Haggard

by Christopher Nicole

  'I am a coward. There is no need to pretend. My God, what Father would say . . .'

  'No one is going to tell Father,' Alice said.

  'But what am I to do?’ Johnnie begged.

  Alice sucked her upper lip beneath her teeth. She was still haunted, often enough, by the memory of slaves screaming as they had been flogged. But the only physical violence she had experienced had been a whipping from her father. She found her brain could not cope with the idea of being held on the ground and raped by five men. What Meg must be feeling like did not bear consideration.

  But then, she realised, her brain could not cope with the idea of any man touching her body. It was an aspect of life she had always rejected utterly. Meg was different. Meg was more down to earth. Meg might even recover from being raped, where Alice knew she would have curled up and died.

  But that Harry Bold and Emma would ever forgive Johnnie for what had happened was impossible. No amount of wishful thinking could change that certainty.

  'It's so unfair,'' she said. 'For God's sake, I have ridden over those meadows and through those woods for five years, visiting Mama, and I've never been molested. I've never heard of anyone being molested . . .'

  There were five of them,' Johnnie moaned. 'Alice, I must go away, and never come back. Otherwise I am disgraced for ever.'

  'Oh, stuff and nonsense,' Alice said, and held him close again. Five men, appearing from nowhere, to rape a girl. Five men who had disregarded the implicit threat in their victim being a Haggard. They could not have known he would prove a coward. They could not have known he would not have ridden back to Derleth and called out his father's people, scoured the entire countryside as far as Nottingham, if need be, to catch them and hang them. They could not have known.

  She found herself staring past her brother's head at the mirror on the wall, was surprised by the expression on her face. Five men who had appeared from nowhere, to commit a dastardly crime, a crime which might specifically have been designed to end the possibility that Johnnie Haggard could ever marry Margaret Bold.

  The first thing you must do,' she said, still holding him close, 'is get up and get dressed and come down for supper.'

  ‘I could not,' Johnnie moaned, ‘I could not face anyone. Certainly not Father.'

  Alice shook him. 'You will face Father. And you'll be charming to Miss Annesley. No one, but no one, must even guess what might have happened. Do you understand?'

  He raised his head to look at her. 'But . . .'

  'You must pretend, Johnnie. I will help you. And I will help you regain your self respect, too. Can't you see. there is only one thing you can do. You must track these men down.'

  He frowned at her, through his tears. Track them down?'

  'And avenge Meg. And yourself.'

  'Avenge Meg?' he asked stupidly. 'Find the men? But how can I find the men? They'll be miles away by now. Perhaps Father . . .'

  'You are not to tell Father,' she said fiercely. 'Nothing. Let him suppose it was a fall from a horse. He'd never forgive you for being a coward. This is something you must do by yourself. Those men beat you. You must get your own back. I will help you.'

  'You?' He sighed. 'Anyway, how can I? I have to go back to Cambridge.'

  ‘I told you. I will help you. I have friends in the village, and I have my friends in Plowding. Besides, the Bolds will help me. 1 will discover who those men were, and then I will deliver them to vour justice.' She squeezed his arm. 'And next time you will not fail.'

  He stared at her. 'Could I? Do you really suppose we could?'

  'We shall,' she promised him. if you will but play your part. Now go and dress yourself.' She kissed him on the forehead, left the room, closed the door behind her and leaned against it. And I shall find out who paid those men, she thought, and deliver him also to your vengeance, dear Johnnie.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE PRODIGAL

  The two horsemen drew rein at the top of the rise, where the London turnpike branched into Derleth Valley. It was just noon on a June day, and the sun was high and scorching down on the village, and the duck filled pond, and the green beyond, sparkling from the windows of the church, making the grotesque house on the far side of the valley glow. 'Home,' Roger Haggard said.

  'And right pretty it is too, Captain,' Corcoran agreed. He pointed. 'But what might that be, your honour?'

