The Adventures of Tom Leigh

by Phyllis Bentley

  We came down a very steep hillside lane, which I was glad to get to the bottom of, not trusting Jeremy overmuch with the reins, and crossed a ford, which I enjoyed; it was agreeable to see the water splashing round our wheels. Then up another steep hillside and so into the main road to Halifax. This was quite busy with folk going to market; clothiers on horseback with a piece across their saddle, less well-to-do men carrying a piece across their shoulder, their arm akimbo to take the strain; housewives with butter and eggs in baskets; two big wagons each drawn by two horses, piled with cloth. What with the rolling of the wagon wheels, the clop-clop of the horses’ hoofs, and the chatter of the passing folk, there was quite a hubbub, and this grew louder as we neared the town. Then, too, everyone was wearing their good go-to-market clothes, so there was colour everywhere. I thought once I saw the scarlet stockings of the pedlar in the distance, but Jeremy turned sharply to the left just then, so I did not get a clear view; besides our pedlar was not the only man to wear red stockings.

  Presently we passed a very strange kind of wooden frame, standing on a platform of earth by the side of the road. This platform was walled round, with steps leading up to it, quite solid. I could not make out what the use of the thing could be: there were two tall upright pieces of timber, grooved, and joined near the top by a beam across; within these was a square block of wood, which looked as if it would slide up and down in the groove.

  “What is that, Jeremy?” I asked.

  “That’s the gibbet,” he said. “Haven’t you heard of Halifax Gibbet Law? Anyone caught stealing cloth from tenters had his head chopped off. The chap was thrown down on the ground, and there was an axe, you see, nailed to that block”—he pointed—“and the block was held up by a rope wound round a peg, and they drew the peg out, and down fell the axe. Whoosh!”

  “That’s horrible!” I cried.

  “Well, you needn’t fret yourself, lad; it hasn’t been used for seventy years or more,” sneered Jeremy. “Can’t you see the axe and the rope aren’t there now?”

  “I’m glad of that. I suppose the law was so strict because it’s so easy to steal cloth from the tenters,” I said.

  “I daresay. Oh be hanged to the gibbet!” he cried suddenly, touching up the horse with his whip so that it started forward. “It makes one sick to look at the thing.”

  Indeed he had gone quite pale.

  “I agree with you, Jeremy,” said I warmly, and for the first time I felt drawn to the man.

  A moment later we passed an inn, the sign of which declared it to be the Rose and Crown, and in the doorway who should be standing but Mr. Defoe.

  “There’s Mr. Defoe!” I cried, waving my hand to him. “Oh, Jeremy, may I go and talk with him? Just for a few minutes?”

  “You can do owt you like for owt I care,” said Jeremy roughly. “I don’t want to see you again till six o’clock tonight. You can meet me then in the Old Cock yard.”

  “Very well,” said I, delighted.

  Mr. Defoe had pushed his way through the crowd and now came up to the wagon, which was halted for me to dismount.

  “Well, Tom! Good morning,” said he.

  “Oh, Mr. Defoe, I am so glad to see you, to tell you how much I am enjoying—we are all enjoying—” I began. Then I remembered my manners, and said: “This is Jeremy Oldfield, journeyman weaver to Mr. Firth. I don’t think you saw him at Upper High Royd, he was busy at the loom.”

  “Morning. No, I didn’t see you at Upper High Royd,” said Mr. Defoe to Jeremy, who muttered: “Servant,” and touched his forelock. “But I saw you last night, I think. In a corner at the inn here. You were arguing some point over a drink of ale with a fellow in scarlet stockings and a man pitted by smallpox.”

  “Me, sir? No, sir! I wasn’t in Halifax last night,” cried Jeremy quickly. “You’ve mistaken your man, sir. You have indeed.”

  “Well, maybe so,” said Mr. Defoe carelessly. “The corner was dark. It’s of no consequence.”

  “We must be off, Tom,” said Jeremy, whipping up the horse.

  “You said I could talk to Mr. Defoe, Jeremy,” I cried, as the wagon wheel nearly knocked me down.

  “Do as you like, it’s nowt to me if I never see you again,” Jeremy threw back over his shoulder.

