Devil Water

by Anya Seton

  Charles Radcliffe had always found the Moll Davis tale entertaining but remote. He had known none of his grandparents. His mother, the second Countess of Derwentwater, who had been that little Mary Tudor -- she was another matter. For her Charles felt the baffled bitterness of the deserted child. He had not seen his mother since he was six, on the day she abandoned them all -- James, Francis, Charles himself, and the baby Mary. Charles remembered the pungent scent of his mother’s curls as she kissed him coldly on the forehead, saying “Farewell, child. Render obedience to your father, though I no longer intend to.”

  Charles had not then understood these words. He did not quite now. They might have referred to her Protestantism and the Radcliffes’ Papacy, or far more likely to her infatuation with another man. She had married twice since her husband’s death and gone to live abroad. I wonder if she’s dead, Charles thought. The Constables never spoke of her, but then there were many uncomfortable topics which they never mentioned.

  And much good my Stuart blood does me, thought Charles, stuck as I am either on a Yorkshire moor or in this dingy hole. The mare had now carried him along the Tyne into the coal country. The green riverbank was stippled with black piles, scaffoldings, and great yawning pits. The acrid smell of coal dust and smoke thickened the air. Soon, at the edge of Gateshead, the road was lined with mean little miners’ hovels, roofed with turf. Suddenly Charles was blocked by a Galloway pony and cart full of coals which cut straight across his path. The cart came from the Bensham colliery a mile away and was bound for the Tyne. The wagon wheels ran on an oaken track the like of which Charles had never seen. A ragged ten-year-old urchin at the pony’s head was softly whistling a plaintive tune while he tugged at the reluctant pony. Charles knew nothing of coal mining but these signs of activity caught his interest. He turned the mare and followed the cart as it trundled along the track until they reached the river where there was a wharf, called a staith. The sultry sun burnished the leaden waters of the Tyne. On the opposite bank in Newcastle, chimneys, roofs, Guild Hall, and the great quay all floated in a smoky haze.

  Charles rode onto the staith and watched while the cart was dumped into a waiting keelboat. “Oof,” he said, backing hastily from the choking cloud of coal dust.

  The small boy at the pony’s head chuckled rudely at the stranger’s discomfiture. Charles was annoyed and, frowning, examined the boy attentively. He was a skinny child with coarse dark hair and alert hazel eyes in a sooty, square Northumbrian face. There was a cockiness about him and total lack of the deference Charles was accustomed to from the lower classes. The boy’s nose was bleeding slightly.

  “Been fighting, I see,” Charles said, shrugging.

  “Wuns!” said the boy wiping the blood off with the back of his hand. “Dost call it a fight wen the pit-overman bangs out wi’ a clout?”

  “What for?” said Charles. He didn’t quite like the boy, and yet he felt strong curiosity about him.

  “Fur that I slipped wile dumping a chaldron i’ the cart, that’s wot.”

  “Oh,” said Charles. “Aren’t you very young for dumping coals?”

  “Leuk man!” said the boy with an impudent grin. “Ye ask a lot o’ questions, an’ I’ll fend off the rest. M’name’s Rob Wilson, I’m ten I guess. I been warking the pits one way or t’other five year, me big brother’s doon there i’ the keelboat, the overman’s waiting at Bensham pithead, an’ if I divven’t gan back there soon I’ll get another punch, d’ye twig?”

  Charles nodded reluctantly, amused by what was essentially an expert snubbing. He watched the sturdy independent set of Rob’s shoulders as the boy backed the pony up the staith and trudged away towards the pithead for another load. As he trudged Rob began to whistle again -- the plaintive minor tune, which even Charles recognized as being both musical and unchildlike.

  An odd little knave, Charles thought, and the air being now clear of coal dust he rode down the staith and peered into the keelboat, which was squat and broad. It had oars, one small furled sail, and a tiny cabin. The rest of the boat contained two keelmen busily spreading the dumped coals.

  The keelmen each had red rags around their foreheads to keep sweat from their eyes, their grimy hair was plastered down save for a lovelock at each temple. The locks were twisted up in paper like horns. Except for short tight breeches, the men were naked to the waist. And they were black, a glistening black compounded of sweat and coal dust. Near as black as a Negro slave Charles had seen long ago in London. Charles stared and began to laugh.

