The Killing Man

by Andrew Wareham

  They waited, increasingly impatient, but obedient, the summer passing by and harvest coming closer, until finally they were ordered on parade.

  A major of the Derbyshire Militia addressed them.

  “First, the Yeomanry is disbanded with immediate effect and your enlistments are terminated. When this parade is dismissed then you become civilians. You have honourable discharges and will be given a document to that effect. You will be exempt from the ballot and will not be required to serve ever again – unless you choose to volunteer, which is a matter for you to decide.”

  Sam thought this was a promising beginning.

  “Next, there is a paymaster present and you will be given your dues this morning. Each of you owns your trooper – your horse, that is – but you must purchase your own saddle. If you prefer, you may sell your trooper to the Regiment, or you may purchase a saddle and blanket from the stables; there is an amount of written-off material which will be available.”

  Sam was in favour of that. He was quite certain that his own saddle would be written-off establishment and would be sold for sixpence and a bottle of gin in the horsekeeper’s hand.

  “You are entitled to a recruitment bounty of seven pounds and ten shillings. Those of you who provided a carbine will receive two pounds and five shillings. Your straight swords were also purchased privately, and you will be recompensed to the tune of thirty-five shillings for them. You must surrender carbine, sword and dragoon pistols, of course.”

  Sam calculated that was eleven pounds and ten shillings for starters, and most of it a doubling up, having been paid already.

  “Your pay is calculated at eight pence per diem, less deductions for rations, for a period of two hundred and sixty days, which will total five pounds and eight shillings.”

  That made the better part of thruppence a day deducted for food, which was expensive, considering what they had been fed. Sam thought that was tight.

  “You share in the Prize fund, calculated for your regiment, of which yours was the sole troop, at the rate of one share for a trooper, one and one-half for a corporal and two shares for a sergeant. Your sole officer has withdrawn any claim to the Fund. The detailed accounting will be available, but a single share will come in at forty-three pounds.”

  They had taken an amount of silver plate and the personal jewellery of the Scottish clan chieftains – it had amounted to a respectable sum. A total so far of eighty-one pounds and a few bob besides, Sam thought – he would want to sit down and double check his sums, but it was close to that.

  “The Duke of Cumberland recognised that your troop put an end to a notable traitor from the Highlands, a chieftain who might otherwise have remained in brigandage for years to come. You are paid a bounty of twenty pounds per head for your good work.”

  That put the total over one hundred quid, Sam realised – not rich, but enough to make his ideas of a distillery for booze a possibility.

  “Finally, the troop led by Captain Wakerley discovered the identities of a number of traitors in the Duchy of Lancaster. Those wicked men have received the rewards of treachery – their heads are to be seen on prominent display about the whole Duchy. You are also to receive rewards for your discovery of their treachery. Each of you will receive ten guineas gold in addition to the sums already mentioned. You may also present yourselves within the next month at the offices of the Duchy in Lancaster and claim employment for life in whatever function you may be suited, at a wage that will not be ungenerous.”

  A hundred pounds in pocket and a safe job – most of the lads would leap at the opportunity, Sam thought; they were made men, possessed of security against all hardship.

  The parade was dismissed, and they lined up in front of the paymaster, signing their names or making their marks against the dockets and pocketing the coins that were counted out for them.

  “You going up to Lancaster, Sam?”

  “No, don’t reckon so, Sergeant Wright. What about you?”

  “Well… A safe job, Sam…”

  “Better than risking it with me, I reckon, Sergeant Wright. Besides, you’re getting too old for wandering about the moors with pack-ponies and whatever and hiding away from the Revenue Men. You’ll do better tucked away in your own warm cottage with a tidy little widow-woman and a soft job besides.”

  “But, I said I’d go with thee, young Sam, and I ain’t one for breaking my given word.”

  “Things ‘ave changed, Sergeant Wright. What made good sense three months ago is different now. Go on up to Lancaster, and sometime soon I shall pay thee a visit and take tea with thy new missus, old friend.”

  “You’re a good man, young Sam. There will always be a welcome in my house.”

