Haggard

by Christopher Nicole

  'Emma?' Now why did his heart start pounding all over again?

  'She was a witch all right. Still is a witch. She has a witch's power of survival. But she's alive, and lives just beyond the borders of Derleth.' He gestured at the hills. 'Just over there. Alice visits her regularly.'

  'And you permit this?'

  'How would I stop her, without using force? I permit more than that, by God. How do you suppose Emma has lived, these past years? There's no money in witchcraft. Only satisfaction. She spun cotton with the rest of them. A regular spider's web of a community we had here. And she'd not come to the factory looking for work. But she'd not move on, either. She's still there, waiting for me to die, I'd wager. Alice supports her.'

  'Alice?'

  'She has an allowance of two hundred a month, and nothing to spend it on. She must have accumulated a tidy sum. And she gave it all to Emma. Truly, boy, I am glad to have you back.'

  'Well . . . Emma is her mother.' Roger said cautiously.

  'So she is.' Haggard dismounted before the huge door. 'You'll come inside.'

  Roger felt strangely embarrassed. He also dismounted, gazed up at the wall and the roof, was again reminded of something prehistoric, or more likely, he supposed, something out of the future, some monolithic society where only a few people were ever allowed to see the light of day.

  But the doors were being opened, and Haggard was being welcomed. A bell was ringing, and the gigantic hum was slowly dying, to be followed by an equally gigantic scraping. Roger realised that the looms had come to a halt and everyone was getting to their feet. Because the squire had decided to visit them.

  He stood just inside the doorway, stared at the machines, arranged in orderly rows, at the men and women who stood there, gazing at their employer, at the better dressed men, obviously foremen, who were gathered round his father, explaining and pointing ... it reminded him of the West Indies, save that the labourers there had been black, and that they had been slaves —and that it had been in the open air with a cooling breeze playing over them.

  'My son,' Haggard was saying. 'Captain Roger Haggard. Lately back from Spain.'

  Their names swirled about Roger's head as he shook hands. 'You'll explain all this to me, I have no doubt,' he said.

  'Aye,’ ‘well, 'tis simple enough, Captain Haggard. Tis the water supplies the power, you'll understand. That keeps the jennies and the mules moving at speed, and the cloth is turned out far quicker than ever before. Oh, 'tis a simple operation.'

  'I shall study it,' Roger said, and glanced at his father, who was wiping sweat from his forehead. Now he nodded, and they stepped back outside. The noise became almost pleasant.

  'By God, 'tis hot in there,' Haggard said.

  'I wonder those poor people survive.'

  'People can survive anything they get used to.'

  'But would it not be possible to install fans? They could be worked by block and pulley, or even by the water power.'

  'Fans? You'll be sounding like Alice, next. Those people are there to work, not to enjoy themselves. I pay them enough, by God.' He mounted, walked his horse away from the noise, drew rein again, gazed at the barges being loaded with coal. 'You'll inherit this. Roger.'

  ‘I doubt I have the right, sir. What of Johnnie?'

  'Johnnie?' An expression Roger could never remember having seen before crossed his father's face. 'You're the eldest. You were always my heir. He gets his allowance, and that should be sufficient. But this wealth, the factory here and in Barbados, these mines, these will be yours to handle, soon enough.'

  'I doubt not you'll live to be a hundred. Father.' Roger smiled. 'You look fit enough.'

  'And I feel fit enough, to be sure. But no man lives for ever. And sometimes I feel mighty tired.' His turn to smile. ‘ Tis a great strain, being hated. You will have to get used to that.'

  'Being hated? You?'

  'Me, boy. And you, in time.'

  'Surely people have forgotten about Middlesex by now.'

  'Probably they have, but they hate me still. And in these parts they hate me for the factory.'

  'You're not the only mill owner in the Midlands?'

  'Of course I'm not. We're none of us too popular. At least here in Derleth we've kept the peace. You've heard of the happenings in Nottingham?'

  'Some.'

