The Gallows Pole

by Benjamin Myers

  Wielding a dead hen like a lantern that had been snuffed out, William Hartley strode into the front room of Bell House. He threw it down on the table where his eldest brother was carefully applying a thin film of polish to a pocket watch from a piece of rag wrapped around one finger.

  Bad things are afoot brother.

  David Hartley looked at the chicken and then back to his watch.

  Look at this time-piece, he said. Who would have imagined owning such a thing? Me, the son of a smelter from the hill tops.

  Never mind that and look at this hen.

  He glanced at it.

  It’s dead is that.

  I know it’s dead, said William Hartley.

  They say there is a physician down in that London who advertises he can bring the drowned back to life.

  What? said William Hartley.

  They say that this physician down that London reckons on bringing the drowned back from the dead by blowing in their mouth. Perhaps you might consider putting your lips to the beak of that cackler and giving it a kiss, my brother.

  This is no joking matter, our David.

  David Hartley smiled and returned to his watch.

  His brother was insistent.

  Look at it.

  The fox has had it, said David Hartley, his impatience rising. What of it? We need to get the boy to mind the hen hut for a night or two. He’s tip-top with that slingshot. I’ve seen him take moving squirrels from their branches at fifty paces. He’ll soon fettle it.

  This is the work of no fox.

  Well.

  There’s not a mark on it brother. And they’re all like that.

  All?

  Dead. The chickens. The whole lot of them. Snabbled. That’s what I’m saying. And that’s not the half of it.

  David Hartley set his watch and his waxing rag aside.

  He took the bird and held it in his palm. Its neck hung loose. He stroked its feathers and then he parted them. He looked at its feet and eyes. He turned it this way and that. Then he put it down again.

  Then we’ve been struck with ill luck he said. These chickens have been poxed.

  You’re not listening, brother. It’s not just the chickens. It’s all of them.

  All of who?

  All the animals, said William Hartley. The grunters are dead and the cow is dead. Up top George Wharton’s sheep too. They are dead also. They are laid on the moor with their legs pointed to the clouds. Dead they are.

  David Hartley pushed his chair back.

  Where is that hound of mine? Where is Moidore? This must be his work. Fetch that mutt and I’ll give him what for. I’ll make a jump rope from his gizzard.

  I have not seen the dog. But there are birds too. Birds on the ground. Birds of different varieties. Crows and gulls and spugs. They are dead, as if taken from the sky by your boy’s slingshot. Dead birds everywhere. No hound could do that.

  How can this be?

  William Hartley raised his open palms and shrugged.

  It’s murrain he said. We have been stricken brother. That is the only explanation. Bell House and all around us have been stricken by the murrain. It is as if the moor is poisoned and the soil is poisoned and the sky is poisoned. Cursed. All the creatures have fallen over stone dead like this here cackler.

  He picked up the chicken.

  Burn it, said David Hartley. Burn it now.

  William Hartley took the bird and he threw it onto the fire where it turned the flame blue and bristled with the sound of a charred blaze. The fire stripped it of its feathers. It singed them in an instant, then its skin shrank and tightened. Its eyes disappeared. Deep inside it, a fully formed egg cooked and then popped. The hen’s burning claws flexed inwards and then soon they too were gone.

  David Hartley walked to the window.

  What of the stag?

  What stag?

  Has there been any full-antlered deer found dead up here on these moors?

  No brother. None seen.

  What about down in the woods?

  The lads have not reported seeing any dead deer as yet said William Hartley. Why do you ask this?

  David Hartley touched his jaw. Felt that he needed a shave there. He said nothing.

  Also the boy, said William Hartley. He has not been seen either.

  What boy? said David Hartley.

  Young Wilcox of the woods

  What do you mean not seen?

  His mother reports he has been gone for a night or two.

  That is not uncommon for a lad of his age. Did we not wander off to spend nights with the owls and fox howls?

  That we did, said William Hartley. That we did.

  And the fresh air and soil pillows made us strong.

  That they did.

  Because it’s good for your bones to know the cold young.

  Yes it is.

  So are you saying he is to be blamed for all this?

  No, said William Hartley. No I am not. I just mean with dead animals and a missing boy perhaps bad luck has befallen us.

  Still looking out of the window across Bell Hole woods, David Hartley spoke.

  It was The Alchemist, he said quietly.

  The Alchemist? said William Hartley. The Alchemist did this? Then I’ll murder him for you. I’ll bring you his scalp and his teeth and his fingernails for this.

  No. There’s no call for that. The Alchemist did not bring this murrain about the place – he prophesised it. He saw it in the flames. This plague is a portent.

  A portent. Like witchery?

  Like a sign of things to come.

  David Hartley turned and picked up his watch and held it to his ear then looked at it.

  That’s what he said to me: You’ll wish you read the signs. This then must be a sign.

  Now you’re troubling me, said William Hartley.

  And you’re right to be troubled. Dead hens is nothing. Birds falling from the sky is nothing. What comes next is what we should be concerned with. It’s the two sevens coming is what it is. It’s the fall of an empire.

  I don’t understand.

  Neither do I, young blood. But it has been seen in the flames. It has been spoken of. It is beyond even our control.

