Worse than the hunger was the growing bitterness. Bitterness could make a violent man even more so. It could make him desperate – and desperation was the midwife of rash acts like fetching up drunk at the Hartley place.
James Broadbent followed the smoke from his father’s clearing. He saw it at a distance as he left Stocks Lane and took the Roger Gate track deep into the trees, passing the three weavers cottages of Burnt Stubb sitting low in a hollow, the end one of which he had spent several seasons in, bent double at the loom in light so poor that he had been struck by aches in his head and spells of dizziness that only ceased when he gave up that work to devote his time to clipping.
The lane dipped and steered him back into the trees where he saw his father tending to his old burner. James Broadbent stopped and pulled a grass blade from the ground. He chewed it for a moment while he watched the old man.
His father worked at half speed, his body ruined by toil. Years at the burner had made him part of the landscape.
The coarse mud that he carefully applied to the cracks that appeared in the earthen skin of the charcoal clamp as it burned for four or five days at a stretch was a part of him too. Not just under his fingernails or binding the matted layers of the same britches and shirt and hooded tunic that he wore all year round, but a part of his very pigmentation.
The earth was in his father’s scalp and his stubble. It had become him. His body hosted smoke. It was stirred into his essence to dilute that which made him human so that he was now part of the landscape and part of the fire; he was made of the smoke that billowed and rolled and tumbled during the slow process that took felled timber through combustion to become the shards and clots of carbon that fuelled fires and furnaces the length and breadth of Calderdale. He was wood-smoke manifest; man as a settled miasma. A nebulous fellow, burnt brume in stout boots, with a clay pipe clicking between what remained of his teeth.
And as he hacked and coughed and stooped and shuffled James Broadbent saw just how much the process had ruined a man who could barely afford to buy a candle even though he had worked the burner since the age of nine.
He cast the chewed grass aside and crossed the clearing. He sat on one of the cross-cut stumps that his father used to rest his legs upon and he kicked at the dirt with his heel. Joseph Broadbent did not acknowledge his son at first but then after a minute had passed he turned and looked as if seeing him for the first time.
What’s your trouble then? he said.
James Broadbent heeled the dirt again.
Nowt, he said. Nowt.
Your face argues otherwise.
James Broadbent shrugged in silence, though he was seething inside.
Now I don’t reckon you’re here to help an old man make dusty diamonds so something must be ailing you.
It’s that cunt Hartley. The one they call the King.
Joseph Broadbent chafed the palms of his hands together and then reached in his pocket for a pipe which he packed and lit and puffed at until a blue smoke flumed from his nostrils like a bull’s breath on a cold morning, and then he coughed for a long time. The cough rattled around him and drew up phlegm that he rolled around his mouth for a moment and then hawked into the undergrowth. He repeated the process and then sat on a stump.
The thing about kings is they never keep the crown forever he remarked.
He said this in a low, husky voice. Almost a whisper. James Broadbent didn’t say anything in reply. He heard his father’s teeth clicking against his pipe as he puffed again and then coughed again. Hawked again. Spat again.
Seems that kings usually get toppled or offed, said Joseph Broadbent, once he had cleared his chest. That man I never liked. Him or his father.
What is it you’re getting at?
David Hartley, said Joseph Broadbent.
What about him?
Does he sit on a throne?
No he does not.
Does he have a palace?
His house is dark and busy with dusty looms he no longer uses, said James Broadbent. Though rarely does he invite me in. It seems he does not deem me worthy.
So he lives like most others in the valley.
He is better fed.
Fine. So he eats well. On a good day a full belly could make a man think he were a king, but it does not mean he is a king no more than the burning of logs into charcoal makes me think I am the god of fire.
He is arrogant, father, said James Broadbent. David Hartley and his brothers think they are better than everyone else. They treat me like a donkey. They expect me to do their bidding and their strong-arming but they tell me nothing of their business and they pay me pennies despite the great risk involved. I have fought many men for them; there are those I have slashed and gouged just for taking David Hartley’s name in vain. He knows this but still my reward is nothing but humiliation. They are greedy.
Often greed is a man’s downfall. Will it be yours?
James Broadbent looked at his father.
Mine?
Yes. What is it you’re after with all this talk?
James Broadbent looked at the ground and considered the question.
I just want my share.
Your share?
Yes. I have worked hard.
Three days of log burning is hard work, said Joseph Broadbent. Hauling two score sacks of charcoal to the merchants is hard work – what you do is different. You are a big lad; you use what you have.
I don’t pretend to be anything I am not, said James Broadbent. Unlike that swell-headed bastard Hartley.
Joseph Broadbent was quiet for a moment. When he spoke it was from the depth of a memory still sharp where his body was failing him.
You know, I knew his father a young man. They are cut from the same cloth, those two. Once he beat me.
Beat you?
Him and his friends, said Joseph Broadbent. William Hartley.
James Broadbent interjected.
William Hartley is also the name of one of his sons. They call him the Duke Of Edinburgh.