  By mid-morning all was done and knapsacks were filled and the business with the stables was complete and the troopers rode off in their different directions. Most of them, a dozen including Sergeant Wright, set out on the road to Lancaster. Three of the younger men were going home first, but expected to join them with the fortnight. Only Sam had no intention of taking a safe job, of settling down to a quiet, prosperous, unexciting life; he lifted a hand in a final farewell and turned his head towards the High Peak and a few days at home.

  “Well, Da, back again, and all done with the Army. Got a proper discharge – written down on paper as is. What’s goin’ on in Hucklow, Da?”

  “Not much, Sam, or not to be said out loud, anyhow. We got the use of a bit more of the moorland, what Rector got no wish to bring in ‘imself. Not got a lot of know on the farming side of things, Rector ‘asn’t. Decent bloke, but better off in ‘is church than on the estate. Thing is, Sam, when the manor ‘ouse was burned, the estate office went with it, and all they bits of paper what Squire was used to ‘ave, they burned too. So we ‘ad to sit down, the four of us, the tenant farmers, with ‘im and draw up everything afresh, as we remembered it.”

  Sam laughed quietly. His father grinned, reluctantly.

  “Ends up, our Sam, that we’s farmin’ twice the acres at ‘alf the rent, and the moorside what was used to be Common Land, well, it just so ‘appens that be in freehold in four equal portions. All written out and put into deeds, as is proper. Better part of six ‘undred acres I got, Sam, in freehold what ain’t the best of land, you might say, but it keeps two score of sheep across the tops and the cattle what you laid ‘ands on grazing the better pastures low down. Got a good few acres down to turnips and hay for winter feed. Should do well, I reckons, especial like with the old farm itself what I rents and ‘as also got bigger. Trouble is, boy, that you got two older brothers; one to be inheriting, t’other to be employed at a wage, and with a little cottage too, now that I got so much land to work. You ain’t going to see a penny for all that it’s your efforts what got them cows and sheep back for us.”

  Sam had been aware of that in the back of his mind; it was not fair, perhaps, but they were family, and they weren’t the brightest of lads, his two big brothers; it did him no harm to look after them - he could make his own way, he said.

  “What about that old leather box, Da?”

  “Ain’t looked inside it yet, Sam. Give it a year or so, I reckons. Then, when that gets opened, you takes a fair share, not them. What about you, boy? You come back on your own? Didn’t see Simon at your side?”

  “You won’t, Da. Simon ain’t comin’ back from the wars, Da.”

  Sam’s father looked at him, nodded slowly.

  “Killed in battle, standing ‘is ground like a brave soldier, is that it, Sam?”

  Sam nodded, knowing what his father was implying.

  “That’s what I’m goin’ across to tell is Mam, and ‘is Da.”

  “Do that, boy. No need to tell them bugger all different. What ‘appened? Run, did ‘e?”

  “Got ‘is neck stretched, Da. Three of them what grabbed ‘old of a young lass and ‘ad their way with ‘er. Caught ‘em meself, and turned ‘im off with a rope around ‘is bloody neck too.”

  His father nodded again, disguste
d but not wholly surprised.

  “Never did like that one, not exactly, Sam. Thought ‘e was a wrong’un this last couple of years. Things the lad said that didn’t sit right with me, but not enough to warn you off ‘im. Tell you one thing though, our Sam, had he come sniffing around either of the girls he was goin’ to get his arse kicked out good and quick. What are you doin’ now?”

  Sam was not surprised to hear that his father had had his doubts about Simon; he was a clever man, his father.

  “Thinkin’ about whisky and gin, Da. Got a few quid in me pocket now, thought maybe I could find out just ‘ow you goes about makin’ the stuff, then sellin’ it off over in the towns.”

  “Risky old business, that, Sam. The Revenue Men don’t like it. Good money in it, mark you, but you needs spend some first off, setting up like.”

  Sam put his hand up to the leather bag hanging round his neck, a substantial little sack now.

  “Got more nor a ‘undred quid, Da, what with bounties and rewards and Prize. You reckon that be enough?”