  “A surly, ill-conditioned fellow,” said Mr. Defoe. “I wonder how your Mr. Firth, who is a cheerful, open kind of man, can bear to keep him.”

  “He is a good weaver.”

  “All the same I saw him here last night, talking to scarlet stockings and pockface. Money passed between them.”

  “Jeremy’s time after six is his own. Robinson Crusoe is grand, Mr. Defoe!” I burst out, tired of talk about Jeremy.

  Mr. Defoe laughed, and jingled the coins in his pocket.

  “It must be long hours since you left Upper High Royd, Tom,” said he. “Art hungry, lad? Come in and break your fast.”

  So I very thankfully ate a large plate of fried ham and eggs, often having to answer Mr. Defoe’s questions most unbecomingly with my mouth full, for it seemed he was in haste, having arranged to be allowed to enter the Cloth Hall and watch the market there, and so was listening for the bell. Presently it rang and we hurried off together, for I was loath to part with him.

  The Cloth Hall seemed to me a poor ordinary place compared with our fine old Guildhall in Lavenham, but as we stood by the broad doors I was certainly astonished by the number of pieces brought in, which I reckoned to be upwards of three hundred. Each man brought a piece on his shoulder, but there was no jostling and pushing; they all stood in line and went in smoothly, with scarcely a “by your leave” here and there. Mr. Defoe watched it all with shining eyes, turning his head from side to side and letting nothing escape him. Presently a very well-dressed clothier came up to us.

  “Now’s your time, Mr. Defoe. Go in quietly and stand by the doors. Don’t speak and don’t walk about. You’ll have to stay in till the bell rings again, you understand?”

  “Yes. My boy can come in too, I suppose?” said Mr. Defoe in a careless tone.

  “Aye, if he behaves himself. But stand still and don’t say a word, lad, or you’ll be in trouble.”

  We had just stepped inside when the bell stopped ringing and the doors were closed behind us. A group of men who had been standing by the doors at once moved forward away from us, so that now we could see the rows of boards laid on trestles, stretching along each side of the hall. The pieces of cloth were laid across these trestle tables, with a man behind; red and blue and brown and green, they made a pretty sight.

  And now the merchants—for such, I now saw, were the group who had been standing by the door—went along to the trestles and began to bargain for the cloth. At least, I suppose they were bargaining, for some of them had patterns of cloth in their hands, which they tried to match up amongst the pieces, and some held papers or letters to which they referred, as if these were their instructions on what to buy. But I could not at first be sure what they were about, for nobody spoke a word aloud. It was all done in whispers.

  This astonished me, for indeed it had rather a ludicrous effect, these sturdy solid men bending forward to whisper in each other’s ears. However, as I grew accustomed to the sight I began, as Mr. Defoe would say, to perceive the reason and nature of the thing. The merchant examined the piece, if he did not like it he moved on; if it suited him he bent forward and asked the price, the clothier whispered it, and the bargain was struck; money changed hands, and the clothier threw the piece over his shoulder and took it out by a back door.

  There was one merchant with a small snippet of blue in his hand who went up and down looking for a piece in the same colour.

  “But that is our colour,” I thought. “He is looking for an Upper High Royd piece; where is Jeremy?”

  I scanned the market more closely and now caught sight of Jeremy and the blue piece, next to Mr. Gledhill with his three maroons. Just then the merchant with the blue pattern saw him too and stepped over to him and whispered, and the
piece was sold and the merchant drew out his money-bag. While Jeremy was waiting for the money to be counted into his hand he looked up and caught my eye. I smiled at him, glad for Mr. Firth’s sake that he had sold the piece. He gave me in reply a glance of such furious hatred that I was quite shaken, and hard put to it not to disgrace myself by speaking to Mr. Defoe. However, I managed to keep silence.

  Presently the bell rang again, the doors were thrown open and merchants and clothiers all left the hall. We followed them out into the sunshine.

  “I’ll bid you farewell now, Tom,” said Mr. Defoe. “I must go write this market down in my notes.”

  Indeed he seemed half away already in his mind, and hurried off towards the Rose and Crown. I was truly sorry to part from him.

