The Old Order (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 7)

by Andrew Wareham

  “A man with money is far more visible than a pauper immigrant, Thomas. It may be easier to live if one should be in funds, but it is less simple to disappear in the foreign crowds.”

  They discussed the possibility of hiring one of the private investigators who offered competition to the police officers of New York, but were unwilling to bring themselves to the attention of any of these gentlemen, for it was reliably reported that their personal probity was commonly not of the highest. It was not unknown, it was said, for the investigators to be hand in glove with the criminals they sought, much as Jonathan Wild, the famous Thieftaker General of London, had been.

  “The problem is, of course, sir, that if we took that risk and he did the job for us, then we would have to decide what to do when our man discovered the identity and whereabouts of our murderer.”

  “That’s no problem, my boy! A full load of buckshot in the bastard’s guts, that’s the medicine for his sort!”

  Thomas tended to agree, he had no love for back-shooting killers. That said, the ramifications needed to be explored, he felt, before they succumbed to the desire to make the world a more decent place. He steepled his fingers judiciously.

  “Who is to perform the desirable act, sir? And how is his mouth to be sealed thereafter? And, dare one enquire, how do we keep our noses clean?”

  The colonel threw his hands up in dismay.

  “We cannot, Thomas – we would be known and we would be wide-open to blackmail; even if we performed the deed ourselves it would be possible to trace it back to us, the man we employed having identified the, ah, corpus delicti.”

  “Corpus vile, perhaps, sir. You agree with me that the death would be easy to attain, but not necessarily wise in the performance?”

  Reluctantly, the colonel did; they must leave the pursuit to Mr Quillerson, they dared not become involved themselves.

  “We have no set of contacts among the lower orders in New York, Thomas. Should we perhaps remedy that lack?”

  Thomas was not convinced; he thought that they might be better advised simply to get out of the city and state, to take their predominantly ethical activities elsewhere.

  “The problem is, sir, that we are increasingly a part of the public world. Our lines of business are now all, within reason, above board, and our hands are clean - well washed at a minimum. Basing ourselves in Boston might be excessive, and we would have difficulties in achieving entry there as the old families control their world with an interesting degree of rigour, one understands. More and more, we come back to a shift to the south. New Orleans is less than ideal, if only because we would come into frequent contact with Mr Henry Star, who is an adventurous sort of young gentleman and not an ideal point of contact for those seeking respectability.”

  “Richmond, Virginia, it is, my son. If we are to set up as gentry then it must be there. Your mother rather likes the idea – we have discussed it several times. What of your lady?”

  “She has grown up in the agricultural way of life, sir. Town is a place one visits, in her mind, quite frequently and with great enjoyment, but the countryside is the place for the family home.”

  The colonel was persuaded – he had been born in the backwoods and rather enjoyed the amenities of the urban existence, but the well-being of the next generations was of greater importance than any desire of his own. He would travel south within the month and would identify and purchase a town house and a plantation before year’s end.

  “And our purchases in the Spanish lands, sir? I can see little alternative to using the services of the New York branch of Mostyns.”

  “They will maintain a reasonable degree of secrecy in the nature of things, Thomas. An additional, personal fee to the young manager, perhaps?”

  “He is a young nephew or cousin of the proprietor, sir. Wiser not to offer a bribe in such a case.”

  The colonel was surprised – he had always been willing to take a bribe from anybody, for any reason, could not imagine that others might have scruples.

  “The trouble is, Thomas, that we’re getting a damned sight too civilised these days! It was simpler forty years ago when you could pay a fellow or shoot him if need arose and never a word of complaint to be heard. The old days were better, you know! Easier, anyhow!”

  Thomas hoped the old man might be joking, but he suspected he was not. He knew his father had been a ‘colonel’ of irregular horse in his day, thought that might not have been a lot different to leader of a gang of bandits.

  “You may have a point, sir – certainly there are too many policemen poking their noses in where they are not wanted these days, and it is very unwise to shoot them, I am told. Mind you, sir, they are so cheap to buy that one hardly needs bother to take any other course.”

  Twelve skeps in two neat rows sheltered by a young hedgerow, bees going about their daily tasks, flurries of them around each hive. Not a parasite to be seen – no moth, no mite; they did not seem to exist in America, a true paradise.

  “We shall take little honey this year, Mr White, for as yet I know not for certain how much the bees themselves will require over the cold of winter. Just a smidgen for the children, to go on their porridge on the occasional morning and for baby George to lick when he is teething. Next year, I have great hopes for.”

  Merton was increasingly prosperous, and adding greatly to the settlers' well-being.

  “Your horses have thrown good colts this year, Mr Merton, and the wagon you have built is a fine piece of craftsmanship. Andrewstown is fortunate to be graced with your presence, knowledge and skills. It has occurred to several amongst us that we shall have much need of timber in the next few years. While any man can fell a tree, it needs a skilled eye to pick the best, those that will provide good, straight-grained boards and beams. Would you be willing to walk the local woods with us and mark those trees we should take?”

