leisure, but the pennies were piling up and I kept a bag of them hidden in the woods in the hollowed-out trunk of an elm.

  The other workers began and ended each day by thanking God, but I would do no such thing. And so this became my routine for the next few weeks. The work was hard but I grew strong and my thoughts turned again to my plan. I now had two pounds. I was halfway there. Perhaps in Manchester I could set myself up and be my own master. Every night I would wander to the hollow and count my pennies. Once I had counted them, I would pile them all carefully back into the bag and hide it in the hollow as a squirrel does an acorn. It was a disturbed night in the barn with the other labourers, as some of them snored or else talked in their sleep. When slumber did visit me I dreamed about you. Sometimes I would wake with you on top of me, but when I reached out to touch your skin you turned into air. In another dream, I came into your chamber and you were there in bed with Edgar and he was leering at me. Other times I’d dream I was with Hindley, with my hands around his throat, squeezing the life out of him, and I would wake with a jolt and the disappointment of an empty grasp.

  I would lie on my back, trying to block out noxious smells and the noisy racket, filling my head with plans of revenge. Yes, I would make my fortune in Manchester or Liverpool, but at some point in the future, I intended to return to you, an improved gentleman. I remembered the adage of the hare and the tortoise. I would take my time. I would savour my vengeance. I would linger as it lied.

  With this in mind, one day I got into conversation with Sticks and asked him what I could do to improve my situation.

  ‘You need to read and write, laa.’

  ‘I know my alphabet,’ I said.

  ‘That’s a start. But you look around you at those who can read and write and those that can’t. Every labourer here is illiterate, me excepted. Do you think the squire is illiterate? Do you think the parson is? Or the doctor or the lawyer or the judge?’

  ‘So why do you choose the life of a farm labourer if you can read and write?’

  ‘Like I’ve said to you before, laa. There’s them that’s running to something, and them that’s running away.’

  ‘Which one are you?’

  ‘No matter, laa, no matter. Look, you want to improve your station in life then you start with your letters and your words. Everything comes from that.’

  Sticks was right: if I were to gain dominion over Hindley’s mind and over his estate, and also gain your true respect and be a worthy adversary to Edgar, I would have to go beyond the rudimentary lessons you taught.

  ‘So how would I go about it then?’ I said.

  ‘I tell you what, laa, there’s a Sunday school that’s been set up in the village by the Methodists there. Been going a few years now, and it’s not just for bairns.’

  Sure enough, when I went into the village the following Sunday I was informed that there was indeed a school for youths of both sexes, from fourteen to twenty-one years of age, and that it was in a commodious room at number four Sheppard Street. I attended one of the sessions. There were about twenty pupils sitting on the floor as there were no chairs. Most of them looked to be farm labourers. The teacher was a Methodist called George, simply dressed in black with a white silk scarf. His skin was pale and his hair was short and parted on one side. He copied out some passage from the bible in neat handwriting, using cha
lk and a slate, and said it was our duty to learn to read it for ourselves. He turned to us and picked up a bible. He held it aloft.

  ‘God gave you eyes and a brain. This book is not just for priests and nobility, it is for you and your kin, and it’s your duty to read the truth within.’

  He called us ‘children of wrath’. He chalked up the letters of the alphabet on the board and we had to join in as he sang them out. It was a joyless and repetitive experience. I tallied that the classroom was not for me. I tried to take instruction but something in my head resisted. I was familiar with the alphabet in any case and would as much be able to self-learn given a book or two and some time. I went on three or four separate occasions and was by then further on with my learning but not sufficient as I’d hoped. When George was taken up with tutoring one morning, I took hold of one of the bibles in the room and secreted it inside my surtout. I knew its stories well from Joseph’s sermons, and figured this would help me to sightread. I waited for the lesson to come to an end, then walked out of the school bidding George good day and saying that I would see him the following Sunday, even though I had no intention of going to the school ever again.

  So, the next Sunday, after telling the farmer and his wife that I was off to school, I walked up and onto the moor and, after some searching, I found a shallow cave where I could self-school. It was a good spot, a long way from any path, and well hidden. I spent every spare hour I had there. When the workers were playing cards and drinking ale, I would sit with my book. I brought blankets and made the space comfortable. I found a flint and steel in one of the barns, collected kindling and wood, filched a few flaights from the lower barn, and there I’d stay, with a fire to keep me warm, nicely sheltered. Once or twice I even spent the night there, waking at dawn and sneaking back into the barn while the others were still sleeping, joining the rest of the labourers without anyone the wiser. But mostly I studied. It was hard-going to begin with. I opened the book on the first page and commenced my learning. The first word was easy. I knew the sound of ‘I’ and ‘n’ and could put them together. ‘The’ I also knew. The third word was my first challenge, but by saying it aloud in stages, I got there. First ‘beg’ then ‘inn’ then ‘ing’: ‘beginning’. Many hours those first few pages took me and I was glad I had no company to hear my clumsy efforts. A Hindley or a Joseph would soon have made me regret my efforts, sure enough.