  Here I made what was perhaps a mistake. Having breakfasted so well at the inn with Mr. Defoe, I thought I need not eat again that day, and seeing all manner of agreeable things in the shops as I wandered about the town, I used my groat to buy a blue ribbon for little Gracie. This, as I say, was perhaps a mistake, for as the day went on I grew exceedingly hungry.

  Halifax is a strange town, built at the foot of one great hill and lying up the slope of another rather less steep; the church is at the bottom, the gibbet at the top, the market cross midway between. I went down to the church, which is old and handsome enough (though not as large as Lavenham’s) with very fine tall windows of plain glass, agreeably patterned by leads, and a most strange brightly painted wooden figure by the door, life size and dressed in quaint old-fashioned clothes. This figure, which gave me quite a start when I first entered the church, for I thought it a real man, was made to resemble a noted beggar who had lived nigh on two hundred years ago; it held a poorbox in front of it, in its hands. However, this Old Tristram, as they called him, is not really part of my story, except that, looking at him and at the church, and (I must confess) playing at ball with some lads I met around there, not only took my time but tired me out, hungry as I was, and made me long for a place to rest. As I had no money I could not enter an inn. So it was that I made my way to the Old Cock some hours before the time Jeremy had set. Mr. Gledhill’s wagon stood in the yard with its shafts up—the horse would be in the stable—and two sacks of wool lying on it.

  I climbed on to these sacks and pulling them about a little arranged a comfortable bed for myself. An ostler shouted at me, but I convinced him who I was and of my right to be there, on my master’s wool, and he let me be. I curled myself up on the sacks, and what with hunger and fatigue and the excitement of the day and the hot sun beating down on me, I fell asleep.

  I was wakened by being violently shaken by my shoulder. I started up and found myself gazing into the angry face of Mr. Gledhill.

  “What are you doing here, Tom Leigh?” he said sternly.

  “Waiting for Jeremy, sir,” I said.

  “Jeremy left long ago,” said Mr. Gledhill.

  “What? He has gone? He’s left me? But how could he, when I am on your wagon?”

  “You are not on any wagon, either mine or anybody else’s,” said Mr. Gledhill drily.

  I looked around, and saw to my amazement that I was in a dark corner of a stable, lying on straw, with Mr. Gledhill and the ostler gazing down at me.

  “But I was on your wagon,” I repeated stupidly, being but half awake.

  “Aye, that’s right, Mester Gledhill, he was on t’ wagon,” said the ostler. “I saw him there mysen, and bawled him out. Didn’t I, lad? I bawled him out for lying on wool sacks, Mr. Gledhill, I did that.”

  I got to my feet and dusted the straw from my breeches.

  “But how did I come into the stable?”

  “Yon Jeremy must have carried thee in.”

  “But why should he do such a daft thing?”

  “He’s always against me, Mr. Gledhill,” said I.

  I own I had a great inclination to weep at this point, but lads of fourteen do not weep, so I choked down the lump in my throat, and said as boldly as I could:

  “Well, no great harm has been done. It is but five miles, I can easily walk home.”

  “Tom Leigh, th’art either the daftest or the unluckiest boy I ever did encounter,” said Mr. Gledhill, his expression softening somewhat. “Art sure, now, that tha wert not trying to break thy indentures and run away?”

  “I am sure, Mr. Gledhill,” said I firmly. “Where should I run to, in any case?”

  “Well, there is that, to be sure,” said Mr. Gledhill doubtfully.

  “He were lying on wool on wagon,” said the ostler with emphasis.

  “I thank thee for thy good witness, friend,” said I to him, “and I wish I could reward thee, but in truth I have nothing to give.”

  “Well—you had better ride pillion with me,” said Mr. Gledhill in a kinder tone. “Find us a cushion, ostler. Here’s for thy trouble.”

  So through the fading evening light I rode pillion behind Mr. Gledhill. It was dark when we reached Barseland; Jeremy was in Mr. Gledhill’s stable, unharnessing the horse by candlelight.

  “Why, Tom Leigh!” he exclaimed in a tone of pretended concern as we entered. “Thank God you are safe! Whatever happened you, lad? Why did you not keep our meeting-time, Tom? I went all over town seeking you!”

  “Tom says he lay on the wool sacks on the wagon and fell asleep,” said Mr. Gledhill drily.

  “He weren’t there when I came to t’wagon,” said Jeremy, shaking his head.

