The Gallows Pole

by Benjamin Myers

  James Stansfield and Jack O’Matts Bentley.

  Thomas Sunderland and Crowther O’Badger and Peter Barker and Aloysius Smith.

  Tommy Clayton and Johnny Tatham.

  John Parker and James Green.

  Benny Sutcliffe and Nat Horsfall .

  Eli Hill and Jonas Tilotson and Thomas Spencer and Israel Wilde and Matthew Hepworth and Ely Crossley and Brian Dempsey and Eli Hoyle.

  Others.

  And then finally Isaac Hartley and William Hartley, the pair known affectionately amongst the men as the Duke of York and the Duke of Edinburgh, who arrived last, making straight for their usual corner table, for they knew a Coiner should always sit with his face to the exit and his back to the wall.

  It was the largest gathering of Coiners and clippers and strong-arm men since the previous summer’s meeting up at Bell House. This time the mood was as different as the season itself.

  Best of order, said Isaac Hartley. You all know why we’re here. Not for jokes or riddles or song. Not for ale or skittles or skirt. We’re here for our brother, the one they call the king of Calderdale, the true king of these northlands, David Hartley, who dwells in a dungeon in York, rotting away because of one man.

  Broadbent, said Joseph Hanson.

  Broadbent will pay, said William Folds.

  Broadbent will indeed pay, said Isaac Hartley. But this man was outsmarted, tricked, misled by a greater foe, someone who will do or say anything – who will go to any length imaginable – to bring about our downfall. Granted, Broadbent is as dumb as a donkey and will be lucky to see next Lent, but even so he remains a Coiner and he is needed for our brother’s freedom. This man Deighton who is a representative of the crown of England would sooner see us starve than live as free, enterprising men. They do not give a fuck about us hill-dwellers in their palaces down in London. They sleep under silk while we have only straw. They eat goose and pheasant while for years we sucked on pebbles. They have five fires blazing while we burn green wood.

  Hear, hear, said several voices in agreement. Isaac Hartley continued.

  Broadbent fell for the devil Deighton’s trickery and so here we are. Make no mistake: William Deighton might live a humble life in Halifax but he is another king’s lickspittle. Follow the chain and you will find Robert Parker, a man younger than most of us, yet who is buying up half the hills in the valley, and already deep in talks with these mill men. Don’t you see them measuring up their plots to split and share and sell – the land we farm and dwell upon? And behind Robert Parker, others like him. Men of wealth and privilege out to line their own pockets.

  What then must be done? asked Eli Hill.

  Each and every one of you has answered this question in your heads already, said Isaac Hartley.

  Some of the men glanced at one another. Others looked to the floor, to the ceiling. They chewed at thumbnails and callouses. Picked at their noses. Made busy with their pipes.

  Fixing is what Deighton needs, said William Folds.

  Fixing. He left the word hanging. Open-ended. Fixing.

  James Stansfield cleared his throat. He was not used to speaking openly but his role in bringing James Broadbent to account had emboldened him. He cleared his throat a second time.

  But who is it that is to do the fixing? he asked.

  The men were silent for a moment.

  And who is it that will pay them, for a man to do something like this would surely require a reward?

  Isaac Hartley spoke.

  Payment would not present a problem. William Deighton is the problem. When that is solved everything else will follow.

  There are enough valley folk that would up good coins to see that dog dead.

  Crowther O’Badger said this. Then he added:

  I know of two lads.

  Who would that be then, Crowther? asked Isaac Hartley.

  Crowther O’Badger looked around at the faces of his fellow forgers.

  Matthew Normington is one of them, he said. And Robert Thomas is the other.

  Thomas of up Wadsworth Banks? asked William Hartley

  That’s the one.

  I know of him, said Isaac Hartley. But who is this Normington?

  He’s from Sowerby. They’re farm-hands the pair of them – when they’re not out stealing or up to skulduggery. They’re desperate and merciless with it. They’ll do anything for money them two.

  They don’t clip though.

  No. King David would not have them, said Crowther O’Badger. Reckoned on them being a yard too shifty.

