The third man stood unmoving, unnerved, as James’ shoulder sent him crashing into the wall. The other man punched him as he fell. By then he could hear the footsteps running towards them and rapidly making ground. Now James too froze, shocked at the success of his onslaught, uncertain as to what had happened, and equally uncertain as to what to do. He wanted to bend down, to see how bad the man was that he had caught with his sword. Instead his rescuer grabbed his sleeve, pulling him and shouting, ‘Run now, if you want to live!’
❖ ❖ ❖
James sensed his companion’s pace slowing and the two of them stopped running almost in unison. They had reached Southgate Street, he realised. The footsteps of their pursuers had grown fainter in the last few minutes, finally fading into the darkness of the night. James stood stock-still, listening, the upper half of his body leaning forward, his hands supporting its weight on his knees, his lungs fighting for air. He raised his head just far enough to look towards his companion – who was breathing normally without the slightest sign of distress. He was dressed in plain calico trousers and a rough smock, a cap pulled down over much of his face. A cord crossed his chest diagonally, securing a canvas bag firmly to his back.
James sheathed the sword in its cane, dreading the thought of seeing it, loathing the feel of it in his hand. He held out his right hand to the man. ‘I am James Daunton,’ he said, ‘and might I have your name?’
‘John Doyle,’ the man said. He had seemed taller as they raced through the streets, but James could see now that he was about the same height as himself. He could make out little of the man’s face beneath the peaked cap, but it was apparent that he had a snub nose, almost as small as a child’s, although his expressionless face was broad and showed none of the innocence of a child’s face.
John looked uncertainly at his proffered hand and then grasped it firmly. His hands were much bigger than his own, and calloused. As John looked up from beneath the brim of his cap James found himself staring at the large brown eyes and youthful face, which still betrayed little sign of emotion. He tried to put an estimate of age on the man but found it impossible.
‘I owe you a great debt, John,’ James said. ‘How can I repay you?’
‘I don’t want payment; I didn’t do it for reward. Let’s just keep walking,’ he said.
‘I’m truly grateful,’ James said. ‘But I must repay you. You saved my life.’
‘You could give me the price of a bed for the night and a meal for the morning. That’d be payment enough.’
James reached towards his pocket and then remembered throwing his last few coins at his attackers. He withdrew a handkerchief and mopping his brow said, ‘I can do better than that. You will return with me now to my home and Mrs Hawker will give you more than enough to fill your belly.’
‘I’d be glad of food now, or in the morning, wherever it comes from,’ John replied, ‘but we have to get away from here.’
‘I think we have left them far behind by now,’ James replied. He could hear the nervousness in his own voice.
‘It’s a bad mistake to underestimate your enemies,’ John said. ‘We oughta go now, and quickly.’
‘Come along then, it’s a pleasant evening, we’ll walk through town,’ James said, feeling the weakness in his legs and regretting that he didn’t have the money for a cab. John was silent, as though still listening for footsteps as the two of them made their way through town. The sense of relief that James felt at his escape was growing, but he could not drive out his unease. His hands kept reliving the sensation of blade on bone; trembling as the fear returned in waves. He realised again what he had done, how close he had come to death and his fear, now, was even more real than it had been in the alleyway.
They stopped at the end of Bath Street, by the fountain with the carved figures of the four seasons at its base, dwarfed by the huge gothic arches rising above the stone pool. The fountain ran with spa water, hot from the underground water course, steaming white in the cold dark air.
‘I’ll take a drink,’ John said.
James too drank, peering into the ground-floor windows of The White Hart Hotel. They were still dimly lit, as the night porters, cleaners and boot boys went about their duties. The silhouette of a woman was plain against the curtains of an upper room as she walked back and fro trying to pacify a baby whose cries could be heard in the stillness of the early morning air. Then the two set off at a faster pace towards South Parade.
