A round later, the deflated crowd counted its losses, among which must be numbered its pride. Jones, who apart from bleeding knuckles was hardly touched, did a victory dance. The manager led a round of applause for the vanquished, who was in no state to appreciate it, and shouted, “Any more comers, gentlemen?”
In the shuffling silence, Dan said, “I’ll have a go.”
Chapter Three
The manager grinned, already counting his winnings in his head. “What’s your name, son?”
“Dan Fielding.”
The villagers, whose hopes of seeing Ben bite the dust had been raised by a fresh challenge, groaned when Dan stepped forward. Their disappointment did not rattle him. He would have made the same judgement himself: that he did not stand much chance against the big fellow, who must have been seventeen to his twelve stone.
The man next to him clucked his tongue. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”
“I’m down to my last penny. I might as well try.”
“Well, then. I’ll mind your things for you. My name’s Drake, by the way. Lucas Drake, Field Officer.”
That explained Dan’s sense that he was a man of position. In a village, the field officer was the most important of the parish officials. It was his job to enforce the regulations governing the use of the common land, and make sure no one took more than his entitlement by overstocking or grazing his beasts where he had no right. His decisions affected almost everyone, from the prosperous farmer turning out his herds to the poor man collecting firewood and berries. A corrupt man could easily win enemies, an honest one friends.
Dan shook hands with Drake and took to the field barefoot. Ben leered at him and stomped across the arena, fists up. Dan stood his ground but did not brace himself. He held his fists in an amateurish way, arms low and close to his body, which brought a contemptuous snigger from his opponent. He was rewarded for his lack of skill by a peg on the ear, the main force of which he deflected by ducking his head. The betting was already against him, and the crowd, feeling a little more cheerful about their prospects, was prepared to be sympathetic to a game loser. They ‘oohed’ and ‘ahed’ whenever he took a hit. He buzzed around the big man with a series of feeble, fly-flap blows, and managed to get through the first round without taking more than sufficient hits to make the thing look good.
Ben Jones began to relax, and when they came together again he dropped his defences. Dan landed one on his nose towards the end of the round, which, as Ben’s manager was timekeeper, ended short immediately after. Ben retired to his corner, irritably blowing blood out of his nose. His manager squirted some brandy into his mouth and must have told him to hurry it up, for in round three he charged in to finish Dan off.
Dan dodged and went for Ben’s eyes. Ben gave a roar of pain and rage as the blood started from above the socket. He was sweating and puffing, but for all his effort not a blow got through Dan’s guard. There was no doubt who was in charge of the bout, and suddenly the odds were coming up in the challenger’s favour. The manager began to look worried at the frantic change of bets. Dan decided he had shilly-shallied enough, and when Ben went on the throw – advancing his left leg ready for the attack – Dan put in a one-two and drubbed him to his knees.
David could not have been more popular when he felled Goliath. The villagers whooped and hollered as their money found its way back into their pockets. Even the baker, who had given his wife the slip, applauded the tramp he had glared at a short while ago.
“Very sly,” Drake chuckled when Dan made his way back to him. His dog, infected by his master’s good humour, danced around them, barking and wagging his tail. “You had us all fooled. Ho, there! Bring some water and a sponge for this man!”
Several containers of water appeared – pitchers, tankards, a broken cup – and in the absence of a sponge, a thin, aproned man threw a beery cloth to Dan, who wiped himself down and put on his shirt. Singleton, who had come back to life during the match, shoved the crowd aside, strode up to Dan, and knocked him sideways with a clap on the back.
“This man deserves a drink!” he yelled.
“Got to get the purse first,” Dan said.
They all surged after him when he went over to the manager and held out his hand.
“Tain’t a fair fight,” the man grumbled. “You never said you was a fighter.”
The villagers were having none of it and, wisely, the manager handed over a threadbare cloth bag.
“Wait a bit,” Dan said. “This is short.”