  Merton was happy to oblige, he was remarkable even in a community that worked together for his unfailing willingness to give his neighbours a hand.

  “A good Christian gentleman,” White told his wife.

  “He is indeed, Mr White, though so much so that one might be inclined to wonder about his past existence, whether he has taken intentionally to good works.”

  White was distressed that the wife of his bosom could be so uncharitable, though he had often remarked on her acuity in the past.

  “Any man may tread a false path in his youth, Mrs White, and may be forgiven all when he turns his feet to ways of virtue.”

  “True indeed, Mr White, and Mr Merton shows every sign of a reformed character.”

  Merton located a stand of hickory on a hillside, tall, straight trees ideal for the carpenter and wagon maker, and outstanding for making axe handles.

  “A thousand usable trees, at least, and close enough to the river to bring them down to the mill pond. Years of harvesting good timber for the village, and perhaps some to sell elsewhere.”

  “A sawmill would be sensible, with so much timber to cut.”

  “The gristmill occupies the only practical place for a waterwheel, Mr White.”

  “A steam engine? We have coal enough and it would not be too expensive to buy in a little of grease and oil for lubrication. It might be possible to purchase a boiler, rather than attempt to fabricate our own, and fine steel saw blades as well, but the bulk of the engine could be ours. A loan from the bank, perhaps – Mr Quillerson would be happy to assist us I have no doubt.”

  “Who would run the mill, Mr White?”

  “We would find it necessary to send a request to my lord in Finedon, I think. We could beg of him to send out a young steam man and perhaps two or three other families as well to work under him.”

  Merton agreed with such a course; he wondered, however, whether they might not be advised to bring the matter before a town meeting as it would affect the lives of all of them.

  “A town meeting is a whole day of labour lost, Mr Merton, and consequently a burden on many of the farmers. But you ar
e right to say that the decision should not rest on the whim of one man – I should not be in the way of giving orders to our people.”

  Merton immediately demurred; he had not been attempting to accuse Mr White of dictatorship, far from it.

  “I would not question your reasons, Mr Merton – I have a great value for your judgement, sir!”

  Merton returned the compliment.

  “Would a small council make sense, Mr White? The people could elect four or five men to meet once a month and consider proposals such as this. I am sure that meetings would be short and would not be a burden upon a hard-working farmer.”

  It was a sensible idea, but would require a town meeting to bring it in.

  They held their little assembly and elected a five man council by show of hands then and there. Mr White was unanimously voted to the chair, and Merton was to be his second and act as their clerk and secretary, a Barney, a Denham and the miller to be the others. It was noticed by all that the miller was increasingly referred to only by his function, more important than his family name.

  “Are we to call you ‘mayor’, Mr White?”

  “I had rather you did not, sir. A mayor is an important man while I am no more than a servant of the community. As well, we agreed to elect again in three years – would I then become Mr Used-to-be Mayor?”

  There was a general laugh and agreement that ‘Mr Chairman’ would do, and that only when the council was meeting. White noticed that there was no general shout that he would be mayor for the rest of his days – Oliver Merton bade fair to eclipse him; he thought he probably welcomed the prospect of not spending all the days of his life in harness, he was not cut out to be a politician.

  John Quillerson arrived a few days later, two tons of an unfamiliar seed on his wagon.

  “Buckwheat, Mr White, a new crop to us but one with considerable advantages, I am persuaded. It is grown in large amounts in the County of Suffolk in England, and is a significant crop in Massachusetts State, or so I am told. Canada also grows an amount. As well, my informant tells me that it is very big in Russia. As you will have noticed, it is a northern crop well-suited to colder climes and shorter growing seasons – I believe it to require fewer than one hundred frost-free days.”

  White peered at the triangular seeds, instinctively distrustful of anything new – if it was so wonderful a crop then why had not their forefathers planted it?

  “It bears quite heavily, but the seeds give a very coarse flour when milled. I am given to understand that it may be made up into cakes and fried in bacon grease and will make a very filling breakfast for cold days – just what a man with hard work to do needs inside him!”

  “What will it taste of, Mr Quillerson?”

  “Bacon grease, essentially, Mr White.”

  It could be an alternative to porridge, and there was much to be said for that.

  “As well, Mr White, the grains dried and cracked make an excellent winter feed for the beasts, a very useful supplement to their hay and oats and beans.”

  White was almost convinced; he took Quillerson to meet Oliver Merton.

  “Mr Merton has acres unplanted this year, due to being busy with so many other tasks for us all.”

  A few hours, plough teams and time begged of his neighbours, all of whom were willing to let Merton rack up an obligation to them – they had wagons that would need repair one day and quite fancied first call on a honeycomb or two in future years – and land was allocated to the alien crop. It might be a valuable innovation; if it was a failure then the plants could be ploughed back into the soil to its eventual advantage.

  “Now then, Mr Quillerson, as you are here and available to us, we have been thinking recently about a saw mill, with a steam engine, the grist mill taking up most of the water.”