❖ ❖ ❖
Belle half expected Harcourt to be there again that night, but when she had looked up at the stage box, it was empty. Had it been occupied by someone else it would have set her mind at rest, but the fact that the seats remained unoccupied troubled her all through the performance, as though her tormentor might arrive at any time. The part was undemanding and yet she still found it difficult to concentrate, or to put anything greater than the minimum effort into her performance. It was a relief when the evening was over and she made her getaway from the theatre. She left before anyone had noticed her leaving, almost running to the sanctuary of the room in Bridewell Lane.
From the moment she opened the door Belle could tell there was something wrong. The room was like an oven and Jenny was sitting on the bed supporting Molly’s head with one hand while holding a bowl in front of her, into which Molly was being violently sick. Jenny looked up, ‘Thank God you’re here.’
‘What’s wrong with Molly?’ Belle asked, ripping off her coat and gloves and throwing them on the floor.
‘It’s the croup,’ Jenny replied.
Belle froze for a moment, fearing instantly for Molly’s life but not wanting to show her panic to Jenny. ‘Why did you not send for me?’
‘And cause you to lose your employment?’ Jenny replied. ‘There was nothing you could do.’
‘I would have come.’
‘I know you would, but Molly could not move from the bed anyway. I sought out a doctor at about midday and he told me to put Molly into a hot bath up to her neck. I did it, and she seemed a little better for a while, but then the coughing started again.’
‘Has he done nothing else?’
‘Yes he called early this evening and she has had two leeches on her neck to suck out the poison, and he put a blister paper there.’
Belle reached forward and stroked Molly’s forehead. She was hot and dripping with sweat. ‘Did he give her no medicine?’
‘Yes, he sent a boy two hours ago with some powdered Ipecac. I mixed it with a little wine and she took it, like the brave girl she is. It’s worked well. She’s already been sick three or four times. I’m sure the poisons must be coming out.’
‘She’s so hot though,’ Belle said, stroking Molly’s forehead again.
‘The doctor said to keep her warm and keep the windows closed lest the bad airs enter and she develops a chill. Can you help me with the blister paper?’
Belle took Jenny’s place on the bed, cushioning Molly’s head in the crook of her arm, and began unwinding the bandage from around her neck until the blister paper was exposed. When Jenny returned with the scissors, Belle gently prised the paper from Molly’s neck and dabbed away the residue of caustic chemicals from around the large blister on her neck.
‘Will you do it? I can’t bring myself to,’ Jenny said, holding the scissors out to Belle.
She took them and tentatively burst the blister, trying to catch the clear fluid with the end of the bandage as it rolled down Molly’s neck. ‘It looks too clean to be poisonous,’ Belle said, handing the scissors back. Jenny handed her a damp flannel and she cleaned the dampness away. ‘You sit with Molly and I’ll empty the sick bowl and wash the flannel,’ she said, but before she could move Molly began retching again. Her body seemed drained and too tired to struggle for life.
Chapter 13
Nathaniel Caine sat up and looked around him. Slowly he began to piece together what had just happened. The headbutt had taken him by surprise and knocked him unconscious. Tommy Wood lay next to him
in the alleyway, moaning with pain. Caine reached an arm behind Tommy’s head and pulled him into a sitting position. ‘What happened to you?’ he asked.
‘The bastard stabbed me in the stomach,’ Tommy replied, trying to smile. ‘It hurts terrible. Do you think I’m going to die?’
‘No, lad,’ Caine replied, but the boy looked bad.
His brother was worried too, as he stood over them not knowing what to do next. ‘Come on, Tommy, get up,’ he said, offering a hand. Caine watched as Harry took the boy’s hand and pulled him slowly to his feet. Tommy was holding his free arm to his stomach and couldn’t straighten at first against the pain.
Another of the men helped Caine to his feet. He felt unsteady and the ache in his head was growing worse. Caine massaged his bruised forehead and stood for a while waiting for his balance to return. Revenge would come quickly, he vowed to himself, and it would be a hard justice. He would make sure of it. ‘Where are the others?’ he asked, but no sooner had he asked the question, than the other two gang members appeared around the corner of the next street.
‘They got away,’ one of the men shouted.
