The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  “I’ll take thee down to see ‘em play of a morning, when the young is out, end of next month, sir.”

  “I’ll look forward to that, Jackson. Thank you!”

  Another man who would talk, could pass on the information he would need; he hoped he was better than the last Jackson he had come across.

  Smythe collected Tom at twenty past two and led him to the estate offices, quickly showing the various rooms they passed on their way through the house, commenting very condescendingly that it was, no doubt, larger than he was used to but the country was somewhat more civilised than one might look for in coal mines and such - he would soon get to know his way round. He entered the office, oak furnished, west-facing at the back of the house, nearly twenty feet square, two walls shelved from floor to ceiling and full of leather bound folders, some obviously dating back to the earliest days of the house.

  “Estate records, sir, all written down – very useful when it came to the enclosure, of course.”

  “Ah, yes – claims of ancient use for manorial rights which translate into grants of land at enclosure – I understand that all contracts in real estate must be written and therefore any claim at enclosure must have written evidence to back it. Most Commoners are illiterate, I am told, and rely on oral tradition for their rights – which leaves them landless on enclosure.”

  Smythe did not look pleased to discover this degree of understanding in his new master. He took up a commanding position in the centre of the room, ushering Tom to the single easy chair in the corner.

  “As agent for the Manor of Thingdon, Mr Andrews, I alone am responsible for the new enclosed lands and the old tenancies and Home Farm, assisted by the bailiff in the day-to-day routine, of course. I do not propose to bother you with unnecessary detail, sir, suffice it to say that we now total seven thousand two hundred and thirty acres, of which the new lands amount to some four thousands, to be let in five large farms to new tenants, all of whom have been selected.”

  “How?”

  “In the normal way, sir – I have put many hours of work into finding the best and you may safely leave that in my hands. I decided after much thought that it would be better to have a few large tenants rather than a dozen or so smaller – big farmers are better off, in the nature of things, and become a force for stability in the countryside.”

  “Mr Quillerson, as bailiff you will be in regular contact with the new tenants – are you happy with them?”

  Tom was not prepared to be bullied into silence by Smythe and in any case had decided that he did not trust or like the man and was not going to work with him; better he should be encouraged to dig his own grave and as soon as possible.

  “I know three of them to be good farmers, sir, but…”

  Smythe overrode Quillerson’s words, interrupting angrily.

  “And I have told you not to interfere in things you don’t understand, boy! Keep your mouth shut!”

  Tom stood, stepped a pace forward, drawing himself up to his full height, bigger than Smythe and without his soft edge.

  “I instructed Mr Quillerson to speak, Smythe. Any man obeying my orders on my estate is not interfering. Do I make myself clear?”

  Smythe stared him in the eye, stayed silent.

  “I asked if you understood me, Smythe.”

  “I am the agent. I run this estate!”

  “Not any more! You are dismissed from your post with immediate effect and will leave these lands today. Hand your keys across to Quillerson. Where do you live?”

  “In my rooms in this house – and I cannot be expected to clear them today, not so that some Papist bastard dropped by a village whore can move in!”

  “It is three o’clock, Smythe, and you will be gone by five or I shall have you taken, forcibly, to the lock-up. Anything you leave behind will be parcelled up and delivered to you in Kettering; if you have no direction there you will find your chattels care of Mr Telford.”

  “You can’t do it, you need me – the bastard can’t read a set of accounts, or write them sensibly, and he doesn’t know the half of the estate’s business – and you know nothing of the land. A month and you will be at a stand, and it will be no good coming running to me for help!”

  “I have run businesses twice as large as this, Smythe, and I can learn agriculture and I can read accounts. I will read yours, line-by-line, for the last five years, and if I find so much as a penny has strayed from the estate’s funds into your pocket then I will see you stood before an Assize judge – and, Smythe, I shall beg him for mercy, so that you will not be hanged but will go for convict labour on the Gibraltar docks instead!”

  Smythe was silent, white-faced suddenly – a hanging commonly involved fifteen minutes of slow strangulation while convicts on forced labour sometimes lasted for eighteen months of flogging and near-starvation before their almost equally inevitable death. If he was charged by a local landholder then any jury would find against him – they would all be tenants of the large estates or tradesmen from Kettering needing their business. He turned and left the room, almost running.

  “Mr Quillerson, will you require the services of a secretary in your role of agent and bailiff?”

  “No, sir, I believe Mr Smythe’s cousin should leave with him.”

  “So he should. Have a pony and trap ready for five o’clock, please, and a man to take them both into Kettering. Ask Jackson to be present with a fowling piece, two or three men besides, in case we have need to haul either or both off to the lock-up instead.”

  Quillerson nodded happily, trotted off to the stables.

  “Daniel! Your wages will be paid at June Quarter Day, in full, if you come and collect them, in person. Smythe’s as well, on the same terms. You may tell your cousin that it will take me two weeks to check the accounts.”

  If Smythe had any sense he would disappear within the day – a change of name and a move of fifty miles and he would never be traced other than by the worst of bad luck, and a trial would not be a good start to Tom’s residence in the area.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  Quillerson returned, confirmed all would be ready.