  The larger of the keelmen, a great brawny young man, jerked up his head. His eyes flashed blue between the sooty lids. “Gan awa’!” he cried to Charles. “Wha’s thou think to be, a-nickering an’ gawking at us!”

  Charles’s life had provided few comical sights, and he continued to chuckle at this one, nor did he quite understand the keelman’s speech. The young keelman jumped from his boat to the staith, and advanced with his chin out. “Hast niver seen a keelman afore? Art wanting a brawl? Get off that nag, ye toad, and I’ll show thee how much there’s to laugh at in a keelman’s fists!”

  Charles controlled his mirth. “No offense,” he said pleasantly. “But you do look like a couple of horned beetles heaving away in that coal.”

  The keelman had been but semiserious, though touchy and eager to fight as were all keelmen. His scowl continued as he listened to Charles’s comment, but the fierce blue eyes grew puzzled. “Gentry, begock!” he said. “An’a Southron by the sound o’him!” He turned to his workmate, who was resting on his shovel and watching the two on the staith. “What sayst thou, Neddy? Shall we learn him not to call us ‘beadles’?”

  “Hoot, Dick,” answered Ned from the keelboat, “ ‘tis only a lad. Leave be! Here’s the next load a-coming an’ this one not spread. If Black Will cotch us, he’ll make ould Creeper dock our pay.”

  “Then we’ll go on steek again!” said Dick. “We niver got the pawky shilling we axed for last time. They needna think they can starve us out. The keelmen’ll mutiny ‘til justice is done. We’re not afeard o’ pit-owners, nor hostmen, nor yet shipmasters neither!”

  Despite these brave words, Dick clambered down to the boat and picked up his shovel. Charles, who had been listening intently, hastily pulled the mare back as another cartload of coal guided by a different boy came down the track onto the staith and was dumped. The black cloud subsided, and Charles approached the boat. “D’you mean you’d really strike against your masters?” he asked with reproof.

  Dick hunched his back and did not answer, but Ned, who was more easygoing, said, “Aye, young sir, when they squat i’ their mansions glutting meat an’ swilling fancy wine, yet cry ‘Poor mouth, poor mouth’ whilst we crack our bones to load their coals for Lun-non town an’ some pay nights get naught at all.”

  Charles considered this without belief. Servants and laborers always got paid, or at least they got their board and lodging, and they certainly should not be allowed to mutiny for any reason. “Who’s Black Will and old Creeper?” he asked curiously, whereupon Dick whirled round and shouted, “For the matter o’ that, who art thou? A spy mebbe -- with all thy nosy questions!”

  “I’m not a spy. I’m a Radcliffe of Dilston. I’ve only been up here a month and I don’t know a thing about your stupid coal pits.”

  Dick elevated his brows until they touched the red rag. He elaborately laid down his shovel and executed a deep mocking bow across the coals. “A Radcliffe!” he said to Ned. “D’ye hear that? Not mere gentry, Neddy, marra -- but a lord. We s’ld be honored by his lordship’s questions.”

  “I’m not a lord,” said Charles stiffly. “My brother is. The Earl of Derwentwater. He’ll soon be home from France.”

  Dick gave Charles a long sardonic look. “ ‘Umble as we be, we still knaw that,” he said. “Iverybody Tyneside knaws that, an’ quite a few wonders how it’ll be when his lordship gets hyem. Him being Papist and kin to that prince o’er the water.”

  “Whist -- Dicky,” s
aid Ned uneasily. “Hould yor gob, divven’t gabble so free!” Dick shrugged and both keelmen went on spreading the coal in silence. As Charles had no idea how anything would be when James came home, and had heard little Jacobite talk in the secluded Yorkshire manor where he had spent his last years, he found nothing more to say. A cart reappeared on the track, and Charles turned reluctantly to leave. Dick interested him despite his truculence. And now that Charles was used to the horned lovelocks and the sweaty blackness, he saw how admirable were the physiques of the two young men; their thick strength and rippling muscles were bred from years of shoveling the chaldrons of coal up into the holds of the ships which waited downriver.

  He murmured “Farewell,” but the men paid no attention. He turned the mare, then pulled her up as a girl came running down the path by the track. “Dickie! Dickie!” she called, her voice high with frightened urgency.