Yes, I know. Like father, so like the sons. They’re no titled gentry. A long time ago this was, but I remember it well: for no good reason William the elder and his friends once set about me. We were but tykes – but still. Mob-handed and brass knuckled, they were. And then just recently I have heard his sons loud in the ale by the bridge of a night. Shouting at the moon they were. No. I have no love for a Hartley. I share your dislike.
I just want what’s mine, said James Broadbent again. The valley flows with gold but barely a drop has come my way. And I want to see that bastard toppled. Too many times he has humiliated me.
They fell silent for a moment and then the elder Broadbent spoke.
What I am about to say to you might mark the end of your problems.
Go on.
Have you heard of the Tyburn ticket?
I’ve heard of the Tyburn gibbet.
All Coiners have, said Joseph Broadbent. No. The Tyburn ticket is something else. It is a brave man’s way out of a situation that he no longer wants to be in.
I don’t understand.
You want to make some money. An amount you feel you deserve.
Yes, said James Broadbent. That is what I have been saying.
And you want to bring Hartley down.
A peg or two at the very least.
What I am telling you now will bring David Hartley down more than a peg or two. It will bring him down all the way into this soil wearing a wooden overcoat. If you want rid of the King, then the Tyburn ticket is the way.
How do I get this ticket?
You don’t, said Joseph Broadbent. You don’t get a ticket. You talk to a man.
What man?
A man whose name I happen to know of.
Tell me his name.
Once you speak to this man you your
self will be in danger.
I live with danger all day and all night.
I’m talking about real danger, son. Deathly danger.
I do not fear death. I fear nothing.
Do you fear the Hartleys?
I fear nothing.
Then I will take you to this man.
A second tyme the stagmen did appeer and this was menny yers later and I was a man now and father of chillun myself an back on the red terf of home Back on the moore of Cragg Vayle This was not so long ago that memree had faded No this was kwite reesunt an I rember every moment of it now as cleer as day as cleer as yer owen hand befor yer owen fayse As cleer as a candul flayme in the nite and the waxy stink offit when you wayke in the morning.
I recorl it well becors that nite in cweschun it was a full moon that did rise over Bell Hole and I cud not sleep My hed it was awayke with thorts and plans for more munny maykin and more coinin and more clippin and revenge on them that tries to stoppus Aye I cud not sleepe so I rose from my blankets and left my goode wife Grace sleepin the sleep of the ded and I warkt throu this howse that is the stone pallas of the wun they corl King Dayvid.
And I warkt passed the dyin embas still glowen orunge in a cullapsed heap of birch and alder logs and I warkt rite out throu the door and out onto the moore barefoot like a man possessed like a man dreamun.
But I was not dreamun I was very much awayke.
And I warkt out across the flags and onto the sod and the hethur and the moon as I say was hi and I warkt until I came to a boggy slack and I do not no what it was that pulld me there but wen I rechit it I crouchet low in the grass and I did see some thynge that no man but this King himself would believe and that was Stagmen Again with the Stagmen The Stagmen again An I watched them in rapt wunder.
Stagmen dansin Dansin in a circul under the moon on the moor at nite and my hart was thumpen in my chest And I new it I new then that them to be real and how that ferst time I seenum before was not a dream or the silly creatings of a fevered child or all them uther things my father and mutha god rest her soul sed it were No the Stagmen were real just as I sed they was just as I sed See David Hartley does not lie he trusts his eyes and he nose what he sees rite He nose what he sees And what he seas that is grayt vishuns misstickell visherns.
It were the stagmen returnin to me the same Stagmen I saw as a chylde The stagmen of the Jorvikshyre moors and I was so close I could heer thur feet on the grass so close I could heer the swish sound of it and the rustling sound of it and thur feet trampin on the grownd and thur breathes deep and throaty Snortin they was Snortin and raspin and I swear on the bybel I could heer thur chesseds thumpin too just as yor chessed or my chessed thumps when yoov been digging turf or splitten logs or breaken bolders for the plowin or dammen a streem or after having been pluggin yor missus.
I durst not breeth myself so I pressed down into the moore Deep into the moore Deep an flat and as low as a man cud go Low as a rigglen werm And I watched the stagmen dance to a music that only they cud hear The moon an open eye unblinken The hollow a saycrud place Blud in the eers Hartbeets.
And then thur was only the sownd of thur feet and thur breth steamin and my hart beaten and my mind runnen away with more kweschuns than you have fingus The nite turned mad by these creechurs Swet and vishuns Majic.
They allus telt us the Moors was a speshul place and there alwuss was storees of stagmen and things unseen and boulders that move themselves when your back is turned An big dogs too that wander up here Dogs bigger than yoove seen Some they say with two heads And green Boggarts what live under stones and the mouse as long as your arm that is as whyte as a ghost and bad luck to anywun who sees it And the nite whisslers The nite whisslers that make a whisslin sound in the aire And they sed that some cows that had been set to grays up there did produce blew milke And what of him they corl Leathery Coit the headless man who had driven a cart with headless horses They sed he had been seen up there on the moors two And the Wite Lady also And many are the storees of men that have gon missun up yon They allways telt us the moors was a spashul place and now I no it to bee true havun seen the grayt Stagmen dancing not as a chylde in dreems but as a grown man As King David Harterlay of Crag Vail He of sownd mind and strong bodee Yass I seenum I tell you I seenum The Stagmen of the Calder dayle moor I seenum in grayt vishuns becorse I am graytness itself Just as was told Just as was told.