  “Can you handle the work as agent and bailiff, Quillerson? It will, obviously, involve you in creating and checking all of the accounts for the estate and the house, as well as keeping all of the other records.”

  “I was educated at the grammar school in Kettering until I was eighteen, sir. I can keep a set of accounts clearly and honestly, and I know more about the new agriculture than he did. The only question, sir, is whether you want a Papist bastard on your land.”

  Tom thought quickly – he liked the look of the man and it sounded as if he might be a loner, a man with few friends and hence no favourites or allies, liable to give good, unbiased service.

  “’Papist’ is your choice – you might wish to deal with that, it is your business, none of mine, though it will, I suspect, give troublemakers a handle, a way of attacking you. ‘Bastard’ is none of your seeking and I would not let it worry you – it does not concern me. What of these new tenancies?”

  “Five blocks of land, sir, almost equal in size, most of the Great Field, the old Common and waste, including some boggy bottom land, all to the south and west sides of the manor. The drier lands on the east and north were enclosed in Elizabethan times, when the house was built, for sheepwalks and the Home Farm. Eakins, Bass and Briggs are local men who had a few acres and a bit of spare cash from working the iron and leather and have saved up enough to take on a large tenancy. I know of them and their families, from years back – all three understand the new way of doing things. Briggs has the River Farm and we will be spending some money there on his drainage – the landlord’s responsibility in the first instance. Mudge is a southcountryman, he inherited a small acreage from his father and sold it to the local lord – it rounded out his estate nicely, I believe, and he paid over the odds for it – and has the funds to be a very successful farmer; he has some of the best land, close to the vill
age and the road; the only problem is that I know nothing of him, have met him once only, am not even certain I would recognise his face.”

  “Common name in Hampshire and Dorset, Mudge.”

  “I did not know that, sir – he comes from Hampshire, in fact, near a town called Wickham.”

  “Don’t know it.”

  “Nor me, sir.”

  “Keep an eye on him, make sure he behaves himself; not a lot we can do for the next seven years, is there?”

  “Very little, sir – he must keep his tenancy for the whole of the first lease unless waste can be proved against him, and he would expect at least another seven – his first years will involve him in considerable expense starting up.”

  “So be it. What of your fifth man?”

  “Barney. The word is that he is a horse thief, sir. He had a small acreage and bred riding horses – nothing out of the ordinary, cobs was all, cocktails not pure-bloods but very reliable horses – we have a couple of his in our stables. The thing is, sir, that his mares must have thrown an awful lot of foals to account for the number of beasts he took to market. He has said that his grandmother was Romany - his wife is said to be as well, and that his uncles and cousins and his wife’s people regularly sell young stock to him, which is not impossible, and there has never been any direct accusation made, even so…”

  “He must have the benefit of the doubt, Mr Quillerson – we cannot condemn the man on the basis of rumour and supposition. Will he continue his trade on his new farm?”

  Tom could not start out by breaking a man on rumour alone – he had to be seen to be fair and above board in all of his dealings or he would never be accepted by his people.

  “He has been given the bulk of the waste, sir, which will mostly turn to pasture land rather than arable – the better part of three hundred acres of it, at his request. I believe he will wish to run horses there.”

  “Then, again, you must watch him, Mr Quillerson, and let him be well aware that he must be honest and above-board in all his dealings – Smythe is to set no precedent here! We must bring all five together, I think, and talk with them; they must meet me, and they must discover your new status.”

  “As well, sir, we would wish to discover whether my suspicions are correct – I believe they were forced to pay a ‘premium on entry’ to Smythe – fifty or so guineas cash which will have gone into his pocket. Entry fees are not uncommon, sir, when leasing houses, but are less so when it is a matter of land. They may also have been expected to drop another ten or twenty at each Quarter Day when they paid their rent.”

  “If they have then it will be repaid, immediately, with an apology, and it will be made clear to them that there will be no extras demanded in future.”

  “That last goes without saying, sir!”

  “I thought it did – that’s why I offered you the job! What is your current wage?”

  “Fifty pounds, sir, and free quarters in what was used to be a groom’s cottage.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No, sir.”

  “If you wed you will shift into a larger, more appropriate house, equally free, of course. As a single man you will probably prefer to stay in a small place. Your wage will be one hundred and fifty per annum, to be revised each year in the light of your performance of your duties. Any increase in long term profitability and value of the estate will be to your benefit; short-run profiteering will not be.”

  Quillerson’s face brightened, life suddenly seemed much more attractive to him.

  “Understood, sir! The Home Farm, sir - which is very large, due to Mr Rockingham having a number of plans for it and adding to its acreage at the enclosure – is overdue for modernisation; I would wish it to become a Model.”

  “Which means what, sir? I have been told, and you have already mentioned it, that there is a ‘new agriculture’. Explain it to me, preferably briefly in the first instance.”