  Roger smiled; he did this as easily as ever, for all the tightness induced in his face by the constant pain from the arm he carried in a sling. ' Tis my home, you rascal, as you well know. Come on.' He touched his horse with his heels, and the pair rode down the lane towards the inn. And Roger found himself frowning. A Friday in June. Already the cricket pitch should be being mown with scythes, and the jugs of ale and cider should be being prepared for the afternoon's match—but the green was empty, as indeed was the street.

  'Weil stop at the inn,' he decided.

  'I'm all in favour of that, your honour,' Corcoran agreed. He was in favour of any suggestion which might come from his master. He knew that he had to be the most fortunate private in the entire British Army, to have found someone like Captain Haggard and to have been taken away from the marching and fighting, the killing and the dying, that was Spain, even if only for a season. He hastily dismounted and hurried round the horses to be there if needed. But dismounting was less of a problem to Roger than mounting; he did not use his right arm for that.

  He went up the steps, pushed open the door, knowing that Corcoran would see to the horses. He stepped into the gloom. blinked, realised that it was the first time he had ever entered this place. He had shaved off his moustache, but he did not suppose there was the least chance of being recognised.

  'Sir?' Hatchard peered at him from behind the counter, frowning at the crimson jacket, and the grey trousers, the empty sword belt and the well worn shako, the bandaged right arm.

  'A mug of ale,' Roger said. 'And one for my man.'

  'Right away, sir.' Hatchard had them on the counter before Corcoran could gain the room.

  'Now there's a happy sight, Mr. . . .’ He raised his eyebrows us Roger shook his head.

  'What's the name of this village, landlord?'

  'Why, sir, Derleth.'

  'Ah. And is it then, derelict?'

  'Bless you, sir, no. You'll not find a more populous community in the county.'

  'But everyone is away visiting.' 'Working, sir. Working.' 'On a Friday afternoon?'

  'Aye, well, the squire is not a man to have idle hands about the place, sir. He reckons Saturday afternoon is enough to have free, what with Sunday as well, and who's to say he's not right.'

  Roger drank beer. 'The squire being Mr. Haggard?'

  That's correct, sir. You'll have heard of the gentleman?'

  ‘I have. But tell me this, landlord. What do the people work at? I'd heard there were coal mines about here, but you'll not pretend they occupy an entire village?'

  ' Tis the mill, sir.'

  'Mill?'

  'Oh, aye, we spin cotton in Derleth, Captain.' Roger found himself frowning. They always have spun cotton in Derleth.'

  Hatchard did not appear to notice the slip, indeed they have, sir. But on hand looms. Regular cottage industry it was. sir. Then the squire got to thinking about it, and decided it would be best for all, or at least, best for himself and best for the wholesaler, if the business was put in order, you might say. So he built the mill. You'll not see it from here, it's over the hills by the coal mine. But it employs everyone in the village, just about. Leastways, all those not coaling, or farming. Even brings in people from Plowding.'

  'But why should the people spin cotton for my . . . for Mr. Haggard, when they can do so for themselves?' Roger demanded. 'He can't be paying them that much.'

  'Well, sir, there's them that say he don't pay anyone enough. But that's just gossip, sir. No, no, the fact is, Mr. Haggard signed a contract with the wholesaler that he'd buy only from the factory, so it was spin at the mill or not at all. The mill ca
n produce so much more cloth, you see, sir, than any number of hand looms. Well, sir, what with rents going up, and the cost of grain, well, sir, there weren't much choice.'

  Roger scratched his head. 'And the people didn't object?'

  'Lord above, sir, 'tis the squire they're working for. Oh, there was some talk. There's been a bit of unrest, farther north. They was burning frames in Nottingham and thereabouts, only last winter. And like I said, there's been talk. Wild talk. But not more than that. There's no man in Derleth, or for twenty miles about, would openly oppose Mr. Haggard. No, sir.'

  'A hard man, is he?'

  'Well, sir, he has a way with him, that he has.' Roger finished his beer, signalled for a refill, and for Corcoran. 'He's family?'

  'Well, sir, yes and no. And there's the main part of the trouble, if you ask me.'

  ‘I am asking you. What trouble?'

