The Gallows Pole

by Benjamin Myers

  He turned his collar to the drizzle and walked towards the moors on which he knew these man-animals lived.

  David Hartley called his brother Isaac Hartley in and when he came to the house he was wet with a fine rain that sat about his hair and shoulders, and swept across the moors behind him like a curtain being drawn across the memory of a summer whose harvest had been bountiful.

  David Hartley passed his brother Isaac Hartley a rag with which to dry himself and then they sat before the fire, even though the fire was not lit and instead the hearth held nothing but grey spent ash in the shape of logs from yesterday’s burn-up.

  You look troubled, said Isaac Hartley.

  Trouble is something that may be coming to our door, he replied.

  Trouble brother?

  Yip.

  I have seen about the place a man, said David Hartley. Twice I seen him across the moor. Once rising up through Bell Hole and another coming up over the back way through the bog patch as if Erringden Moor was his and his alone.

  What use is having young lads with slingshots as lookouts if a man can get through those woods? replied Isaac Hartley. Those woods is our woods and no man gets through.

  This one did. But we’ll deal with that in time. For now this man gives me grief. I can feel it coming.

  You always have had a way for feeling these things. Why is it you feel the grief this time?

  Because he walks with purpose and his eyes take everything in, said David Hartley. You and I know that people do not come up here without reason. They do not enter the kingdom of King David unless it is to see King David but yet this man sets only a short while, watching from a distance, and then he walks on. He doesn’t hunt or eat or roll with a girl or sleep a while in the grasses or any of the other reasons that a man might make the journey up from the valley floor to the moor top. It seems our reputation is not enough to prevent the visitations of this one.

  The men paused for a moment and then David Hartley continued.

  Yes, there can only be one purpose. This man is on law business. I’d wager all the coins stowed in every crevice and twisted root between here and Todmorden that his is excise duty. He’s out to get us, Isaac. He’s out for Coiners’ scalps – I know it.

  The younger brother nodded.

  I think that I too have seen that man, brother, said Isaac Hartley. I have seen him over on the old horse track beyond Hathershelf. I too have watched him from a distance. You are right. This man is here for our coins – and our souls.

  Yet you thought not to mention it?

  I‘m mentioning it now.

  How do you know this is the same exciseman?

  Because he is not one of us, brother, said Isaac Hartley.

  In what way?

  He does not look like a valley man. He does neither dress like us nor carry himself like us. His is an unfamiliar face.

  How does he dress then?

  The man I saw wears a wig, said Isaac Hartley. I have seen the breeze lift it. I have seen it snag on a bramble.

  You have seen this?

  With my own eyes.

  The wig I did not notice as this man kept himself at a long distance from the house, said David Hartley. And did he see you?

  He did not. I was out to take some pheasants and became concerned in my head that he might be the gamekeeper the way he skulked so I did give him a wide berth. Twice this has happened. The second time I nearly took that kindling hatchet to his head-top but then I did realise he might be a man doing crown’s business and what trouble that would bring to us all.

  Skulked? said David Hartley.

  Yes. Like a prig-napper that’s out to rustle a still-wet foal. Like Reynard sniffing the chicken coop on the breeze.

  This is the one and same man then. What else did you watch?

  I watched him wear a long brown coat down to here with britches of cord beneath, and a waistcoat made from the finest wool. He dresses like a man that’s had first choice on the shalloon. Made of the best dye, it is. Red, it is. As red as oxen blood. Blood red, like. That’s how I knew he wasn’t one of us: no Cragg man could afford such a cut, nor would he flaunt his colours across this moorland of ours like that. It’s that waistcoat that gave him away because in all other manners he moves like a moor man. On his head he wore a shovel hat.

  David Hartley nodded and then spoke.

  Was he mounted?

  Once he was mounted but the second time he was on foot. That was why I was unsure as to whether he was gamekeeper or poacher or Coiner or what the devil may know.

  I too saw him on foot, said David Hartley. They say that Deighton is this bastard lickspittle’s name.

  Deighton? I do not know the name, brother.

  Well now you do, said David Hartley. And you’d be wise to remember it because this Deighton is the man who wants to end our enterprise. His first name I was not told but his last name is enough to know. He has the nose of a mole and the way of a weasel.

  A pest then.

  Worse than a pest, said David Hartley. He is poisonous. He is a predator. One word from him could bring down fifty men. Fifty men and their families. Our families.

  Dangerous then.

  A threat – yes. Surely. Undoubtedly.

  So, said Isaac Hartley.

  So, said David Hartley. So we do what any right man does to the fox that has his chickens or the mole that digs up his turf or the weasel that has his morning eggs.

  Yes, brother.

  We trap him or snare him or smoke him or burn him. We do whatever it is that needs to be done to remove him.

  Yes, brother. This I understand.

  We can’t let one man of the crown rule over fifty poor men of the soil.

  No we cannot.

  It’s just not right, said David Hartley. How could we sleep at night with this shadow cast over us? Too long in the past we have strived to make a living from the farming and weaving and look where it got us – nowhere but indebted to inferior men who now want to turn the soil for their own gain. They’ll have us living with the hogs if we let them.