They moved across the field as one, hacking at the last late crop of grass with their scythes and short-handed sickles. Behind them there followed women with their tines and baling forks and at the rear, children, clutching rolls of baling twine. Some carried catapults with which to sling pebbles at the fleeing rabbits that they put up.
There was a frenzy to their work as they raced against the season and the coming of the harvest moon that was marked to rise that very night. To toil beyond it was ill luck. After this day, when the celebrations had passed, the field would only feel the coulter blade of the lone ploughman – his thick head still muzzy from too much beer no doubt – and then once re-seeded would remain untouched for four years. Next summer would see the wild grass crop rotate to the adjacent field; feed for baling and mulching was all these dank valley’s lower pastures were good for.
Every so often the men seemed to lock into a rhythm as their blades swung in unison all the way from the field-edge to the sloping flat centre, their arms swinging in perfect synchronicity for a few moments before falling away into their own patterns.
They said little as they worked.
Thomas Spencer was among them, as was John Tatham in his recognisable blue, white and scarlet draw-boy waistcoat. Ely Crossley was swinging a scythe and Thomas Murgatroyd the corn miller had come to offer a hand. Red-headed Matthew Hepworth lent his muscle too, as did Jonas Eastwood down from Erringden Moor and Isaac Dewhurst and Israel Wilde and Foul Peter Barker and Abraham Lumb and William Hartley, because although the field belonged to Richard Feather, the brother-in-law of Benjamin Sutcliffe – better known to all as Benjamin Nunco – and a man considered too humble and busy otherwise caring for a wife of feeble mind to partake in the clipping trade, it was nonetheless the role of all members of the community who could stand on two feet to help at harvest time, Coiner or not.
When the silver sun was at its highest yet giving off little heat, and the field patterned with sheaves bundled to the height of the tallest children, there was a whistle and a wave of arms from the corner. One by one the field workers stopped and laid aside their tools and walked over to a stack of hay bales harvested in a June that seemed so long ago now.
The bales were covered with a cloth upon which were placed a dozen plates sitting tall with mutton pieces and loaves and wedges of cheese and pots containing vinegar onions and vinegar cabbage, and dripping and chutneys and honey the colour of amber that was flavoured with the heather of the moors. There were pies thick with buttered crusts and potatoes in their black fire-cooked coats. There were two ducks, plucked and cooked and carved.
There was a suet marrow pudding too, still steaming in its cloth and beside that another bowl contained blackberries, bilberries and raspberries. At the end a sugar cake sat in a pool of cooling custard.
There were jugs of spring water and ale and fresh unwatered milk with globs of butter floating on the surface waiting to be fished out and spread.
And there beside this makeshift moveable feast stood David Hartley and Grace Hartley and Thomas Clayton.
Victuals, said David Hartley through a seldom-seen smile. Strap on your nosebags and tuck in my friends. This year the valley has been blessed with a bountiful harvest in all ways.
The men and women and children looked at the food and then at each other and they smiled because this was an unexpected meal like none they had ever seen.
God surely loves those that wish to take what’s rightfully theirs said a smiling Thomas Clayton as the men and their wives and children lined up with plat
es, first tentatively and then with an excited chatter.
As chapped and grass-nicked hands reached out for the food David Hartley moved amongst them solemnly pressing a golden guinea into each. The gasps of gratitude from the women and children could be heard from across the field as their words turned first into laughter and then singing, and the men nodded and smiled quietly as the silver harvest sun moved ever closer to the pink autumn moon.
James Broadbent and his father took the bottom valley path along the river that here and there ran alongside the old horse track linking Halifax to Mytholmroyd and then onto to Hebden Bridge and Todmorden hard against the border with Lancashire.
Tiny hamlets dotted the route. Luddendenfoot. Brearley. Burnt Stubb.
Small gatherings of squat stone buildings cowered in the shadows of the woods that lay behind them as the valley narrowed then broadened out then narrowed again. These places clung to the old track or else retreated up the slopes into secret clefts and tree-covered hidden valleys. They were dark places, with streams running through them and gathering drifts of talus. Places of honey and wool. Vegetable terraces. Wet smoke and suspicious eyes.
Mytholm. Eastwood. Jumble Hole Clough.
Charlestown. Sandbed.
Across the moors and over the tops offered a steeper, shorter route from James Broadbent’s lodging at the Sutcliffe place to father and son’s destination but it meant crossing the wide open interior of the moors out the back of Bell House where the Hartleys had their boys on watch, and the trust of their nearest neighbours who were dotted across the Erringden top slopes. That was a risk.
The Gallows Pole Page 10