  White and Merton explained their plan, pointed out the great advantage to them all of a supply of sawed and planed boards and noted in passing that they would turn out a quantity of shafts and handles of best hickory, always in demand for hand tools and axes and sledge-hammers and no doubt easy to sell in the big city.

  “Best would be to buy a steam engine as a whole, I think, gentlemen. The Fulton works would be able to supply such. I could commission saw blades as well. Your commitment would be to throw up a go-down to work in and masonry footing for engine and mill. And, obviously, you must fell and move your trees.”

  They lacked the manpower to do all at once.

  “I will write immediately to my lord in Finedon, beg of him that he might find us fifty men, families possibly to follow. They will not come from his estates, I fear, but he will probably be able to call on the good offices of his acquaintance. There are, I am told, still enclosures being new-made in the West Country of England, agricultural workers forced out of their homes, and his lady wife is a woman of Dorsetshire. At worst it may not be impossible to divert a proportion of the lesser felons sentenced to Botany Bay – there are always some who are more victim than criminal, as we all know.”

  “Would that be a legal procedure, Mr Quillerson?”

  “It would be done by lawyers.”

  Book Seven: A Poor Man

  at the Gate Series

  Chapter Three

  “Gentlemen of the jury, the case you have heard has been quite simple in nature. The defendant has been charged with three separate counts: attempted murder, housebreaking and with the possession of a dangerous weapon. The offence of housebreaking was by definition committed in daylight hours and is thus less heinous than burglary, but, the defendant was threatening to use a knife. Evidence has been given to this court that the defendant was taken up in his victim’s house having forced open a back door, and that he threatened the victim’s cook and manservant with a large kitchen cleaver, the exhibit in front of you.”

  The jury obediently stared again at the ten inch carving knife in front of the prosecutor.

  “Evidence was given by the victim’s cook that the defendant made threats, that he stated he would kill them. The victim’s manservant has also stated that he heard the defendant shout that he would ‘use the knife’. This does not in itself constitute an attempt to commit murder, and I must therefore dismiss that count, but you may wish to find the defendant guilty on the alternative charge of possession of a weapon with intent to endanger life.”

  Another five minutes of summing-up - clear, precise, accurate and carefully damning - and the jury was sent out to discuss its verdict.

  Mark Star, judge of the High Court of Justice, wigged and gowned and face set stern in recognition of the importance of his position, rose from the bench and retired to his room immediately behind. His personal clerk waited while he stepped behind a screen in the corner and made use of the hidden chamber pot, then produced a cup of tea.

  “I would expect a very quick verdict, m’lud. Will you wish me to warn the prosecutor to be ready with the next case before the court rises for the morning, m’lud? It is a straightforward felony, m’lud, and I would expect it to take no more than two hours.”

  There was pressure on the courts to relieve the backlog of cases awaiting a hearing; the defendant currently on trial had been remanded in prison for more than thirty months, was lucky not to have died of gaol fever the while.

  “Do so, Smithers. We can take our midday break at two and then sit till about six o’clock if you can arrange another case to follow.”

  An usher knocked, warned the judge that the jury was about to return. Mark drained his tea cup, adjusted robes and wig, turned to the short flight of steps leading to his public seat.

  “Black cap is placed to your right, m’lud,” Smithers called quietly as he left to organise the rest of the day.

  The jury came back to the box, sat for a moment then rose in respect as Mark took his place. They sat again and then the foreman they had elected rose and bowed, as he had been instructed.

  Mark smiled courteously at the little man – some sort of jumped-up clerk by the look of him, he was amazed that he had a freehol
d worth more than forty pounds a year, but he must have or he could not have been chosen to serve.

  The foreman was asked by the Clerk of the Court whether the jury had come to a verdict and he confirmed that it had. It was a formality, but occasionally a jury would have a question to ask to help it make up its collective mind.

  The charges were read out and the foreman was instructed to say only ‘Guilty’ or ‘Not Guilty’; he must make no comment, offer no proviso.

  As Mark had expected, the verdict was of guilty to both charges. He thanked the foreman and turned to the prisoner, no longer the defendant.

  Skinny - half starved in fact, the diet in gaol was not generous - pale, frightened, young. Mark glanced again at his notes – he thought he was fourteen, old enough.

  “Have you anything to say before sentence is passed?”

  The ritual had to be followed. The question was a hangover from the Dark Ages when a guilty man could claim benefit of clergy and make a death sentence ineligible; that right no longer existed and the courts had developed the habit of allowing prisoners to make a speech of mitigation if they wished. The prisoner’s words would in fact make no difference at all to their fate, but there seemed to be a feeling that it was only just to allow them to speak once at their trial, any defence during the case being offered exclusively by the barrister the defendant had hired, assuming he had access to the necessary funds to do so.

  “I weren’t goin’ to kill nobody. I were ‘ungry.”

  The familiar bleatings of the underclasses – if he had not intended to kill then why pick up a knife? Mark thought the question to be unanswerable. He reached for the square of black cloth, unfolded it across his wig, practice making it quick and tidy.