  I can make this man disappear like the owl at daybreak, our David. You leave it be and think of other things. The next time he comes up through Bell Hole is the last time he’ll come up through Bell Hole. You can trust me.

  That I do, but for now we do nothing but put the hawk eyes of the valley upon him, said David Hartley. He is not yet worth risking our necks for. Our strength is in our numbers and we can make sure the hunter becomes the hunted. Not a single step he will take towards Cragg Vale without it being noted. Your job is to alert the men and make sure he gets nowhere near us. A man like this Deighton – he is out for glory. But the wrong kind of glory. He would rather persecute the poor and the needy to win favour with those that rule the land than leave them be in peace. I tell you this much: his loyalty and ambition will be his undoing. He’ll rue the day he put his beady eye on a Hartley, will this cunt Deighton.

  Amen brother. A cunt indeed.

  Part III: Spring 1769: Chock-Chock

  So what is it this time?

  The exciseman William Deighton sidled up to Robert Parker through the crowd and stood shoulder to shoulder with the younger attorney.

  Robert Parker turned to him and smiled. Not for the first time he observed the contrast between the man’s town clothes and his slightly weather-worn face, the clear signs of one who leads a dual existence of paperwork and solitary hill-top wandering. Tailing illiterate tax-dodgers was an unenviable task, all told. William Deighton deserved a medal, or a rise at the very least.

  Mr Deighton. I didn’t expect to find you down here amongst the rabble.

  It’s where I do my best work – you know that. And I could say the same of you. I hear you’re in with Mexborough. Chief steward of his estate and general affairs, they say.

  New opportunit
ies certainly seem to be presenting themselves.

  You’re well then?

  Thriving, said Robert Parker. And how is that litter of yours?

  They are well too. Thank you.

  How many now?

  I have eight children.

  I don’t know how you make the time.

  Well, the older boys have left the house, said William Deighton. Elias is twenty-five now and works as a journeyman in the Midlands. Thomas has gone even further. He is in the East Indies. William is apprenticed to a candlestick maker and has two years to serve.

  It’s quite a job they’ve got you doing, said Robert Parker. An entire town’s taxes and levies to collect and just the one man to do it. And not just the town either – they say your real office is those hill-top hinterlands that even Satan himself steers clear of.

  William Deighton smiled wanly and looked up the street. He nodded towards the procession that was headed by a horse-drawn cart as it turned the corner.

  What is it this time? he said again of the passing procession. Another moral victory for Parker & Sons?

  I actually thought this fellow might be one of your hill-top evaders that I’ve been hearing so much of, countered Robert Parker. Those that dare to deface the coin of the realm. They can’t be making things any easier for you.

  No, said William Deighton with a deep frown.

  He looked around at the bodies pressed tightly around him and said nothing further.

  Robert Parker leaned in.

  The town is flooded with their crude workings he said.

  Some I have seen are not crude.

  All the more reason then for us –

  William Deighton cut off the attorney with a glance.

  Not here.

  Robert Parker lowered his voice and continued.

  Business is being affected. I’ve filed several bankruptcies this year alone. Those of honest men. Good men of long standing.

  William Deighton concurred.

  I know these men you speak of. Their taxes bills are growing and glowing red through no fault of their own. But we can not speak of this here.

  Around them there was murmuring and movement within the crowd that lined the streets as the cart drew nearer. There was a palpable tension.

  The two men could see that tied to the cart tail was a man stripped bare to the hips. Behind him another brandished a whip. There were shouts from the crowd.

  Leave him be.

  Ellis Collis is an innocent man.

  As he drew closer they saw that the tied man’s back was split with lacerations. Behind the guard that held the whip were several large men who pushed away anyone who stepped out from the crowd – as several did – to try and halt this bizarre caravan.

  Animals, shouted a voice close to William Deighton and the solicitor. That man’s only crime was hunger.

  Robert Parker tapped the protestor on the shoulder and said what is it that this man is accused of?

  The protestor turned and looked at Robert Parker and William Deighton beside him. He looked them up and down. He saw a fine woollen waistcoat dyed a gaudy red and he saw top coats and hats that held their shape. In the strong distinguished features of Robert Parker he saw good even teeth without gaps or pegs or grey nubs dying in the bleeding beds, and when he looked down he noticed the polished leather shoes quite unlike the stiff clogs on his own feet.

  They say he stole he replied with disdain.

  So hunger wasn’t his only crime said William Deighton.

  The man shrugged.

  Stole what exactly? asked Robert Parker.

  The man looked at him again. Unsure of who these well-dressed men were and what powers they wielded he said: plates.

  Plates?

  The man nodded.

  From whom?