  Dick looked up, then jumped again to the staith. “What’s ado, lass? Meg, hinny, what ails thee?” His voice was suddenly gentle, and Charles had the impression that the big keelman would have hugged the girl had he not been so sooty.

  The girl was panting, half crying, as she tried to speak.

  “ ‘Tis Nan -- been i’ the straw since daybreak -- the howdy says she’ll not last through it -- she’s calling for Geordie.”

  Dick licked his lips, staring at the girl. He understood, as Charles did not, that her sister Nan was in labor and that the midwife thought she would die. Charles understood only grave emergency, and he saw that the girl was very young. A brown little thing, with tangled nut-brown hair, round eyes brown as peat water, rumpled russet bodice and skirt, and dusty bare feet.

  “Canst not fetch Geordie?” said Dick frowning.

  She shook her head. “I tried. Squire William himsel’ was there at the pithead. He wouldna let them send word down. He said --” she gave a sharp sob and twisted her hands, “said I was crazed to dare to summons a pitman from wark, only because a brat was a-birthing. I told him Nanny was dying, and he said ‘Let her then.’ “

  Dick’s fists clenched. “Damn Black William’s guts! Damn him! Oh, I’ll get Geordie from the pit.”

  “I pray so,” she whispered. “But how can thee?”

  Dick grabbed a homespun shirt from the staith rail, pulled it over his head. “I’ve means,” he said. “Ned, do the best ye can, if ould Creeper comes tell him I’m took wi’ sudden gripes.” He turned to the girl. “I’ll bring Geordie. Hurry back to Nan. Canst make it, lass? Ye’re shaking.”

  “Could I take her on the mare?” offered Charles. The girl started. She had not noticed Charles. Dick had forgotten him, but he nodded quickly. “ ‘Tis a welcome offer if ye’ll be so kind,” and he began to run up the track towards the highway and the Park colliery to find his eldest brother Geordie.

  Charles helped the girl clamber up behind him on the mare, where she perched lightly, her arms around Charles’s waist. She did not speak except to give muffled directions.

  They passed the bridge to Newcastle, turned south a bit, and came to another row of squalid stone hovels all alike. “There,” said the girl, pointing, “thank’ee,” and slipping off the horse she ran toward the center cottage. In front of it there was a group of pit-women. They made way for the girl, gaped at Charles, and then, peering in through the door and shaking their heads, resumed a dreary murmuring.

  Charles had no reason to linger, but he was anxious to know if Dick would manage to get Geordie here in time. And he hoped to see the girl again. The modest delicate touch of her arms around his waist had been pleasant.

  After a bit, as nothing happened, Charles rode down the road towards a smoking wooden structure he saw looming against the sky. He suspected that it might be the colliery where Geordie worked, and soon had confirmation, when he rode through an open gate and was hailed by a lanky man on a bay stallion. “Halt! What’s the meaning o’ this, fellow! Don’t ye know you’re trespassing?”

  The man had very sharp black eyes, set near together in a purple-veined flabby face. He wore a cocked hat trimmed with braid over his own coarse grizzled hair, and a sober brown coat with pewter buttons.

  “Forgive me, sir. I’ve no wish to intrude,” said Charles in his politest manner. “I saw the gate open and was curious to see a colliery. It is one, isn’t it?”

  “This is the Park Pit, and I’m the owner o’ it, Esquire William Cotesworth. Ah, I see ye’ve heard of me.”

  Charles had given a blink. So this was Black Will, and how could Dick possibly get Geordie out from under this long bulbous nose?

  “And I’ve seen your face before,” added Cotesworth, whose driving brain was ever vigilant of smallest details. “Or one like it. Well, speak up, knave, who are ye?”

  “Charles Radcliffe of Dilston,” said Charles, resenting Cotesworth’s tone and beginning to dislike him as much as Dick did.

  “Ah, the Honorable Charles Radcliffe, to be sure,” said Cotesworth with a sudden twisted smile which did not affect the cold stare. “That’s who ye look like, a Radcliffe. Matter o’ twenty years since I had some dealings wi’ his lordship your father. He bilked me out o’ six guineas for tallow and wine he ordered.”

  “What!” cried Charles. “You’re mad, sir! My father never cheated anyone in his life, and I assure you earls do not concern themselves with household provisioning.”