  Haggard urged his horse away from the mine and towards the hills which marked the limit of Derleth. 'Luddites, they call them. Way back, before I even thought of building my factory, some poor halfwit named Ned Ludd burned his master's mill. Well, that was the act of a madman. But recently, as times have got hard, there have been enough radical spirits ready to resort to crime and violence, especially in these parts.'

  'Times have got hard, Father,' Roger pointed out.

  The nation has been at war for twenty years. Times have got hard for everyone. They will get better when Bonaparte surrenders. But we'll not beat him by fighting amongst ourselves.'

  'Perhaps the people don't much care whether we beat him or not,' Roger suggested. 'They'd rather have full bellies and warm houses.'

  'The people,' Haggard said disgustedly. 'You're sounding like your sister. That's why I want you to understand what you're about. The people? The people have no brains, no intentions.

  They are like the sea, which has no menace of its own. Left to itself it just lies there, peacefully enough, and is a pleasure to bathe in or sail upon. But let the wind get at it, and all that changes. That's your people for you. You have to be sure you know what's best for them, for your people, and do it, no matter how much they grumble. That's what I've always done, and I have prospered. You'll do no less, boy. Even here in Derleth, while we've had our quarrels, we've had no riots. Some crazy fools tried to burn the factory before it was even built, but they didn't succeed. And since then, there's been no trouble. My people know I'd not stand for it. But the whole country is coming to my point of view. There's a bill before Parliament now, decreeing the death penalty for frame destroying, and giving the power to the local Justices. That's me, boy, and you, in time. That'll soon put a stop to all this nonsense."

  And Parliament truly represents the people, Roger thought, remembering the men with whom he had lived and fought for twenty years. There was a farce. But he didn't say it.

  'What does Johnnie think of it all?'

  'Johnnie?' Haggard snorted. 'I'll not talk about Johnnie. He'll be back soon enough. You'll meet him then.' He drew rein, reached across to take his son's hand. 'Oh, 'tis good to have you back, boy. So good. I'd not admit this to anyone but you, but I was a lonely old man until I heard you were alive. Had I the power I'd exhume that bitch and hang her from the highest gallows I could build.' He paused, and flushed, perhaps surprised as much by his own vehemence as was his son. 'But 'tis all in the past now. You're back, and I'll love you the more for being away. This valley is yours, Roger, whenever you want it. I'll retire and watch you prosper.'

  'Ah, 'tis a splendid place, Captain, sir. A splendid place.' Corcoran lovingly brushed the shoulders of his master's uniform jacket, adjusted an epaulette. 'Why, sir, I'll never understand how you turned away from all this for so long.' He paused, hopefully.

  ‘I doubt you would understand it, Corcoran.' But it is a splendid place, he thought, gazing out of the window, and frowning as he watched the people trooping down the road into the dusk. They came from both the mine and the mill, seemed happy enough. But then, it was Friday evening, and they had a weekend of holidaying to look forward to. As it was Friday evening they would also have just been paid.

  But twenty years ago, on a Friday evening, they would have been trooping back from the cricket field rather than the factory, and they would not have had to depend on the squire for their wages. They would have been less prosperous perhaps, but had they been happier? He supposed there was no way he could ever find out; they'd hardly talk frankly to a squire's son who was also a stranger.

  Corcoran seemed at last satisfied. There you are, sir. Enjoy your s
upper.' 'And you?'

  'Oh, aye, Captain, I'll enjoy mine. They eats well in this house, sir. I've never had such food, even below stairs.'

  Haggard went down the stairs. They eats well in this house. Times are hard, Father had said. Times had been hard in Barbados, from time to time. But they had never eaten less than well. He thought of the times he had lain to his arms, in the freezing rain, with hardly a hunk of black bread to keep him from starving. Now, if rumour was to be believed, the entire country sometimes approached that terrible state. The people. But not John Haggard.

  And therefore not Roger Haggard. Nor anyone else privileged enough to be taken under the protective wing of Derleth Hall. Not Roger Haggard's wife. He paused at the next landing in surprise. It was not a thought he had seriously entertained before. But he was home. He was again, marvellously and mysteriously, heir to the Haggard fortune. Therefore it was his duty to marry, and have other Haggards. Who would it be? Who would wish to marry Roger Haggard? Why, every unmarried lady in England, no doubt, whether they gave a damn for him or not.