The manager glanced at Ben, but the big man was in no condition to intimidate anyone and there was no way out of it. He dug deep into his pockets and made up the prize money to the full amount. The people cheered, and Singleton grabbed Dan’s arm and dragged him off to the Fox and Badger, leaving Bold Ben Jones and his manager to slink out of the village.
They piled into the bar, Drake carrying Dan’s jacket and hat. The thin man in the apron darted behind the counter and shouted, “The beer’s on me, boys!”
“Hey up, lads, Buller’s giving summat away!” someone quipped.
A tankard passed through several willing hands before it reached Dan, who did not mind that half its contents was spilled in the passage. He only drank when his work demanded it, and then as little as he could get away with without exciting the suspicion that he had all his wits about him.
A man with a face like a startled rabbit, who had been watching the fight from one of the windows, came in for a good deal of teasing.
“Enjoy the match, Sam?”
“You can come out now it’s all over!”
“Buller put your bets on for you, did he?”
The man protested in a squeaky voice, “I was keeping an eye on it all. I’d have broken the fight up if there’d been any public disorder.”
“Aye, so you would!” they jeered.
“The constable?” Dan asked Drake.
Drake nodded. “Sam Ayres. Been constable for years.”
No one believed that Ayres would have risked anything so unpopular as stopping the match, and having seen the state of the lock-up neither did Dan. However, the mood was too good to leave him out of the celebrations and he was served his beer with the rest.
After a while Ayres, Drake and most of the others drifted back to work, leaving Dan with Singleton and a few idlers.
“So, what are you going to do with your winnings?” Singleton asked.
“Live off them until I find work,” Dan answered gloomily.
“What line are you in?”
“Anything. I hear there are mines at Stonyton. I might as well try there, though the idea of being underground makes me sick.”
“I could do with some help in the forge until I’ve taken a new lad into the trade – the last one struck off for himself a few weeks back. It’s not light work, I warn you, but you’re stronger than you look. I can’t pay much either, but I can offer you a roof over your head and your meals. What do you say?”
“I say ‘Yes, please’.”
“Good. Then let’s try it for a week or two. As long as you’re honest and pull your weight, we should get on.”
They drained their glasses and walked along to the forge. It was at the edge of the village, opposite the church. Next to the graveyard was the rectory, a substantial, well-cared-for property behind a high wall. The road to Stonyton ran past the side of the church, disappearing over the top of Barcombe Heath, which was crowned with a few wind-deformed trees.
Singleton’s cottage stood sideways to the main road. Its front door opened on to a yard between the forge, stable and outhouses. Mrs Singleton stood on the doorstep with her arms folded.
“You lost then,” she said.
“I did, but here is the winner. He’s come to work for us.”
She took no notice of Dan. “I’d better look at that eye.”
“Neve
r mind the eye. Is there any lunch?”
“When is there never any lunch? Wash your hands before you come in. And take those dirty boots off.”
It seemed a long time since Dan had breakfasted by the village pump and he was hungry after the fight. He devoured as much fresh bread, cheese and meat, with a home-made onion chutney of the highest savour, as was put in front of him – a great deal. When they had eaten, Mrs Singleton washed her husband’s cut and applied a salve. It smelt evil, and Dan said so.
“It does,” she agreed. “But it does a power of good. All Anna Halling’s remedies do.”
She went upstairs, and returned with a clean shirt to replace Singleton’s blood-stained one.
“You’re a town man, then?” she said to Dan, putting away her things.
“Yes, missus. London.”
“Dirty place, London. What did you do there?”
“Lots of things. Hauled coal. Worked on the docks. Bit of building work.”
“Learned to fight too?”
“Not really learned. Just picked up some things by watching.”
“They have lots of fights in London?”
“Leave off with your daft questions, woman,” Singleton snapped, emerging from his shirt. “Do they though, Dan?”
“Yes. Wimbledon Common, Tothill Fields, Lisson Green – there’re lots of places to see a good match.”