  The man shrugged again and turned back to the spectacle of flesh and blood and leather and horse dung that was passing them by. The shouting of the crowd increased as the cart’s wheels creaked over the smooth flags of Nelson Street. Here the blinkered horse whinnied as steam rose from the fresh cuts of the tied man, and rose too from the muscular flexing flanks of the beast. The man was thin and his gaunt face unshaven. His flat stomach gave the impression of it caving in on itself, his ribs protruding, as if a form of living fossilisation was already taking place. One eye was blackened. He appeared spent.

  Robert Parker looked at William Deighton and then tapped the man on the shoulder again.

  I’ll ask again: from whom did he steal?

  The man turned back to the attorney.

  What?

  I said from whom did he steal?

  They say he stole a plate of silver from the vestry up at Heptonstall church.

  A thief then, said William Deighton as the crowd surged as one.

  A hungry soul trying to feed his family, replied the man.

  William Deighton snorted.

  With silver?

  They say God always provides.

  William Deighton looked at Robert Parker then shook his head.

  As the cart creaked away someone across the street whistled. The flogged man looked up to see an orange sailing through the air towards him. He instinctively reached out and caught it firmly and the crowd cheered but he wasn’t finished. In a flash of showmanship the condemned man threw the fruit high up in the air again and all eyes from the throng followed it as it spun upwards in the Saturday morning sun and in that moment – that action – lay the hopes of much of the Halifax crowd; that one flung orange of a spent man dripping blood from open wounds in front of everyone who knew him, and plenty who didn’t, carried one last trace of hope and defiance and humour too. And as it fell there was a fleeting moment’s silence – a temporary suspension of the chatter and curse words and shouts and protestations – before the tied, flogged and bleeding focus of their attention reached up and without even looking caught the orange in the same hand before quickly taking a big bite from it, peel and all. The crowd roared with laughter as he threw the fruit back to from where it came, responded with their ecstatic approval as Ellis Collis made his brief mark upon the town’s history and shouts of encouragement rang down the street. In such moments local legends were born.

  God bless Ellis Collis and smite the bastards that done this, shouted one voice.

  Strength and glory to the man who feeds his family, called another.

  May the rain wash the salt from your wounds, Ellis Collis.

  Long live the king shouted one voice.

  King David of the Craggs responded another.

  Long live the Coiners called several voices at once.

  Robert Parker and William Deighton looked at one another. The latter nodded and then spoke.

  I agree something needs to be done he whispered. You’re right. Times may be desperate for some but we cannot let these forgers bring us all down.

  Yes.

  But I can’t do it all alone.

  My influence and resources are at your disposal, whispered the solicitor. I have the ears of powerful men; those who long ago divided up Yorkshire and took a big chunk each. Men of initiative. Forward thinkers and empire builders. They will help us. Besides, would not your masters in London want you to protect the realm’s own mint – the very foundation of this country’s economy?

  Of course, said William Deighton. And my work has already begun. But we cannot speak any more of it here.

  No, said Robert Parker. Not here.

  I serve only one king, said William Deighton.

  And the other shall hang, said Robert Parker.

  The tables of Barbary’s corner snug were stacked with jugs and cups. Pie crumbs and bread crusts were scattered around beneath it and a fug of smoke drifted above the lolling heads of men. Some were with hats; others without. Some were with teeth; others without. But all had co
ins in their pockets and bulging bellies. Their veins coursing warm.

  David Hartley was there and Isaac Hartley was there. John Wilcox and Jonas Eastwood and Nathan Horsfall were there. The boy Jack O’Matts Bentley was there and John Tatham was there and Matthew Hepworth and James Broadbent and John Coughing and Young Frosty and James Crabtree and Peter Barker. They were all there.

  The men were spread across four tables, while in the front room of the inn there was a straggle of evening drinkers who preferred to give those men they knew to be Coiners a wide berth and free run of the place.

  Barbara kept the jugs coming and no-one said a cross word or laid a finger on Barbara because she had fought men and she had beaten men but more than that Barbara knew the secrets of many and had a smile for everyone, and her cash-box rattled full with coins both matted and buffed and worn and bright and more than once she had stowed the stamps and dies and pouches of clippers at a moment’s notice and at great threat to her liberty. Her lips were tight and her hips wide. Her word trusted. So Barbara was looked after. Barbary’s was theirs.

  As the jokes and songs faded the group of coining men fragmented to talk in slurred whispers. David Hartley raised his feet to a chair and leaned back. He closed his eyes. At a table behind him James Broadbent was talking loudly and rattling pebbles in his hand. Click-clack. Click-clack. David Hartley listened to him talk and rattle his pebbles for a while longer – click-clack, click-clack – and then without looking at him David Hartley said to James Broadbent:

  Stop.

  When James Broadbent did not hear the order one of the men nudged him.

  What? he said.

  That, said David Hartley. Stop.

  What?

  That.

  This?

  James Broadbent tossed the pebbles. Click-clack.

  Aye.

  Why?

  Because.

  This?

  Again James Broadbent tossed the pebbles one more time. Click-clack. Thomas Clayton raised an eyebrow and went to stand but Isaac Hartley tapped his knee and shook his head.

  Why? said James Broadbent.

  Cunt, said David Hartley.