  “It will take some little time to understand, sir, and you might be well advised to read some of the many books and pamphlets available on the subject, if you will excuse me for making such a suggestion, sir, I am not attempting to…”

  Quillerson suddenly seemed apprehensive again, life not such a wonderful thing any more, his mistake quite likely to be terminal – one should not rub the nose of the uneducated in their inadequacy, or so he understood, they were not puppies, after all.

  “I am literate, Mr Quillerson, despite the tales you may have heard of the barbarian manufacturers who have come to infest our country!”

  Quillerson sighed in relief; this man was no overweening, self-made bully.

  “Yes, sir. As I was saying before, ah… my enthusiasm led me astray, sir, modern practice in agriculture is really all about selling the farm’s produce rather than eating it oneself. Working to the market, in fact. To do that one must specialise – you have read Adam Smith, sir? Pins?”

  “No – I have been more concerned to do rather than to study – I suspect I should remedy that error.”

  “I have copies of some of the more significant volumes, sir?”

  “Have we a library in the house? I have not managed to look over the place yet!”

  “Not as such, sir – the Quillers believed that unguided reading was dangerous to the soul and Mr Rockingham was not one for books – he was always one for doing.”

  “Even when he did not know what he was doing?”

  “Oh, especially then, sir!”

  “Then we should remedy that lack, I think. I will borrow your books, if I may, for the while. Where would I find a bookshop to patronise?”

  “Cambridge, sir, I suspect, or London.”

  “Then it must wait. Tell me more of this new agriculture – you say specialise – do you mean to grow but the one crop, year in year out?”

  “No, sir – that would destroy the fertility of the land; it is necessary to rotate crops. Even though wheat is far the most profitable no more than one third of the fields will grow wheat in any one year. Wheat first, then turnips to clean the land, then beans or peas to strengthen the soil, unless the farmer has a large herd of cattle when he may wish to plant clovers and good grasses for the animals. The meanwhile he must add to the land – if it is clay then he will wish to spread marl, a chalky substance that will lighten the soil; he will wish to spread dung, as much as he can; if there is a slaughterhouse then there will be offal, mostly the guts and their contents; here, where we have iron making, there is the slag which can be broken down almost to dust and is rich in useful chemicals.”

  “Slag? It is useful, you say? Could be sold to farmers?”

  “Yes, sir, very handy stuff!”

  “I have a damned great heap of it, getting in the way and growing every year at Roberts – my iron foundry, in Lancashire. I must send a note to my managers to make enquiries in the farming areas. Now, then – rotations, dung and the like – what else?”

  “A stock book – a record, sir, of every animal - weight, how much milk they produce, how well they breed, how healthy or sickly they may be – so that the farmer will know which must be permitted to breed and which must be culled in order to improve his herds and flocks. As well, sir, there are new tools invented almost every year – new ploughs, seed drills, harrows, dung carts even – and the Model Farm should always have the best, so that the tenants can see what they should buy when the time comes. Also, sir, it is often the case that the estate will breed its own heavy horses or Berkshire hogs or German cattle that the tenants can buy, or which may be sold to other estates in the neighbourhood – to the benefit of its name, of course.”

  “It will cost, then.”

  “Undoubtedly, sir, not less than a thousand in the first setting-up, more in following years, breaking even in five or ten, I expect. As well, sir, I shall have to gee-up Newton, the farmer, on a daily basis – not the most enterprising of men, sir, on a good day, that is.”

  “I suspect it must be done, Quillerson, but we shall have to watch the costs – I do
not like open commitments with no more than a guess of what they will demand of my funds. My name is not Rockingham! A full budget with an indication of cash demands and dates.”

  Tom saw the blank expression, settled down with pen and paper for a few minutes of brief explanation, not unhappy to display a knowledge that the young man lacked. He was a bright, quick learner, thought that he could produce an outline of what would be required, said that he would come back with his first proposals in two or three days.

  Just before five o’clock, Tom strolled out to the stableyard, finding his way by following his ears; at least forty men and women and twice as many catcalling children were farewelling Smythe and Daniel; he leant quietly in the shade of the doorway to watch and listen.

  The insults and abuse were unoriginal, he had hear them all before, though the one about the pigs was quite entertainingly expressed; they seemed to revolve around a pair of themes – Smythe was a thief and a swindler who had had his hands in everybody’s pockets, down to deductions from the servants’ wages as ‘fines’ for breakages, and that he had been free with his hands, a bully clipping the girls’ ears, a dirty old man grabbing their bottoms. Where jobs were few and far between it was a brave girl who made a fuss over anything short of rape, Tom reflected, more especially when her father worked for the estate and needed to keep his tied cottage and his weekly wage. He scowled at a pair of children selecting suitably squishy horse apples – better to keep things short of riot; ‘very useful, that scar’, he thought as the two little boys fled in horror.

  He ate in solitary splendour at the great table in the large dining-room, attended by Morton the butler, taking a single glass of wine with his goose, one of port afterwards, serving notice that he was the lightest of drinkers – all in the house please note! He asked Morton to send a message to cook, telling her what an excellent dinner it was, how much he had enjoyed it.

  “What can you tell me of our neighbours, Morton?”