‘This is a bloody sorry business.’ Caine spat a gob of phlegm into the oil-streaked surface of the puddle where, until recently, he had been lying. ‘Let’s get home,’ he said. The six men walked in silence, Harry Wood and Caine helping Tommy between them.
The ignominy of defeat hung heavy on Caine. He had had beatings before, more than he cared to remember, but mostly at his father’s hands when he was too young to defend himself. He found himself remembering the last time he had come off worst in a real fight. It had been twenty years ago, when he was seventeen. The scar on his cheek was a constant reminder of the humiliation he had suffered that day, if he needed any reminder. The Cockroad gang had been led by someone else then. He struggled to remember his name … It was Silcox; George Silcox. Caine traced the curve of the scar with the tip of his index finger; the scar that Silcox had given him.
Caine could picture himself as he had been then, a scrawny thing, but tall, with a good reach and fast fists. Silcox had been leader of the Cockroad gang, though everyone knew it was a Caine that should rightfully lead the gang. Silcox had known it too, that’s why he had drawn him into the fight, knowing he was a potential challenger. Silcox had fought him and won, and left him with that scar to remind him of who was boss.
It was almost a year before he had got the chance to get even with him. He’d made sure that he was stronger by then, made sure he was ready. He had beaten Silcox in a fair fight. Then he had waited for Silcox to come to, before smashing his right knee with a spade. George Silcox walked with a crutch after that, and to his dying day. A Caine was once again, back in control of the Cockroad gang, as it had been for generations before, as it should have been. He’d got his revenge then and he would get it this time too.
The front door of the house in Hucklebridge’s Court was heavy and secured by a large lock. As Caine unlocked the door, he could hear the bolts being pulled back on the other side and as they entered, the large man who had unbolted the door stood there to meet them.
‘Ow did it go?’ he asked.
‘Bloody awful, now get back to your post, Lem,’ Caine roared, sending the gatekeeper backing into the small room he had just vacated. ‘Give your brother some brandy, Harry,’ he said as they walked down the stairs to the kitchen, ‘and be sure to pour some on his wound before he drinks it all; that young ‘un’s always got a terrible thirst on him.’
Jeb and two others were sitting at the table in the kitchen drinking. They all rose as they watched Tommy being helped into the room. Harry Wood grabbed the bottle from the table and helped his brother to a seat by the fire. Caine watched as he pulled up his brother’s shirt to expose the wound and poured some of the brandy into the cut. Tommy winced at the pain, before grabbing at the bottle and putting it to his lips.
‘Take his coat and shirt off,’ Caine bellowed. He could tell that Tommy fully intended to drink himself senseless and knew that he would soon achieve his ambition. He walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing him backwards to examine the wound. ‘One of you lads fetch me a good sheet from my room,’ he said, turning to the men, ‘and do it now.’ He looked at the small cut in the boy’s skin, it seemed nothing, little more than a scratch and yet it bled in a stream and the skin around it was already raised and red. He tried to stem the flow with his grubby palm, but still it wouldn’t stop.
When the sheet came he wiped his hand and ripped it into strips, wrapping the cloth around the boy, binding the wound, watching it soak up the blood. ‘Best let him rest now,’ he said, patting the lad on the head and turning away.
‘Ta, Nat,’ the lad said smiling. ‘That feels more comfortable now.’ Caine looked back over his shoulder watching Tommy take another long swig of the brandy before putting the bottle on the floor, wincing as he reached forward.
Caine said nothing as he watched Tommy becoming more lethargic. The boy didn’t look right, not for such a small wound, but he’d seen wounds as small as that kill a man before now. He walked over to the lad and placed his hand on his forehead. He felt hot and sweaty, but then he was lying close to the fire and the kitchen was very warm after the cold of the night. The boy reached forward for the bottle again and swigged on the brandy.
‘That’s it, you drown out the pain, lad,’ Caine said.
‘I told you it was a mistake, us trying to set up in Bath,’ Harry Wood said.