  'Mr. Haggard can be fierce, when he's a mood to it. But it's all to do with his misfortunes, I'd say. Sixteen years now he's been a widower . . .' Hatchard sighed. 'And then, the boy being lost at sea. and the heir also going astray, although, mind you, sir, there is talk that he's been found, and will be coming back again. That's done wonders for the squire, that it has. Smiles, nowadays, he does.'

  There are other children?'

  'Oh, aye, sir, well, there's young Master John. He's at university, he is. Strange boy. Very serious. And then there's Miss Alice . . .'

  'Yes?' Roger had to suppress the eagerness in his voice.

  'A lovely girl, sir. Lovely. But serious. Oh, aye, they're a serious family. You'll take another pint, sir?'

  Roger shook his head. 'We'll be on our way.'

  'You'll not find another inn for twenty miles, sir, and 'tis hard on dinner time.'

  'Weil manage,' Roger said. 'Come on, private.'

  'Right away, Mr. Haggard, sir,' Corcoran said, finishing his pint and bustling for the door, while Hatchard stared after the pair of them.

  'Seems like your father has his people well in hand, Captain, sir,' Corcoran observed as they rode up the empty street. 'Like a good officer should.'

  'Save that my father was never in the Army,' Roger observed.

  'Oh, aye, sir, but a man what would be a good soldier will always be a good soldier, regardless of whether he actually bears a musket. Wouldn't you agree, sir?'

  'It's a point of view.' They were out the other side of the houses, now, passing the school, also closed, and the church. Here at the least there were signs of life; Roger saluted the verger sweeping down the path between the gravestones, and received a long stare in reply. Then he was approaching the stand of poplars, through which the sunlight glinted on the white stone of the tomb. He knew whose it was, from Father's letters. He wondered if he should dismount and pay his respects. To her? He rode on.

  The new Hall had weathered, the stone turned green and brown by the trees and the wind. He drew rein to gaze at it, and attempt to remember, and found it difficult. Rufus should be sunning himself outside the front door, but there was only an undergardener, turning over a bed. Yet the house was active; most of the windows stood open, and he could hear voices. He turned his horse in at the gate, rode down the short drive, watched the grooms coming from the stable, headed by a man he did not recognise.

  'You're expected, Captain?'

  Roger dismounted. 'In a manner of speaking. You are?'

  The head groom frowned at him. 'Ned's my name, sir.'

  Roger nodded. 'Private Corcoran will help you unstrap our gear.' He walked towards the door. — 'You'll pardon me, Captain.' Ned hurried at his heels. 'But the squire likes his guests to be announced.'

  'I'll announce myself,' Roger said. Ned hesitated, chewing his lip, and looking relieved as Nugent came down the inner staircase.

  'Sir?'

  ‘Is the squire at home?'

  ‘Indeed, sir. But I do not think he is expecting a visitor.' indeed he is,' Roger said, and climbed the stairs.

  'He cannot be interrupted, sir,' Nugent protested. 'Sir, I must ask you . .'

  Roger had reached the first landing, and was opening the door to the office.

  'Sir, 1 must protest,' Nugent said in a strangled voice. But Roger was gazing past MacGuinness at his father, slowly rising from his chair.

  'What? What ... my God.'

  'Father?' He had not supposed any man could look so old or so tired. Certainly not John Haggard. And he was not yet sixty.

  'My God,' John Haggard repeated, and slowly sat down again. MacGuinness hastily got to his feet.

  'You'll remember me, .MacGuinness.' Roger held out his left hand, and after a moment MacGuinness took it.

  'My head still hurts. Master Roger.'

  'I'll apologise for that blow, to be sure.' Roger went round the desk. 'Father?'

  John Haggard stood up again, held out his arms. 'My God, boy, but it is good to see you. Good . . .'He held his son close, blinked at MacGuinness, who backed to the door. 'But . . .'He stepped back, stared at the arm.

  'A sword thrust.'

  'Crippled. My God.'

  'Hardly crippled. Father. But temporarily unable to defend myself. Else I would not be here.' 'At Badajoz?' Roger nodded.

