Pittsford had left the village the next day and investigation had discovered not one man who had been out of doors at the time – even the beerhouse had been empty, not a single customer that evening. The message had spread very quickly, as had the information that the quarry had lost a full twenty-eight pound keg of powder and that there was plenty still unused.
“The man was a fool to spend his money so openly. He was a bigger fool to sell out his own people if he did not get enough to make a new life elsewhere.”
Quillerson nodded, ventured to ask whether he should quietly offer a couple of hundred gold sovereigns and a passage overseas to any potential informers.
“No. Better to leave well alone, I think. We are clear of the trouble at the moment and have no need to get involved. Just pass the word that I will offer no protection at all to any young fool who thinks it might be exciting to rub a burnt cork over his face and go rioting out at night with his pals from Burton. There will be a few boys from Finedon who will fancy a bit of fun – they should be warned, not that they will listen, of course.”
Sir Charles paid his expected visit and announced that he thought it wise to publicise a reward for information regarding the barbaric vandalism of his lands. He proposed to put a price of ten guineas on the head of any named member of the Burton Blackfaces.
Benjamin Hunt was consulted and offered to double the reward.
Tom said that he thought it was too small, sufficient to annoy the Blacks but also to encourage them by recognising their importance.
“Make it enough to bring out the informers, that would be my advice, gentlemen. If a man can earn the price of a farm in another part of the country, then he will take the risk. A few guineas will only go into the pockets of drunks who will name anybody they dislike for the price of a month’s gin.”
Neither of the landowners was prepared to spend out in the thousands. Tom was unwilling to be involved in any way and let it be known on the estate that he was having no part in turning men into informers.
A week later Quillerson heard that Sir Charles’ new model farm was to be burnt out.
“One of the foundrymen said he had heard people talking in the bar of the Mulso Arms, my lord. When he tried to see who it was he couldn’t spot them for sure, but there were a couple of strangers, but he probably wouldn’t recognise them again, so he says. What I believe, my lord, is that he has three sons of his own, two of them well grown youngsters, working casually while they wait their turn for a vacancy at the iron works. If they were to have become involved, for the excitement more than anything else, with the Blacks, then he might be trying to protect them.”
Tom shook his head; the man was trying to go half way, to run with hare and hounds both. It could not be done.
“If they should be taken up then he has not done enough to look after them. He could not stand in court and say that they were acting as informers, and nothing else would save them from a hanging judge. Can you get word to him that he must do more?”
Quillerson came back next day with the names of the six Burton men who constituted the committee of the Blacks and of a seventh who was their actual leader and with the word that the date they intended to attack and burn down the Latimer Model Farm was on the Friday coming when it would be empty.
“Sir Charles is holding a feast for his tenants that evening, my lord, to celebrate the christening of his son. The killing of the Pittsford children has turned the bulk of the men against violence and they want no deaths.”
Tom could see no choice, they had to be stopped. If violence once started then it would quickly turn into insurrection, bloodshed for its own sake, the level of simmering bitterness was so high.
He drove to Northampton next day, presented his information to the Lord Lieutenant.
“Your services are, as so often, much appreciated, Lord Andrews! The Lord Chancellor will hear once again of the extent of your loyal service to the country, my lord.”
Tom had no great wish to be rewarded by this particular government, but it would do Robert no harm to have political goodwill behind him, and no doubt James would benefit in his new career. He smiled his thanks.
“I have no regular troops to hand, my lord, which is a pity in the circumstances. The Yeomanry will have to do the job on Friday, the Militia to support them on Saturday morning, making the arrests and searching for evidence. Best as well to have a half company of Militia actually in the farm buildings on Friday – they can be transported in closed wagons perhaps.”
“Sir Charles can let it be known to his farmer that he has purchased an amount of the new guano fertiliser, my lord. That is always transported in sacks and must be kept dry, so would be brought from the canal head to the farm under a canvas cover. My man Quillerson has persuaded me of its value and we have bought in nearly one hundred tons over this year so it will not seem to be anything out of the ordinary.”
The Lord Lieutenant was an agriculturalist, discussed the matter of guano for some minutes, was told that it was dug in bulk from islands on the Atlantic coast of Ireland, the droppings of seabirds, compacted over many, many years. Unfortunately, the islands were small and other sources were being sought.
“I would hope, my lord, that the Blacks would be transported rather than hanged. Better not to inflame passions further if it may be avoided.”
The Lord Lieutenant grimaced, shook his head.
“Government has informed me that the question of reprieve for ‘political criminality’ is to be referred to the Home Secretary in person for the immediate future. The wish is to promote ‘a consistency of practice’ throughout the whole of England, I understand.”
Sidmouth would want to hang every rioter he could lay his hands on, would only be restrained by the fear of giving ammunition to the Opposition in Parliament. Tom began to regret even more ever becoming involved; Verity would have known another way of going about things.