  “Four times over, boy. Best we tell Simon’s people, then go and see your Ma. Then we can start workin’ out just ‘ow we goes about things, setting you up proper.”

  They strolled out into the afternoon sunshine, Sam looking sharply about him, watching for anything wrong or out of place, alert and looking for danger.

  “Seen a bit of fighting, ‘ave you, our Sam?”

  “A bit, Da. Too bloody much. Them bloody rebels wouldn’t run when they should most often, Da. Kept fighting when they’d lost, and then it just got to be killing. Dirty business, but they started it.”

  “Killed your share, did you, Sam?”

  Sam shrugged, in no way boastful.

  “More than my share, Da. Two or three other blokes’ share as well.”

  “Bad luck, but it ‘appens. Don’t go letting it worry you, boy. Don’t go thinking it ain’t nothin’, either. Fighting a war, that’s about killing and nothing else – sod all you can do about it. Don’t go for doing it now the war’s over, not unless you got no choice. Might be you should think about going overseas, Sam – they don’t mind killing so much over in America, so they say.”

  “No. Not if I can stay, Da. I reckons I can make a few quid over ‘ere. If I can’t, when I’m down to me last twenty quid, what I shall put to one side, not to be touched, then I’ll go to the sea and buy passage across the big waters. But, I wants to stay in England, if I can, Da.”

  “Good. I had far rather you stay in England, and come back ‘ome when you can, boy. Man goes to America, goes west, ‘e ain’t never coming back ‘ome in all the rest of his natural days, ain’t never goin’ to see ‘im no more. What you going to say to Simon’s da?”

  “Got no money for ‘im, Da. Far as ‘e’s to know, Simon got killed in the fights when we was goin’ north, early on. Died two weeks after we joined, so ‘e did. Acos of ‘e was hanged, Da, there was no pay nor share of bounty or Prize for ‘im – so, better they thinks ‘e was gone early.”

  Simon’s parents were upset, but not too greatly surprised – men who went to war sometimes were killed. They had another son, and he would take over from his father when he got too old to work the land – it was not a disaster.

  “What about you, young Sam? You goin’ back to soldiering?”

  “Not me, Mr Higgins. Seen too much of killing and that. I got a few quid – the end of service bounty and signing on money what I kept and didn’t spend like most of ‘em did. Rector said ‘e’d drop us ten guineas as well, when us come back – but I dunno about chasin’ ‘im up for it.”

  “No ‘arm in just goin’ to see ‘im, Sam. Don’t try and put the bite on ‘im, like, but let ‘im see you been to the wars and come back again.”

  Sam and his father visited the Rector that afternoon, being as he was Squire now as well, and had the right to be told what was going on in his own estate.

  “Two of you went to the Militia, did you not, Sam?”

  “Yeomanry, sir. Me and Simon Higgins, but Simon got killed, sir.”

  “I never got to know young Higgins – he never took advantage of the lessons in reading and writing, not like you, Sam.”

  “He got unlucky, sir, fell into bad company as well…”

  “Did he now? Then enough said, I suspect. I promised ten guineas to the boys who joined the Militia, did I not? Let me just go to my study and I shall get yours now, Sam.”

  Five minutes and the Rector returned with ten golden guineas which he passed across with his blessing as well.

  “Tell Mr Higgins to come to me, Sam. He can take his boy’s money – for I made the promise, even if he might not have been thoroughly deserving…”

  Sam nodded, grim faced.

  “A pity. What are you to do now, Sam?”

  “Off to make a living, sir. Third son, so Da can’t provide for me – though I knows ‘e would if ‘e could.”

  The Rector showed troubled at this, realising that what Sam said was perfectly true – there could be nothing for a younger son of a tenant farmer.

  “Even if you were to take up a piece of land, Sam, you would have to find seeds and tools and stock, and start from scratch as well… It can hardly be done. It is a great pity that you should be forced away, even so. Is there nothing we could find for you on the estate, I wonder?”

  Sam shook his head.

  “Not that makes any sense, sir. I got it in mind to make a few quid of me own, sir. I got a little bit of money from the bounties and Prize Fund, sir. I shall look to see if I can’t find summat by way of trading, I reckons, sir.”