  William Hartley nodded and addressed his brother.

  He’s right. I remember the name Normington now. A right pair they make.

  Well I heard that Matthew Normington did rut a horse said Thomas Sunderland.

  The men laughed.

  Rut a horse? said Crowther O’Badger.

  Aye.

  You’re a liar you are.

  I’m not though but.

  Yes you are. It wasn’t a horse.

  What were it then?

  Crowther O’Badger paused.

  It were a donkey.

  The men laughed harder at this. Some of them shoved and cajoled him. Slapped him on the back and in turn he enjoyed the attention. It felt good to laugh. That which had gone unspoken had now been intimated, and though the consequences for all men were perilous there was nevertheless a lifting of the tension. The drinks slipped down more quickly now. More rounds were bought and without it being said directly it was decided.

  Isaac Hartley picked up a drained jug and brought it down on a table several times.

  Enough of this he said. Thomas Spencer – you know every corner and cranny of this valley.

  Indeed I would say that’s true.

  Then you are to gather the funding. Starting now. Deighton’s days are dwindling and the king himself has pledged twenty guineas so dig deep into your cloth pockets, Coiners. Dig deep and think of the mouths of your children, them that have them. Tomorrow you take to the hill-side hamlets Tom Spencer. You need not tell folk what their coins are for, only that they are funding their own futures. That will be enough. The valley is on our side.

  And what of Normington and Thomas? said John Tatham.

  If they are as cut-throat as Badger here reckons then they are the men for this job. I will arm them myself. I will arm them and send them off into the savage night.

  A Malkin an all I seen malkins stows of times up ont moors A Malkin been the man that’s made of shirts stufft with straw to scare the crowes I seenum moving about thrae or for at a time at nite Circlin they were just like the stagmen done circlin And dansin and laffen too Onse I saw a malkin with his feat and hans on fyre On fyre they were And he was runnen Runnen across the moor he was as if to reech a tarn or sluice ditch to save himself from the friteful burnin And I say with my hand on the book I did heer that Malkin man screem becors even though he were maydde of straw and cloth there was life in him too and oh the sound he made it was like no man or annymul yoove ever herd Friteful it was.

  Friteful A fritefull site indeed.

  Believe me when I say that I seen Scarecrowes dancing and laffen and screaman on more than wan occashun Yes lissen but I say this now as a man what sleepes with deths shadder cast across his face at night A man who lives with deth close by now I say this with nothing to loose but my reputayshun and I only say it now becors men mite reckon I was mad if Id told of the dancing laffen screamun bugaboo with a head made of flour sacks and a besum stick for a back bone before Only now can I tell the hole whirld that the moors is a special place A secrut place where things do occuer beyond any explanayshun Things you must never meddul with No No.

  But ah still it sadduns me to think that eyell never get to see the screemun Malkins of the moors or the dansun Stagmen or all them other sites again even if they did put the willies rit
e up us.

  Rite up us I say.

  Tom Spencer walked to Horsehold and folk there gave up their coin. Tom Spencer walked to Burnt Stubb and folk there gave up their coin. Tom Spencer walked to Boulder Clough and folk there gave up their coin. Tom Spencer walked to Midgley and folk there gave up their coin. Tom Spencer walked to Luddendenfoot and folk there gave up their coin. Tom Spencer walked to Luddenden Dene and folk there gave up their coin. Tom Spencer walked to Old Town and folk there gave up their coin. Tom Spencer walked to Pecket Well and folk there gave up their coin. Tom Spencer walked to Midgehole and folk there gave up their coin. Tom Spencer walked to Lumb Woods and Slack Top and Tom Spencer walked to Mytholm and Charlestown and Callis Wood and Jumble Hole Clough and Hanging Royd and Eastwood and folk there gave up their coin. Many purses he carried back to Bell Hole, each bulging with grubby money not for clipping but to pay for the head of one William Deighton. This was the payment pot to give to men who would gladly trade a bag of coins for the heart of another with little time for thought, feeling or consequence. The valley closed in. The valley drew together. Folk gave up their coin.