  They sat in the back room of The Sun Inn, a mile or more outside of Bradford, on mismatched chairs and upturned barrels beneath smoked oak beams. The exciseman William Deighton and a man widely known only as Magistrate Leedes. In the corner was a spittoon slick with the sputum of passing men and on the table in front of them sat an ashtray and the abandoned remains of an undercooked spatchcock that they had split and picked at.

  This Broadbent, enquired Leedes, not for the first time. Is he trustworthy?

  The Magistrate looked uncomfortable in his surroundings. He was not a man at ease drinking in a public house where he might encounter those he had sent down. His first ale he had drained in seconds and his second he had made light work of too.

  No of course not, said William Deighton. He’s as crooked as they come.

  So am I expected to sit here all night waiting on a man whose word is worthless?

  His word may be worthless and his morals crooked but James Broadbent is driven by something great: greed, Mr. Leedes. Greed is what fuels this man – greed and revenge. The best motivations for a man to do just about anything, I find.

  Well that’s certainly true in my experience, sniffed Magistrate Leedes. But why isn’t your Halifax colleague Robert Parker joining us?

  Mr Parker prefers to stay in the shadows.

  As do I. As do I. And Broadbent is late.

  As I have already explained he has a long way to travel on foot, said William Deighton. Eight miles it is from Halifax and five more before that from his lodgings in Mytholmroyd.

  Could he not come by horse or have
a companion bring him over by trap?

  He has no such friends that I know of.

  I thought these forgers were meant to have full pockets yet you say this man comes on foot?

  James Broadbent is not a significant man, said William Deighton. His work for the Cragg Vale Coiners is of the dirtiest kind.

  Then why do you bring him here?

  William Deighton sipped his drink to hide his frustration at the magistrate’s impatience and lack of understanding. But before he could reply the Magistrate Leedes spoke again.

  This man has lost his nerve.

  I do believe he will come.

  He is close to two hours late.

  Though he did not show it, William Deighton was concerned. He stood and went to the door of the inn again. He looked out into the fading day and his spirits rose as he saw two figures ambling up the incline towards him. He recognised the slouched form and ambling gate of James Broadbent and a few paces behind him his father the charcoal burner, Joseph ‘Belch’ Broadbent. A sorry sight they may have been, but William Deighton felt like rejoicing.

  He went out to meet them.

  You are late, he said.

  That is no way to greet a man, said James Broadbent. You are lucky we are here at all. My father is not a well man and the valley is long and arduous.

  Yes, yes, said William Deighton. I have inside with me, as promised, the magistrate. Do you still intend to testify?

  Do you still intend to give my boy one hundred guineas?

  Joseph Broadbent said this. His voice was a thin, dry rasp.

  Yes, said William Deighton. Of course. Now come inside.

  After introductions were made and drinks ordered the quartet of the lawman, the exciseman and the two Broadbents retired to a quiet corner of the inn.

  Now then, said William Deighton. You just tell the magistrate what it is you told me.

  About what? said James Broadbent through a mouthful of broth.

  You know what. About David Hartley.

  He is a louse.

  As he said this broth dribbled down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his shirt sleeve as the Magistrate Leedes, unaccustomed to observing such low company at close quarters, looked on aghast. Beside him his father was wearily hunched over his bowl, his red-rimmed eyes barely open, a hunk of bread dangling into his bowl, food glistening in his wet whiskers.

  Tell Mr Leedes what you have seen him do, said William Deighton.

  I have seen him do many things – and none of them good.

  Have you seen him forging coins? asked the Magistrate Leedes.

  Of course, said James Broadbent. And he’s not very good at that neither. Ham-fisted he is, for a man they call the king.

  You’ve seen this on more than one occasion?

  Aye. Many times I’ve seen him.

  Tell Mr. Leedes what you saw exactly.

  James Broadbent folded a piece of bread into his cheek and chewed a moment, then swallowed. He forked a hot buttered potato and lifted it aloft.

  I have seen him take guineas and clip them.

  Did he say why he was doing that? asked the Magistrate Leedes.

  Broadbent shrugged.

  How do you mean?

  Did he express his intentions?

  Eh?

  He popped the potato into his mouth

  Did he say what he was doing?

  It might be he said he would take those guineas and he would strike them, James Broadbent said through his mouthful of food.

  Strike them?

  Aye. Mill them.

  Was anyone else present? asked the magistrate.

  Different people at different times. His bastard brothers were usually about.

  He means William and Isaac Hartley interjected William Deighton. Who else?

  Oftentimes Thomas Spencer. Tom Clayton too. They’re thick that lot. The moor-top boys. They came up together.

  Was there anyone else there when Hartley clipped the coins? said William Deighton. We need specific incidents.

  James Broadbent spooned more broth.

  I do believe James Jagger was there as well.

  Jagger? said the Magistrate Leedes.

  He’s one of Hartley’s confidents, said William Deighton as an aside. An odious individual by all accounts.

  And you are quite prepared to put this down in writing?

  James Broadbent put down his fork. His father looked up from his bowl.

  He’s not a book learner is James, he croaked.