‘Don’t cross me, Harry,’ Caine spat back. ‘We were getting nowhere in Cockroad, generation after generation risking execution for the sake of a chicken here or a few pieces of gold there. There’s rich pickings in Bath and we’re picking more than anyone else. People look up to us. We’re men of substance. If you think you can do better than I, let’s settle it now.’ Caine produced the wide-bladed knife from his belt. The room fell quiet and its occupants froze in whatever they were doing.
Harry raised himself to his full height and stared back. Caine could tell he was thinking of drawing his own knife. He could see the bone handle shining where it protruded from under his jacket. ‘The lad’s ill,’ Caine said, ‘you’d best tend to him.’
‘Don’t fight, Harry,’ Tommy said.
‘Don’t worry, Tommy, I’m not fighting,’ Harry replied. ‘I’m not crossing you, Nat. You can put the knife away, I just think we’d be better in Cockroad, where people know us, and know not to cross us.’
‘Cockroad’s the devil’s armpit, in the middle of nowhere,’ Caine replied. ‘It was fine when there was money to be had on the highways, but all the rich pickings travels on the trains now. Cockroad’s sent three generations of my family to the gallows, or to the colonies, and your family’s no different, and what did they have to show for it? There’s no money to be had robbing farmers and collecting fear-money from those who has nothing to lose.’
‘You’re right,’ Harry said. ‘All I’ve got is Tommy here and me ma and a cousin in Gloucester jail. I know you’re trying to set us up good, but we could have set up in Bristol where we know people, instead of Bath?’
‘The Bath peelers can be bought a damn site cheaper than in Bristol. We’re not just feared here, we’re respected. Ain’t that worth something to you?’
‘I’ll take money over respect anytime, but you’re the boss. I’ll follow you whatever you decide. I have to, I ain’t got your brains.’ He laughed and held out his hand and Caine cautiously resheathed his knife and shook it. ‘Sit down, Nat,’ he said. ‘Tommy looks like he’s drunk his self to sleep now. It’s been a long night and we’re all tired.’
‘Aye, you’re right,’ Caine said, sitting in an armchair by the fire.
‘Why did we go after him tonight?’ Harry asked. ‘We’re not footpads. We don’t rob toffs; you said they cause too much fuss.’
‘It were meant to be a warning to the priest,’ Caine replied. ‘The man we were after is a friend of his.’
‘Word will ge
t out,’ Jeb said. ‘Six of us beaten by two men.’
‘He was supposed to be alone and drugged and incapable,’ Caine replied. ‘I didn’t know he had a sword, or where that other bastard came from.’ He could feel his temper rising.
‘People will be laughing at us,’ Jeb said.
‘Then we’ll have to be sure we wipe the smiles from their faces,’ Caine replied. ‘We’ll come down even harder on them for the next few days. All of you, do you hear that?’ he shouted. The men grunted their agreement.
‘What about the two men?’ Harry Wood asked.
‘Don’t worry about them, we’ll see to them in good time, and it won’t be just a beating.’
‘But who are they?’ Harry asked.
‘The one we were after goes by the name of James Daunton and I know what he looks like, and where he lives.’
‘I’ll have the bastard, for what he’s done,’ Harry said.
‘We’ll see to him, don’t you worry,’ Caine replied. ‘We’ve got to sort that priest out too and before he gets the Irish organised against us … Now, how about a hand of cards before I go to my bed.’ Caine moved over to the table. He knew it would not be that simple. The Irish were on a razor’s edge and the priest was the razor. He looked over to Tommy Wood, still stretched out immobile on the chaise-longue, his brother kneeling beside him and feeling his forehead. Harry fetched a pitcher from the table. Caine watched as he dipped some cloth in the water, and bathed his brother’s forehead.
‘How are you doing, me babs?’ Harry asked.
‘I climbed higher than you,’ his brother said. ‘I got right to the top of her. You said I couldn’t do it, but I showed you, didn’t I? And when I got to the top I carved me initials so everyone would know I was the first to climb her.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Harry asked.
‘You said you’d already climbed the oak but you hadn’t, had you?’
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