  “The ostler saw him there.”

  “Where did you find him, Mester Gledhill?”

  “In a dark corner of the Old Cock stable. It was only by chance we found him. I needed a new lash to my whip and they hang there.”

  “Why did you go there, Tom lad?”

  “I did not go there,” said I stiffly.

  “How did you get there, then?”

  I was about to answer roughly: “You tell me!” when I bethought myself that I had the dark mile to Upper High Royd to walk, alone in his company, so I hung my head and said: “I do not know.”

  “Well, be off with you. I’m sick of the pair of you. Take Mr. Firth’s wool, Jeremy,” said Mr. Gledhill.

  Jeremy took the pack on his back with my assistance.

  “As for you, Tom,” went on Mr. Gledhill, “if Mr. Firth is not in church tomorrow I shall ride up to see him and enquire into this matter.”

  “Nay, what’s the need, Mr. Gledhill? Why get the lad into trouble?” said Jeremy smoothly. “He’s back here safe and sound. He’s never been to Halifax before, think on; he was all confused.”

  “Well,” began Mr. Gledhill, hesitating. “I’ll leave it for this time, Tom,” he decided, “but it’ll be long before I take you to Halifax again.”

  Jeremy and I went out into the dark.

  “Art going to thank me for putting things straight with Mester Gledhill, Tom?” said Jeremy in his smooth sneering tone.

  “I thank you, Jeremy,” said I. “I am much obliged.”

  This was a lie. For I did not believe a word he said. As I helped him to push the sack of wool across his back, I had just seen straw on the shoulder of his coat. Of course, he might have gained this straw while harnessing Mr. Gledhill’s horse in the Old Cock stables. But I do not know how you get straw on your shoulder when you are harnessing a horse. Now if you are dragging a sleeping boy into a heap of straw, your shoulder might easily pick up a little. Besides, across the straws on Jeremy’s shoulder lay a dark wavy hair, which I knew for mine.

  I was very polite to Jeremy as we climbed the stony lane to Upper High Royd, but I kept behind him, and I was very thankful that his hands were occupied holding the sack of wool. That he hated me, that all his tricks on me were deliberate, I now was sure. But why he hated me so, I could not yet fathom.

  7

  Thieves in the Night

  I ought to have told Mr. Firth at once the whole story of my sleeping on the wool sacks, but it was late when we reached Upper High Royd and he sent me straight up to bed—Sandy leaped up the stair
s ahead of me, as he so often did, settled himself on my coverlet and mewed impatiently when I did not immediately lie down beside him.

  In the morning at breakfast I offered the blue ribbon I had bought in Halifax to Gracie. Her eyes widened with pleasure, and suddenly before I knew what she was about she threw her arms about my neck and kissed me, standing on tiptoe to reach my cheek. I was much confused but somehow found I had put my arms around her—she is indeed a very sweet little girl. Mr. Firth laughed and seemed not displeased, his wife gave a thin smile, Jeremy in the background sneered as usual.

  “Well now, enough, enough! You must be off to church,” said Mr. Firth.

  He himself stayed at home to rest his foot, so I had no chance to speak to him alone, and in the afternoon Harry carried me off to walk with him, so again I had no opportunity; then as the day wore on it began to seem less important. I was wrong there, however.

  Mr. Firth having given his foot these several days’ rest, it rapidly improved, so that he soon walked without limping and was able to get his foot in a stirrup though not to use the treadle. And Josiah having finished the threshing while we were in Halifax on Saturday, on Monday we all went back to our cloth-making business again. Jeremy finished a blue piece and Mr. Firth rode with it down to the fulling-mill, so that by Wednesday afternoon Josiah and I stretched it out on the tenters to dry. The weather was still good, clear and breezy and sunny, though a little cold at night, so the piece would be well dry by Friday morning. Mr. Firth was pleased, as in spite of the harvesting and threshing and his lame foot, Upper High Royd would have sent a piece to market every Saturday throughout the summer.

  On Thursday afternoon we had a call from the pedlar. We were sitting at meat when his knock sounded, and I went to open the door. There he stood, spruce and neat as usual, with his bright green suit and his scarlet stockings.

  “May I speak with Mistress Firth, if you please?” said he politely.