  It was only the second sentence that he had spoken since meeting the magistrate.

  I don’t understand, said the Magistrate Leedes.

  And you a man of the education, said James Broadbent as a crooked smile played about his mouth.

  I think he means he does not write well William Deighton said.

  He don’t write at all, said Joseph Broadbent. Neither do I – and it’s never done us no harm either.

  Evidently, said William Deighton. Clearly you’re thriving.

  He and the Magistrate Leedes studied the men across the table from them for a moment and then the latter sighed.

  Then I shall write it for him, he said.

  He reached down beneath the table and brought up a brown leather valise. He opened it up and began removing a congeries of items. A roll of papers. Ink jars. Pens. Nibs. Blotter. A candle stump. A monogrammed sealing stamp.

  He took his pipe and carefully tapped it onto the table before packing it with a fresh plug of tobacco, then lit it.

  James Broadbent sat back and quietly belched.

  My throat is still tight, he said.

  William Deighton sighed and then stood.

  Two of the same? he asked.

  Better make it four Mr Deighton, said James Broadbent. They say that ale loosens the throat and I do believe that this writing lark does take a man some time and effort.

  Oh but I miss my Crag Vayle and the lanes and the woods and the folk what live up there Salt of the earthe folk and sum rite caracturs like Turvin Jim though James Lee was his berth name but we orl called him Gratye Jim The Grass Eater because this man had the belly and appytite of a hog I mean old Turvin Jim could eat throo owt Aside from thirty tankards of ale I’ve seenum sink over the corse of a day without even seeming drunk Jim The Grass Eater would sumtymes eat a dead sheep or a stillborn calf that had layde in the field from sunup to sundown and even if there were flyes or maggots on it Old Jim wuddent care No Old Turvin Jim would tuck into it raw even with no fyre to cook it on Hens and lambs gone greene as well or a fish thats floaten belly up in the silted ponde he’d think nothing of norrin on it and no sickness was ever cummin Worran appetite that man did have about him A hog he was A real greedy goate.

  And what of Henry Wadsworth orlso nowen as Harry O Yems Well Old Harry made his wage by reeleeving weevers and packmen of ther stock as they made ther way over the moor tops from Colne and Marsden and Burnlee for a time Yemmsy was the most feered vagabond since Dicky Turpin and The Long Corsway was his preferred root Yass out past Heptstonstall he’d wayte lingerin in the shadow of a marker stone where thurs nowt but endless nite and boggards and malkins and stagmen for companee and then heed leep out and heed cut their cargo strait off the packhorse backs with a blayde Of corse this was when King David was a sprat for I would never allow such beehayvyor in my valley No that brings much attentshun Forteen year of penal servytude Harry O Yems got Forteen year in a dunjen like this wun in which I sit now the silly bastid A silly bastid for getten himself cort that is.

  Wat lads.

  Aye good lads of Calderdale and menny more besides orl just tryen to scratch a living from this dank shallow red soil that gives up nowt but trubble and stinken gasses like eggy guffs.

  Blisters marked the palm of his hand as the old man clutched at the stirrup
and walked as fast as he could without stumbling or breaking into a run that he was certain would kill him.

  Beside him the horse’s flanks rippled in the snatches of moonlight that found its way through trees that closed in on them on either side, the walls of this dark, knotted corridor appearing to oscillate as they passed through it. But mainly the clouds conspired to keep the moon at bay, and there was only the sound of the reins in William Deighton’s hands, the sleek movement of the horse and Joseph Broadbent’s breath thin and tight on one side, the steady breathing of his son on the other.

  The old man’s breath burned and he kept having to hawk up dry clots of phlegm and spit them out, the lung curds appearing silver as they landed on the rough ash, dirt and grit of the packhorse track.

  They came back from Bradford over by the farmstead of Shelf and dropped down through wooded vales in the direction of Northowram. Here the trees ended and to their left the land opened out, sweeping away to the south where open pastures were dotted with copses and spiny thicket. They followed a sike through marshlands for a way and the horses struggled, and the old man wheezed. His lungs were on fire; his dry throat spiked with a piercing pain.

  Mr Deighton, he said, but the exciseman did not hear him. He went to speak again but his voice did not come. There was only a rattle in his chest as he gasped and his blistered hand loosened its grip from the leather. He slumped to the ground. The hooves of the departing horse flashed silver. Seeing his father fall James Broadbent tugged on William Deighton’s stirrup and said Mr Deighton, Mr Deighton, hold up, and only then did the exciseman look down and then back behind him to where the old man lay at the side of the trail like errant cargo. His pale face was drawn, like a skull wrapped in waxed preserving paper. He brought the horse to a standstill and climbed down.

  The two men walked to the prone third.

  James Broadbent crouched beside his father. William Deighton joined him and offered his flask of water. Joseph Broadbent took it and drank long.

  Well what is it man? said William Deighton.

  He’s unwell, snapped James Broadbent. Anyone can see that. He’s got the fever on him.

  We’ll soon be back.

  Aye – to Halifax. Then it is on to Mytholmroyd that we go. Fifteen or more miles we must have done this evening yet with barely anything in our stomachs.