  He heard the rustle of her gown, inhaled the very faint scent of her perfume, turned in sheer pleasure, all other women banished from the very recesses of his mind. 'Alice' He held out his hand. 'We've not had a moment to be alone together.'

  She squeezed his fingers, ‘I'm sure you have been very busy, learning all about Father's plans and projects.'

  Still holding her hand, he escorted her along the corridor to the great withdrawing room. 'Plans of which I gather you do not approve.'

  'I am sure you have no desire to discuss my approval, or disapproval.' She freed herself as the footman opened the door for them, seated herself by the open windows, allowed the gentle breeze to ruffle her hair.

  ‘I do, actually.' He sat beside her.

  'It is very simple.' She smiled at him. 'Father believes it is his heaven-sent duty to be rich, and then richer, and then richer yet. He believes that everyone not exactly in his own class was put here to assist in that inevitable progress. That they may have some aspirations of their own concerns him not in the least. I doubt he even believes it.'

  'You enjoy his wealth.'

  She gave him a quick glance, and flushed. 'I am a coward. Had I a spark of talent, in any direction, I might be prepared to strike out on my own. As I have not . . .'

  'You have your allowance. Sufficient to live on, I'd suppose. Father would certainly not cut you off were you to leave. I'd not let him.'

  Again the quick glance, and a deepened flush.

  That is, did you not squander it, on charity,' Roger said gently.

  This time she turned her whole body. 'Of course. Father has been quick enough to place you at his side.'

  ‘I belong at his side,' Roger pointed out. 'But I do respect what you have been doing. I think you have done it long enough, that's all. Father is making me a princely allowance. I can certainly spare some of it. I would like you to allow me to support Emma, and leave yourself free to do what you wish with your life.'

  Her colour slowly returned to normal. 'I doubt Mama would wish to accept charity, from you.'

  'We were friends, once.'

  'Perhaps you were less of a Haggard, then.’

  'Perhaps. At least allow her to make up her own mind. Will you take me to see her?'

  'No.'

  He frowned. 'May I ask why not?'

  ‘It would make her unhappy. God knows this family has brought her sufficient of that.'

  This family, as you put it, is also partly hers.'

  'Oh, bah. Anyway, it's immaterial. You're Roger Haggard. You'll inherit all of this. You cannot be anything other than Father's son. We can all only hope you'll be more understanding. I don't blame Father, believe me, for what he is. What he was born to. How could he be otherwise, with a background like his?'

  'You don't blame him,' Roger Haggard said. 'But you hate him.'

  Her head came up. 'There's a terrible thing to say.'

  'Yet you'll not deny it. It's in your every look.'

  Alice got up, walked to the window, looked out at the park. 'I hate him.'

  'Have you a reason, beyond his treatment of your mother? Beyond the death of Charlie?'

  She would not look at him. 'Aren't those sufficient reasons?'

  'I imagine they are. I'm trying to discover if there are any others. Something even more personal.'

  At last she turned. 'And if I told you?'

  Tell me.'

  She stared at him for several seconds, ‘I hate him,' she said at last, ‘I have sufficient reason.'

  'And I have offered you the opportunity to leave this place, to live on your own, or indeed, to live with your mother if you chose. I'll have your allowance doubled, tripled, quadrupled.'

  'Are you so anxious to be rid of me?'

  ‘I shall never be rid of you. I merely seek your happiness. It is not good for you to live here, hating. Good for neither you nor for Father.'

  Alice Haggard's face twisted with anger, ‘I do not care what is good for me or what is good for Father. I will stay here, and one day I shall see him suffer. So help me God, I will.'

  Empty words. She knew that now. Two years, and she was no nearer discovering any proof of what she knew. Father's people were too afraid of him, too thoroughly in his pocket, even to betray him. Two years in which she had watched Meg turn inwards, watched her seem to shrivel, in her mind if not in her body, watched too Emma dwindle, as she had in turn watched her daughter shrink from life; there was too much of the lady born into Emma, and thus too much of it born into Meg, there was the trouble. Had she truly been a tinker's daughter she would have shrugged off her rape as a misfortune, like stubbing her toe or the toothache, to be forgotten. But her grandfather had been squire of Derleth Hall no less than was John Haggard, and through her there ran a streak of gentility which ill fitted her for the brutalities of this world.