  Samhain morning and the early sky was swollen grey. Soon it become too heavy to hold itself and it sagged through the night, finally falling apart in fragments of sleet. Swollen drops of water froze and settled briefly in the form of snowflakes that blew in on the diagonal, blurring the sharp edges of tree lines and jutting the jet-coloured crags that the valley seemed to wear as a crown.

  Dawn as was dusk and then the temperature dropped and the sleet flakes hardened into tight little balls of hail that rained and rattled down on slate roofs and brought still ponds to life. They littered the troughs and ditches by the newly-dug turnpike.

  Then when the downpour eased and the clouds passed over to slowly bank across the open moors in the direction of Haworth, the valley slopes were left with a fresh dusting of white, a patchwork of powdered shapes divided by the black streaks of stone walls that snaked over and around copses, hamlets and the top quarries whose embedded stones had been used to build all the dwellings, byres and barns for ten miles in any direction.

  The sun rose then, for it had only skulked like a struck cat at the sight of the incoming storm, but now it yawned and stretched itself in layered lengths of light reaching crossways along the smallholdings of the Calder Valley, each named for the wood or landmark, creature or farm that occupied it: Wadsworth, Red Acre, Daisy Bank.

  Old Chamber. Roebucks.

  Brearley. Crow Nest.

  Sandbed.

  The day began, and with it came the first winds of winter, bone-cold and unadorned.

  Thomas Spencer heard the dusty sound of a flail whipping the threshing floor as he approached the grain store at the back of the Salter place at Sowerby, where Robert Thomas and Matthew Normanton were hired hands brought in for work that should have been completed weeks ago.

  He found the former elbow deep in a grain barrel and the latter raising the flail that loosened the seeds as he struck the corn heads. Their hair was speckled with grain and chaff, their eyes dry with harvest dust. Surrounding them in the store were sacks and sieves. Bushels of wheat were tied and stacked to one side. Despite the day outside, Matthew Normanton was stripped to the waist.

  Thomas Spencer saw that the threshing floor was cobbled to help loosen the grain in readiness for winnowing. It gathered there in the crevices. He entered the barn. Matthew Normanton looked at him as he lifted the flail, paused for a moment and brought down the two sticks that were hinged by a metal loop with a violent grunt. The sound ricocheted. He lifted it again and whipped it down, once, twice, three times. Dust danced upwards in puffball spurts.

  With a scoop Robert Thomas poured more grain onto the floor and then picked up a flail and joined him. The men swung their sticks with determination, with violence. First Robert Thomas and then Matthew Normanton. They found a rhythm. An alternating pattern. The Coiners’ messenger Thomas Spencer watched. He counted twenty alternate cracks before the men straightened together, breathing deeply.

  I’ve a job for you pair, he said.

  What job’s that then? said Robert Thomas as he wiped his brow with the back of his forearm, his breath shallow in his throat. Collecting grubby coins from the palms of toothless old maids while your leader chokes his chicken to the sound of the gaoler’s whistling lament?

  Beside him Matthew Normanton grinned at this, but said nothing.

  It’s not a job to be taken lightly.

  Go on, said Robert Thomas.

  There’s good money for those that do it rightly.

  Might this be doing the dirty work of yon David Hartley?

  Does that matter? said Thomas Spencer.

  Robert Thomas shrugged.

  Not if the price is nice, said Matthew Normanton. He folded his threshing stick and held it in his hand. His chest was slowing to its regular breath.

  It pays better than the threshing of summer corn on a cold afternoon. I reckon this coming winter to be a long one. Could be that it’s cursed with lean times; Samhain today, and we’ve already seen sleet and hail. The wise men will be holing up already, not out in a barn bashing rocks and waiting for the fever to take them.

  Talk on.

  It’s not my place to say more on the subject, said Thomas Spencer. I am only here to confirm that you are interested.

  What queer business this is friend, Robert Thomas said to Matthew Normanton. I do believe this moor-man speaks in riddles.

  Not riddles, replied the Coiner. I speak only with discretion and ask you one more time: do you want to earn good money – enough money to live well for many months – doing a job that few men would dare to; a job that would raise any lawman’s hackles?