  The Rector was puzzled by that ambition, did not quite know what it might entail.

  “Well, I wish you luck, Sam. If it should not come to pass as you hope, then come back to the estate, Sam, and we shall be able to discover something for you. It is very sad to see you forced out, as it were.”

  “I shall come back to visit Da and Mam, sir, when I can. I knows I’m always welcome ‘ereabouts.”

  “You always will be, Sam. We shall miss your presence in our little community.”

  “Soft old bugger, the Rector, Sam. Good-hearted, though.”

  “Treated me good when ‘e was teaching me lessons, Da. Squire was ‘arder, but Rector were always a decent sort. Better not tell ‘im that I’m reckonin’ to get into the gin trade – might be ‘e wouldn’t like that much.”

  They laughed and wandered back to the cottage and the waiting family.

  “What you needs to do, our Sam, is to learn just ‘ow a still works and what you got to do to make a decent bottle of gin, or whisky or whatever.”

  Sam agreed that to be a first necessity.

  “Down the road, the better part of eight mile, Sam, at the White Horse, at the crossroads outside Leek, where your ma’s brother be landlord, that’s the place to make a start.”

  They kept in contact with his uncle, Sam knew, visiting every few weeks, but they had never been especially close, he thought.

  “Runs ‘is own still, do Abe. Knocks out a few bottles of good enough stuff. Not too much, for ‘e don’t want to bring attention to ‘imself. But ‘e knows what to do, and you could learn from ‘im. Stay at home with your Mam for a couple or three days, and then we’ll walk on down at the end of the week, see what ‘e reckons.”

  “Walk it will be, Da. I don’t think I ought to be keepin’ the ‘oss on. Man who goes about on foot ain’t seen nowhere near so much. Do you want a riding nag?”

  “No. Not my place, riding like one of the masters. I starts to showin’ off and they going to look at me, and start to ask how come I got land of me own all of a sudden. I’ll walk her down to the market in a week or two and sell her on there. Folks know that we shot some of they Jacobites and got our beasts back, and they can’t see nothing wrong with that, but they might not like to see me pretending to be one of the gentry.”

  Chapter Six

  The Killing Man

  Sam’s brothers and sisters stayed at home, p
referring not to go foreign, and just Sam and his mother and father walked nearly three hours across the moors to the crossroads to the west of Leek where the White Horse stood, bold and prosperous, its sign high out front, a picture of a prancing horse, ‘by Abe Makepeace’ written underneath, the landlord proud of his name. It was an inn rather than a simple pub, for having four bedrooms for passing trade, and a kitchen that could supply travellers on the road with a meal at any daylight hour. There was no night traffic on the tracks leading up to the high moors – those paths needed full light if they were to be traversed without horses’ legs and riders’ necks being broken. The roads led towards Stoke on Trent, a few miles west, south to the highway to Birmingham, north eventually to Manchester, and they were increasingly busy, wagons, horsemen and stagecoaches to be seen almost every hour of the day, but again, not at night, the ruts and potholes needing good visibility to navigate.

  “I reckon as ‘ow your Uncle Abe pockets as much as two quid a week from the house, year round, Sam. A very warm man, our Abe.”

  Sam nodded thoughtfully. More than a hundred pounds a year in cash, after feeding himself and his wife and son, and probably paying for the keep of his pony and trap and laying out for tithes and Poor Law, which was no small amount in itself. Yet Captain Wakerley had been looking for two thousands a year as sufficient for him to start a family on and perhaps begin to build a name. Sergeant Wright had mentioned the existence of dukes with incomes of sixty thousand, and some merchants and bankers to match them – two pound a week was nothing, not really…

  “Maybe I can come to match ‘im, Da. Might be able to build somethin’ worth ‘avin’, given a few years at it.”

  “Work at it, and maybe you can do a damned sight better, our Sam. Abe started with a small hedgerow pub, what ‘is old Da left when ‘e took and died. Twenty years it’s taken ‘im to turn that into the White Horse. I don’t reckon it’ll take you so long to do what you wants, boy.”