  'You must tell me of it. Was it as savage as the papers say?' it was savage. Father. Even British soldiers can be savage. But after, the Duke gave me leave of absence. Until my arm is healed.' Haggard frowned. Then you must go back?' 'Tis my profession.'

  'But I need you here. My God . . .'He seized Roger's hand. 'I have waited for this moment, boy. You'll not desert me again.'

  Roger squeezed the fingers clutching his. 'In a month or two you may tire of me.'

  Tire of you, boy? Tire of you . . .' John Haggard slapped his son on the shoulder. Tire of you. Christ, there is so much to say, so much to do . . . your room.' He went to the door. 'Mary Prince,' he bawled. 'Mary Prince. You'll see to Master Roger's room. Quickly now, girl.'

  ‘I've a manservant with me,' Roger said. 'He has fought at my side these three years.'

  'And will always be welcome at Derleth. You heard Master Roger, Mary Prince.'

  'Indeed, sir.' Mary gave a little curtsey. 'Are you really Master Roger?'

  'Why so I am,' Roger smiled, ‘I do not remember you.'

  Mary flushed. 'I came to Hall just before your worship left it, sir. But it is so good to have you back.'

  'It is good to be back, Mary, I promise you.'

  'Ah, begone with you,' Haggard growled. 'She'll stand there all the day when she has work to do. See to it, Mary Prince. See to it. You've seen Alice?'

  'Why, no, sir. 1 came straight to you.' How his heart was again pounding at the thought of her.

  'She'll know you're here by now,' Haggard said. 'News travels through this house like fire through a canefield. Alice.' He went to the stairs, looked up.

  Roger stood at his side, gazed up at the woman. Alice was thirty-one years old, he recalled, only five years younger than himself. But life had passed her by. In the wavy red hair, the slender body, the quiet house gown, she might have been ten years the younger; she reminded him of his last memory of Emma.

  'Alice,' he said, and climbed the stairs.

  She made no reply at all, but as he reached her he saw the tears rolling down the cheeks. Then she was in his arms, hugged close, and crying unashamedly.

  'You'll want to be careful of her,' Haggard remarked. 'She'll be enlisting your help.'

  Roger released her, held her away from him to smile at her. 'And I shall give it, freely,' he said. 'You have but to name the cause.'

  Haggard gave a shout of laughter. 'Against me.' 'Father?' Roger frowned, looked from one to the other, it is Father's joke,' Alice Haggard said quietly. 'He is a great one for humour.'

  'No joke,' Haggard said. 'God, I wish it were. She opposes me in everything. But mainly it is the factory.' He drew rein, and pointed.

  They sat their horses in the cut through the hills, with the mine close to their right, and to their left the great rectangular
bulk of the mill. It reminded Roger of an immense tomb, something created by the Pharaohs. Save that this was alive. The clanking of the huge wheel, the rushing of the water, filled the morning.

  'I'm not sure I understand the situation,' he said. 'You say it provides work for two hundred people.'

  That it does,' Haggard agreed. 'We bring in labour from several of the surrounding villages.'

  'And Alice objects to this?’

  'Ah, well, you see, in the old days, these people spun cotton by themselves. In their houses, you understand. A precarious living it was, and the profits were low. But it made them independent. As if that were a good thing. There's those born to be independent, and those born to be dependent. You agree with that?'

  ‘I had never considered it,' Roger said. But he had considered it, he supposed. There could be no clearer example of that philosophy than the Army. There were those born to be officers, and there were those bom to be private soldiers. He supposed his own career proved the point. He had been born to be an officer, had thrown away his birthright, and still had risen to the very top of the non-commissioned tree, without a favour from a soul. While Corcoran was a private and would remain one for all his life.

  'But you're thinking of it now,' Haggard said, and urged his horse forward.

  'Indeed I was. I imagine you're right. Haven't you explained things to Alice?'

  'Explained things? You cannot explain things to Alice. To any woman, by my way of thinking. Women feel, they do not reason. But Alice is more unreasonable than most. Tis a personal matter. You'd not know Emma Dearborn is still alive.'