  “All the same I niver got m’ six guineas. I’m a plain North Country man and I speak plain. I hear the new Earl’s coming home, and ye may tell him I expect the account to be settled.”

  “No doubt my brother’s steward will see you’re paid,” said Charles with all the condescension he could muster above an impulse to punch that knobby tight-lipped face. “So you deal in tallow and wine as well as coals,” he added bitingly. “A Jack-of-all-trades.”

  The muscles flickered around Cotesworth’s eyes, but he ignored Charles’s tone. “I’ve many trades,” Cotesworth agreed blandly. “But ye may also tell your noble brother white roses aren’t one of ‘em.”

  Charles blinked again. He knew that the white rose was the Jacobite emblem, and he was annoyed into saying, “So you’d not hope to see the rightful king on the throne when Queen Anne dies!”

  “The rightful king’ll never be a Papist,” said Cotesworth. “Good day. In future keep off m’land!” He sat motionless while Charles rode back through the gate onto the roadway. Then Cotesworth shut the gate and trotted off to his pithead.

  Insufferable boor, Charles thought. I hope James never gives him his miserable six guineas! But he felt that there was something more sinister about Squire Cotesworth than a long memory for a trivial debt.

  Charles presently got back to the row of miners’ hovels, and saw Dick standing on the street, watching him come. Charles spurred the mare and galloped up. “You got here! Did you bring Geordie?”

  “Oh aye,” said Dick. “He’s in wi’ poor Nanny.”

  “But how did you ever do it? I’ve just been to the pit, I met Black Will, you never got past him!”

  Dick grinned. A streak of white in the dirty face. “The Park’s an ould pit, laddie. Our grandfaither hewed in it. There’s passages to the outside Cotesworth divven’t knaw, but Geordie an’ me do. Now I’m off to join m’marra in the keelboat. Gan thou hyem to thy castle. Gatsheed pits’re no place for quality.” He gave a mocking, not unfriendly wave, and hastened back towards the Bensham staith where Ned was working.

  Charles did not take Dick’s advice. He dismounted instead and knocked timidly at the Wilson door, which was now shut. The girl opened it, and looked astonished, but her eyes were shining and a clear rose color had come into her cheeks. “She’s better,” she whispered. “Nanny’s better, the moment Geordie came she took heart.”

  “Is the baby --” said Charles awkwardly, and stopped.

  “Aye -- ‘tis born. A fine boy. I guess ‘twill be another pitman some day, poor bairnie. It seems to me a fearful life.” She turned as someone spoke in the house, and answered, “Aye, I will so.
” She came out of the hovel and shut the door. “I’m to get ale frae the Lion in case Nanny fancies some.”

  Charles tethered the mare and walked along beside the girl, whose brown head barely reached to his shoulder. “I didn’t know a pitman’s lass would think this a fearful life, if you’re used to it,” he offered diffidently.

  “But I’m not!” she cried flashing up at him like an indignant kitten. “Did you think me a Tynesider? I’m from Coquetdale -- from the North on the Border,” she emended as she saw him look puzzled. “Can ye not hear-r it in m’speech? They tease me enough.”

  All the speech he had heard today had sounded strange to Charles, but now he noticed that she made her r’s with a throaty little burr, and yet he found her easier to understand than Dick’s broad Tyneside. As they went to the Lion and waited for ale and walked back again, Charles learned something about the girl.

  Her name was Margaret Snowdon, but everyone called her Meg. She was fifteen. She had been born near a remote village called Tosson on the Coquet river, as had her big brothers and her sister Nan. Their mother had died last January and then Meg had been sent to her sister in Gateshead. The father, John Snowdon, was one of a large clan of Snowdons who lived in Coquetdale. John Snowdon was a farmer, but he was also something of a scholar. In the long winter nights he read many books, mostly sermons, and he had taught all his children to read and write. He lived in an isolated peel tower and saw little of his kinsmen, for he was a Dissenter -- a Calvinistic form of Protestantism Charles barely knew existed. Charles was familiar only with Protestants who belonged to the Established Church of England. Meg’s father held with the Scottish church, which was frowned on in England.

  “But are you Scots then?” Charles asked, not greatly interested, but anxious to keep Meg talking, for without questions she fell shyly silent.

  “Lord save us, but no!” cried the girl with so much horror that Charles laughed.