“Well, there aren’t many fights around here,” Mrs Singleton said, in a ‘and it will stay that way’ tone.
They left her pummelling the stains out of her husband’s linen and went to work. Singleton was the village farrier as well as blacksmith, and two horses stood outside the forge waiting to be shod. He gave Dan one of his leather aprons with a small knife and a wide rasp to put in the pockets until called for. While Singleton hammered out the first horseshoe, Dan kept the fire fuelled.
“Hold his head while I take off his old shoes,” Singleton said.
Gingerly, Dan grabbed the harness dangling beneath the plough horse’s massive teeth.
“You really are a town man,” Singleton growled. “Here, grip it like this and stand to the side. He won’t hurt you. He’s a good ’un, ain’t you, old Joe?”
Joe snorted agreement. Singleton ran his hand down the horse’s leg and Joe helpfully lifted his foot. The smith cradled it in his lap, opened his pincers, and began to unclench the shoe nails.
“The thing to do here, Dan, is pull the nails out, nice and clean. You don’t want to rip them off, else you’ll take off horn with them, and when the horn is thin you’ll be driving the new nail into the quick.” He patted Joe. “We don’t want that, eh, old man? Now, look at this.”
Dan leaned down and stared at the bare hoof. “What am I looking for?”
“Broken nails. Loose horn. Looks all right to me. Hand me the rasp.”
Joe shifted uneasily.
“It’s all right, old man, just going to smooth it out a bit before I put the shoe on. That’s the thing, Dan. Treat them kindly and have a care for their feet, and you’ll get a lot more out of them. I’m just going to shave it lightly – like brushing more than shaving, see? You see this bit? That’s the frog. Never touch that, mark me well. It’s the most tender part, and if you expose it, it’ll bleed or bruise.” His hands worked deftly. “Nine times out of ten, if a horse shies or stumbles, it’s down to bad foot care. Have you ever travelled footsore, Dan? Then you’ll know what I mean. It’s the easiest way to waste a good horse. You’ll notice what I don’t do here.”
Dan did not, but Singleton told him anyway.
“I don’t put a notch in the hoof. It doesn’t make the shoe fit better, it just dries out the horn and weakens the foot. Now for the shoe.”
“It isn’t red-hot anymore.”
“No. Doesn’t need to be, neither. How would you like to try on a red-hot boot?”
He showed Dan how many nails to use, how and where to drive them in, and how to remove the points with pincers. Dan had no idea how complicated and delicate a thing a hoof was, and Singleton’s knowledge and skill impressed him. He had always thought of horses as ill-tempered and dangerous brutes, but now he realised that was probably due more to the way they were treated than any flaw in their temperament.
The other animal was a saddle horse, a well-behaved work-a-day hack, and after Joe Dan managed him quite well. When Singleton had done the shoeing, Dan applied the ointment which was put on to stop the hoof drying out. He wiped his hands on a filthy cloth while Singleton reckoned up the costs on a slate. They had just finished when a stocky man in smock and gaiters turned into the yard. He and the blacksmith shook hands, then he nodded at Dan.
“Is this your champion? Doesn’t look like much.”
“He’s pretty tough, though. Come forward, Dan, and say ‘Good day’ to Mr Dunnage. So you heard about the fight?” Singleton asked, when Dan had touched his forelock to the prosperous-looking man.
“Ar.” Dunnage ran his hand down Joe’s legs, lifted his feet, and inspected the heavy shoes. “Looks in order.”
“You knew it would be.”
The farmer grunted. A careful man, but a fair one. He glanced at the chalked calculations and paid for the work there and then. The business done, he said in a low voice, “Are we still on?”
“Dan, start sweeping up,” Singleton ordered. “You’ll find a broom on the hook there.”
Dan went back inside and watched them while he worked. He could not hear what they were saying, but Dunnage was fretting about something. Singleton said a few words. After that the farmer seemed a bit easier. “All right then,” Dan heard him say, “I’m in.”