The Blacks gathered on Friday evening, carrying torches and a barrel of pitch, and marched about forty strong on Sir Charles’ farm, the exemplar of best practice for his whole estate, the triumph of the enclosure process. They gathered in the yard, lightless farmhouse on one side, dairy opposite, stables and sties blocking most of the left and the big barn, half empty at this time of year taking up three parts of the right. Fences with gates to the paddocks closed off the working area, just one track leading out to the fields. There was a noisy argument when they reached the yard, most of the men wanting to drive the cows and horses and pigs out of their pens first, a few of the most recalcitrant wanting the animals to burn as a message to the master that he could go the same way, that it would be the big house and its occupants next.
The argument was terminated by the clatter of hooves as a full squadron of Yeomanry cantered down the farm track. The Blacks scattered to run across the fields and found a double line of Militia in an arc behind them, muskets presented and obviously waiting only the word to shoot. The leader of the Blacks pushed his way to the fore, knowing that he must hang if he was taken, that he would die whatever happened to his followers. He picked up a stone and threw it at the officer in command, half-seen in the shadows of the moonlit yard.
“Fight them! Bloody-handed oppressors! Stand up for your wives and children! Fight to get our land back! Kill the unchristian devils!”
He was answered by a volley from half the muskets.
The cheaply made smoothbores, fired by poorly-trained militiamen, were inaccurate in the weak light. Thirty rounds were fired and just five of the Blacks were hit, not including their leader. Two fell dead, the other three wounded in the belly or leg and almost certain to succumb to the damage done by a three-quarters of an inch diameter ball.
Thirty-four men raised their hands and stood silently, three more grabbing their leader and wrestling him to the ground before he could kill them all.
The magistrates had been forewarned and sat in court next morning, remanding all of the prisoners, including the wounded, in custody and dumpin
g them into wagons and taking them to the County Gaol in Northampton to await trial.
The Lord Lieutenant, following his orders from London, sent an Express to the High Chancellor’s office telling of the outbreak of insurrection and of the success of the local and loyal landowners in quelling it. Lord Andrews and Sir Charles Latimer, recently raised to his title at my lord’s urging, had proved themselves once again to be honest servants of the Crown.
A High Court Judge arrived on Monday morning, dug out of semi-retirement on Sunday and put back into harness and none too pleased to be of service. He announced that he would sit next day and hoped to be on his way back to the comfort of his home in Canterbury on Wednesday.
The prisoners were crowded into the dock, stood in four lines, the three obviously dying men laid on pallets behind them, stinking of septicaemia; having fallen into the mud and dung of a farmyard the wounded had had little chance of avoiding gangrene. They stood, and laid semi-conscious, for two hours as each was named and listened to the charges laid individually against them. Each was arraigned of arson, riotous assembly, attempted murder of a militia officer and blasphemy.
The judge listened to the evidence given against them by the Militia and Yeomanry officers, taking no other depositions. He dismissed the charges of blasphemy, scathing in his comments on the ‘mediaeval idiot mind’ that had brought them, and presented his summing-up of the other charges to the jury. He was scrupulously fair in his description of the evidence, expressing his doubts that a single stone in the darkness could be called ‘murderous’, because it was impossible for any verdict other than guilty to be returned on the counts of arson and riotous assembly and with two capital offences proven he did not need the attempted murder as well. He received a response of guilty to all three offences in any case.
Each of the prisoners was sentenced to death twice and to transportation for life for rioting. The judge then inquired what was causing the disgusting smell and recommended that the courtroom be fumigated before retiring to his post-chaise and the road south.
The Sheriff’s officers conducted the convicted felons back to the prison, depositing them in the condemned cells rather than in the common holding cell. They dished out a meal to the prisoners for the first time since they had arrived, there being funds for the feeding of convicts but no provision for prisoners on remand who were expected to be kept by their families. It was only skilly; thin oatmeal porridge, but it filled their bellies. The Sheriff himself gave the Lord Lieutenant a list of the prisoners’ details – age, occupation and family as known. Twelve of the men were single and two childless and therefore had no compassionate grounds for reprieve.
The instructions came back from the Home Secretary’s Office at the beginning of the next week. The fourteen without dependants and the leader of the ‘insurrectionist gang’ were to hang; the remainder were to be sent immediately to Portsmouth, there to be imprisoned in the hulks to wait for the next convoy to Botany Bay where they would spend the rest of their lives. The wounded had already died and two of the oldest were mortally ill with lung fever from the hard, cold, damp cells. Six or so months in the hulks, old naval ships of the line, retired from service because of their decrepitude, dank and rotten, would kill several of the remainder. Half a year in chains on the convoy to Botany Bay would see to another three or four or more if the fevers struck. If a round score actually reached the penal settlements they would be lucky, or so they might think…
There was no further appeal and no gain to delay. The Lord Lieutenant arranged for the thirteen who were fit to be hanged to be carted back to Burton for the end of the week. There was a market every Thursday which would supply an audience from all of the local villages as well as the small town itself.
Sir Charles was quite flustered by the haste of the proceedings – he was senior of the local Bench and had the responsibility to supply a gallows at two days’ notice. He called upon the estate carpenter, who in turn co-opted all of the local chippies he could lay his hands on.