  But it had been a disturbing, a frightening two years in more than that. It had been two years in which Harry Bold and his son, robbed of their self respect by their inability to find a weaver for their cotton no less than by their inability to track down the men who had savaged their daughter and sister, had turned more and more openly into outlaws, men who went abroad only by night, who poached as a way of life, even if her money kept them from poaching as a necessity. But even they were left less than men by their fear of John Haggard. They never crossed the hills to poach Derleth land. John Haggard's gamekeepers were well armed, and were trained to shoot to kill, and woe betide any midnight rambler who was taken alive; he found himself on the next ship for the New South Wales settlement. No one could argue that John Haggard's justice was ever unfair; no one could deny that it was savage.

  So what would he sentence himself when it was proved that he had arranged a rape? Supposing it could ever be proved.

  And two years, finally, in which she had watched John stagnate. Or perhaps stagnation was too flattering a word. He had retreated, from whatever he had been, and she was realising that that had been little enough. But the idle youth who had scribbled verses and amused himself with the dissolute aristocracy now hardly even scribbled verses, while his holidays at Derleth, kept as brief as possible, seemed nothing more than dismal adventures in boredom. He seldom rode abroad, kept to the house and the tower, sat on the terrace and stared at the park, and when questioned as to his thoughts, gave a sly and secret smile. There is much to be considered,' he would say. 'Much.'

  'Of what you will do when you leave Cambridge?' she would insist.

  'Indeed. Of what I shall do when I leave Cambridge,' he would agree.

  'And do you not suppose it would be'a good idea for you to visit Margaret? A kindness?'

  'Oh, hush, for God's sake,' he would cry, his alarm almost feminine. 'She knows, don't you see? She knows I am a coward. Christ, how that thought haunts me. She knows.'

  That you are a coward, Johnnie boy. Therefore why do I waste my energy in thinking of you? Why do I count upon you as my ultimate
weapon against Father?

  She had left the mine and the factory far behind, emerged beyond the hills and now looked down on the trees. She was at the limit of Derleth, and would soon be entering Plowding. She had refused to bring Roger. But why did she not turn to Roger for support, as he had offered, or for the implementation of her vengeance? Because she knew he was too like his father? Because the years of discipline and comradeship in the Army had changed him, and he was no longer the determined rebel of his boyhood?

  A rabbit started out of the underbush beneath her horse's hooves. Sparkle gave a terrified neigh, rose on her hind legs; desperately Alice shortened her rein, at the same time giving an instinctive flick of her riding crop against the horse's haunches. Sparkle gave another shriek of terror, and leapt forward; Alice had to throw herself flat on the mare's neck to avoid being swept away by the first low branch which removed her hat. 'Sparkle,' she shouted. 'Whoa, girl. Whoa, Sparkle.'

  But the mare had seized the bit and was not going to be checked. Through the trees she stampeded, throwing her body this way and that to avoid injury, throwing Alice this way and that as well. She abandoned all idea of riding, and grasped the horn of her saddle. Her left foot came out of the stirrup and for some seconds she clung on by a sheer act of will. Dimly she heard shouts and the drumming of other hooves, then she could no longer keep her seat; the saddle slid sideways and she felt herself hurtling through the air for a moment before she struck the ground, landing, amazingly, on her feet, which immediately gave way beneath the impact. She hit the ground with her knees, rolled over twice, seemed to see a tree trunk hurtling towards her, and knew nothing.

  For some seconds. Surely it had been nothing more than that. Her eyes opened and she was aware only of pain, in her legs, certainly, but that was nothing compared with the pain in her head. It seemed that a giant was standing immediately behind her, hitting her with a hammer. She screamed with the agony, closed her eyes, opened them again. Through the pain haze she gazed at men. One man. Peter Wring. Thank God for Peter Wring. But there were others. Two men. Three men. Four men. Five men.