They separated, and Dunnage gathered up Joe’s halter. “See you at mine, Thursday night.”
A few minutes after he had gone, a short man in coarse breeches, heavy riding boots, and carrying a riding whip strutted in to collect the other horse. There were no handshakes and no chit-chat. No money changed hands either as Singleton brought the horse’s tack out, helped to saddle him, and led him to the stone mounting block by the gate.
“You’ll put it on His Lordship’s account?” said the rider, settling comfortably into the saddle.
“Of course.”
The man spurred his horse and rode away.
“Who was that?” Dan asked.
“Edward Mudge, Lord Oldfield’s steward. You make sure you keep out of his way – him and all His Lordship’s men.”
“I haven’t any plans to make friends with ’em.”
“Good man. Ah, the wife is calling us in. Time to eat.”
They washed at the pump in the yard and went indoors. Dan was hungry again and gulped down the food, hot this time, plentiful and filling. When they had eaten, Mrs Singleton cleared away the dishes and sent Dan to fetch some water.
“I’m off to the Fox,” said Singleton when he got back. “Coming, Dan?”
Mrs Singleton, who had settled herself by the fire, looked up from her knitting. “I’ll leave you some blankets in the smithy, Dan. You can make up your bed there.”
She did not expect a man in his situation to protest, nor did he, and not only because of the part he was playing. For someone who had lived among the brick kilns of Notting Hill, a warm smithy with clean straw, a roof overhead, and good eating counted as fine lodgings.
They were terrible places, the brickfields, where people starved, sickened and died – the ones who didn’t make prey of their fellows. True, there had been warm ash to curl up in, stacks of drying bricks to shelter behind, glowing kilns to creep close to – but only in the mornings when the adults and older children had given up their prime positions and wandered into the streets of London to spend the day begging and stealing. There would be only a few moments’ warmth before the workmen arrived, picking their way with curses over the empty gin bottles and human waste, grabbing bits of broken brick to throw at Dan
and the other children to drive them away. The men were as black as the mud they worked in, their language as filthy as the smells the burning bricks made.
It was while there that Dan had been taken to Weaver by one of the boys he sent out to trawl the streets for stray children, luring them in with promises of food and shelter. Some of them he sold to the brothels – girls and boys. Others he sold into a sort of slavery as labourers in factories and workshops. Some, like Dan, turned him a profit by thieving.
It had been Noah’s idea for Dan to join the Runners, put into the old man’s head by one of the night patrolmen who was a regular at the gymnasium. Dan had no other plans for his future apart from taking over the gym one day, and he was content to go along with whatever pleased Noah. It was only meant as something to bring him in a bit of money in the meantime, and he continued helping out in the gym when he was not on duty. No man relied on the patrol for his income; they all had daytime jobs.
Dan had been surprised by how much he enjoyed the work and the pleasure he got out of putting a rope around the necks of the Weavers of this world. He began to ask for extra duty, and his enthusiasm had not gone unnoticed. It was nine years since he had joined and two years since he had been promoted to Principal Officer.
He never found Weaver, who had probably died in some hovel or gin cellar somewhere. Dan hoped it had been nasty: syphilis with all its pains and deformities, or a knife in the guts and a long-drawn-out bleeding.
Chapter Four
The Fox and Badger was crowded. Dan had been introduced to many of the drinkers at lunchtime, but some faces were new to him. They were clustered around a table where Lucas Drake and a pale, plump man who smelt of soap and dry tea were in the middle of an argument. The man’s hair was cropped short and he wore a brown jacket with large buttons and a carelessly tied white scarf. It was a look Dan had seen sported by radicals in town a few years ago.
Drake struggled to make himself heard above the company’s jeers and hisses. “All I’m saying is that His Lordship has rights too, and if you want to assert your own, trespassing on his is no way to go about it.”
Bloodie Bones Page 3