“Thirteen coffins, Sir Charles – knocked up out of cheapest deals, can just about do they, sir. A gallows beam and a platform for they to stand on, us can do that, sir, but they goin’ to ‘ave to be pushed off, ain’t no way us can build one of they traps in the time we got. Three batches goin’ to be best, five then four and four, sir, acos I ain’t got no beam of timber strong enough and long enough to swing thirteen at a time, sir. Goin’ to ‘ave to work all hours, sir, night as well as day, sir. Five men, sir, for two days, all of their meals and ‘ardship pay, sir.”
Sir Charles closed on two sovereigns apiece, felt that it was quite a bargain, really, far less than the rewards would have been. He was in a generous mood and arranged for a meal and a couple of quarts of beer for the Militia and Yeomanry who would keep order at the executions.
Tom was invited to be present in Burton for the ceremony but cried off, having to be in London, he said. James volunteered to take his place and was to be accompanied by Robert who was up from Town for a few days. The gentry had to stand together, to be seen to support the authorities.
Half of Kettering came the few miles out of town to watch the hangings, as well as every man, woman and child who could walk in from the villages. A few gentleman connoisseurs travelled long distances and stayed overnight in local inns so as to enjoy the spectacle; their chaises lined the whole of one side of the square.
It seemed that so large a set of hangings was uncommon, it was rare, one gentleman from Coventry explained to James, that more than half a dozen were turned off in a single session. James was not especially excited by this piece of information, though his informant seemed almost stimulated by it.
“Do you know what that closed wagon over the way is, sir?” James asked. “With four horses hitched, as well. Rather unusual, I would think. My name is Andrews, by the way, sir, James Andrews.”
“Cecil Sotherby, sir, eldest son to Lord Coleshill. You are Lord Andrews’ second son, I believe, sir, soon to become a member, my father tells me.”
James agreed that he was to espouse a political career and assured Mr Sotherby that he intended to stand in the right interest.
“No doubt we shall meet frequently in Town, sir. The wagon belongs to resurrectionists, I believe. They will have come to an arrangement with the Sheriff’s officer in charge of today’s proceedings and will hope to convey the corpses to the teaching hospitals in London. The bodies would in the normal course of events be transported to the County Gaol and buried in unmarked graves there, and, no doubt, the mob will think that is where the wagon is bound. It will in fact be the London road for them, change horses at every stage and make a good eight miles an hour, in the hands of the medical men before dark, still untainted and fresh.”
James, whose knowledge of medical education was limited, showed his puzzlement.
“Dissection, sir, for the benefit of medical students and the advancement of science.”
“They will be paid for the bodies, all thirteen of them, Mr Sotherby?”
“As much as thirty guineas for the youngest and healthiest seeming, I am told. The hospitals would take an hundred if they could get them!”
James was called away soon after, led to a place on the makeshift platform outside the George, four of its biggest tables pushed together. The magistrates and more important local gentry were stood there to give formal approval to the morning’s proceedings.
Climbing up onto the platform was not easy and getting down would be beyond his powers he thought. Robert touched Sir Charles’ shoulder, murmured in his ear.
“Of course, Mr Andrews, I should have thought!”
Sir Charles beckoned to the innkeeper and instructed him to have four large men stationed in the doorway to assist James as soon as he needed to go and sit down.
The Sheriff’s officer handed Sir Charles the warrant of condemnation which had to be read out to make the proceedings lawful, evidence that the men had been sentenced after due process, were not being lynched out
of hand. Sir Charles, pleased at his prominence, his importance being demonstrated in this fashion, inflated his chest and raised his thin voice. The first few rows of the crowd actually heard him, the rest could guess what he was saying.
James was amazed at the silence and good order of the mob – the condemned were known to most present, were related to many and yet there was no sign of protest, no hint of rescue.
“You have never seen a civilian hanging, I believe, James,” Robert murmured in his ear. “Free entertainment, better than the Fat Lady or the Wild Man at the fair, at least as good as a pugilistic contest. They would never spoil the fun by rioting as well, they can do that at any time but the chance to see thirteen necks stretched in a row, that will come only once in a lifetime.”
James was surprised, but he knew Robert would be right. He waited until the formality was complete then beckoned to his helpers and was taken inside the inn to sit in comfort with a cup of tea – he would not take alcohol in the morning, Murphy had warned him how easy it was to become a friend to the bottle. He heard a roar from the crowd as the first five were led onto the scaffold; it was applause, not protest.
The condemned had the right of speech before they hanged, a legacy of the Canon Law of the Middle Ages, the last opportunity to preserve their souls through repentance of their crimes. The theory was, no doubt, very good but the practice for many years had been for hardened criminals to go out with a dirty joke or demand for a last drink and for the unfortunates to whimper their despair, the latter much to the crowd’s displeasure. The functions of religion had been almost wholly lost, though a few divines could still be discovered who would conduct the burial service in the presence of felon and his coffin before he was hanged, but this was only to be found in the deepest of rural counties in the modern age.
Privilege Preserved (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 5) Page 10