  Yes, said Robert Thomas with little hesitation. I do believe we would.

  Then I can tell you that Isaac Hartley wishes to speak to you.

  So it is for you coining lot after all. You that have never once extended an invitation to me and my friend here to come in on this yellow trade that they say keeps the valley flowing gold?

  That’s as maybe, said Thomas Spencer. But we’re asking now. And it’s a damn sight more than a small coin’s cut you’ll be getting for your labours here. This is real work for real men with the guts to do it. Isaac will be the one to explain it to you.

  When?

  Now.

  Now? said Matthew Normanton.

  Now.

  We’re threshing.

  Surely the grain can wait.

  Robert Thomas reached for his shirt.

  Aye, he said. I imagine it can.

  It was mizzling when the three men walked over the back of Scout Rock and dropped down into the sunken holloway that led to Stake Lane. The Coiner Thomas Spencer led. Robert Thomas and Matthew Normanton followed at their own pace.

  As the branches closed in and the track dropped them below the level of land that surrounded them – a long sloping open pasture downhill, a tangle of scrub above them – Matthew Normanton stopped by the mound that held the complex rabbit warren that had a dozen holes or more, each littered with neat clusters of droppings.

  What he’s doing? said Thomas Spencer. What are you doing?

  Matthew Normanton reached into his pocket and pulled out a ball of twine.

  Snaring, said Robert Thomas.

  Snaring?

  Aye, what’s it look like? He’s snaring for his pot.

  We haven’t got time for that.

  It’ll only take us two shakes, said Matthew Normanton over his shoulder. I’ll pick us up a coney or two on the way back.

  He searched the undergrowth for a branch or twig.

  Fuck your rabbits said Thomas Spencer. There’s a hundred guineas waiting for you down Hollin Hey Bank if you wriggle. But Isaac Hartley is not a patient man.

  Robert Thomas sniffed the air.

  M
aybe he’s right, friend, he said to Matthew Normanton. Might be we’ll be bathing in goose fat and picking our teeth with duck bills by Gunpowder Treason Night. I expect the rabbits can wait this one time.

  Matthew Normanton put his twine away and the men continued down the tunnel that had been trodden deep into the Yorkshire dirt by hundreds of years of passing men and horses back through the days of Saxons, Normans, Brigantes, Romans, Celts and Vikings.

  Isaac Hartley was crouched by a wall on Hollin Hey Bank when he saw them. As they approached he stood. His voice met them first.

  You’re the boys who are fit for this job then?

  Fit we are, said Robert Thomas but boys we are not.

  We be men, said Matthew Normanton.

  Men then. Even better for taking down a tax man.

  I’ve told them what’s needed, said Thomas Spencer.

  Isaac Hartley took the measure of them.

  Money is what’s needed, said Robert Thomas.

  You’ll get your money, said Isaac Hartley. I heard you was greedy.

  We’ll be wanting it now.

  You’ll be wanting it now I’m sure, but you’ll be getting it after the deed is done, he said. One hundred good milled guineas that Tom here has collected rests on the devil Deighton’s head. If the exciseman goes on there’ll be no living for any of us.

  Isaac Hartley reached into his pocket and flipped a guinea first to Robert Thomas and then one to Matthew Normanton.

  Get yourselves fed and watered with that. Your pockets will soon be full with plenty more like them.

  How do we do him? asked Matthew Normanton.

  I’ll get some guns to you. Tom here will bring them up.

  And when do we do this Deighton?

  This night.

  Tonight?

  He’s not hard to find, said Isaac Hartley. Bull Close Lane is where he lives and he takes ale at the corner inn until it shuts. When it’s done the money will be with you. Don’t come to me. Don’t come anywhere near me. Anything else?

  Aye, as it happens said Robert Thomas. How come it’s not one of your Coiner boys that’s doing the killing? If you lads are as tough as teak and run the valley like everyone round here reckons you do, why is it you’re asking me and him here to do it. Has your nerve left you along with this one they call the king?