“To the last farthing, I would expect, Sam. He will be making twice as much as us on those he sends on his own ships, for they will be filling bunks that would otherwise be empty – or pallets on deck, more likely. His only costs will lie in feeding them and keeping them onshore for a few days at either end of their voyage. Making such a profit, it will be in his own interests to keep us sweet and sending him the bodies. In ours as well, of course, for we need do no more than deliver our take to him in Liverpool. How do you propose to do that, by the way, Sam?”
That was a good question, Sam thought, and one to which he must devote some thought. Josie might well have an answer, for he had not just at that moment.
“The carrier’s cart, Sam. You will not wish to put them onto the stagecoach, unescorted and paying a goodly number of shillings for the journey – leaving aside the cost, half of them would be lost on the passage. You would have to put money in their purses to pay for their meals and who knows what might happen to them – gone for a soldier or taken aboard a ship of war as a sailor, and them too sheltered in their ways to know what was happening nine times out of ten. They must be kept under your thumb, Sam, until their delivery to this Mr Hayes of yours.”
That made good sense to Sam.
“So… I am to hire a carrier to work for me. They are independently minded men, carriers, their own masters on the highway, living in their own carts most of them – sleeping underneath them of a night and frying up their meals at the side of the road. Few will wish to become the earners of wages, Josie.”
“Few see as much as five shillings in a week, Sam. That is in summer, I am told. In winter, they are lucky to keep themselves in food and their horses suffer in the cold. Offered a secure wage, and a cart that is kept in repair and a pair of strong horses as well, and they would quickly see the virtues of a more regulated existence.”
It seemed likely to Sam that many of the carriers would be willing to accept his money, if they thought it might be for no more than a year or two, at the end of which they would be free again and riding in a far better cart. Once they became used to a regular income, they would think twice before going back to the old life, that he would bet.
“Two horses?”
“A wagon large enough to carry half a dozen men at a time, Sam. There is little point to threes and fours, I believe.”
“Very true, my love. Three days on the road, say, the carrier himself to arrange for putting up overnight and feeding his passengers. One can expect the carriers to know farmers who will allow use of a barn overnight for a few pennies – they will be in the habit of putting up under a roof in inclement weather.”
That seemed satisfactory to Josie – they would not be seeking the luxury of a bed in an inn.
“What of returning from Liverpool, Sam? You will hardly wish the carts to travel empty.”
“A word with Mr Hayes, perhaps. He must have goods to travel south and will know of other merchants as well. Easily dealt with.”
Both were satisfied that the scheme would work. All they had to do next was to actually recruit the bodies to travel in the carts and be taken overseas.
A month later initial arrangements had been made, a pair of carriers recruited, still chuckling as they clutched five golden guineas apiece. Sam led them into the ancient agricultural community of Stone, halfway between Stoke and Stafford. It was market day and the small town was crowded, idlers as well as buyers and sellers in from the villages.
The town was located where the road from Birmingham split, one branch leading to North Wales and the other towards Stoke and Manchester. Lesser roads from all across the Midlands converged in Stone as well and there was a busy traffic of stage coaches and a dozen inns to serve them. Sam put his horse up at one of the smaller inns, the White Hart. He told the carriers to wait outside until midday, or thereabouts, and went in to make the acquaintance of the landlord.
“Sam Heythorne, from Leek and Stoke, sir, and well-known there.”
“Jonas Crabtree, that’s my moniker, Mr Heythorne, known in Stone, you might say, if not outside. I do believe I have heard some mention of your esteemed name, sir.”
Stone was not so far south of Stoke; Crabtree made no attempt to explain what he knew of Sam.
“Then you will know that my word is good, Mr Crabtree. I shall be in the way of assisting young men and perhaps some females to leave this country for a rich life in the New World and wish to use a downstairs room of yours as a rendezvous, one might say. No doubt you will wish to charge some small fee for the day; you will be paid as well for a pint of best ale apiece while they wait.”
Crabtree shook his head dubiously.
“Might be a score or more of unfortunates to take your bait, Mr Heythorne, so it could not be a small side room. A day’s hire for one of the greater rooms would be three half crowns, I fear me, sir.”
Sam thought the expression ‘take your bait’ was unflattering, but he could hardly take exception to it – the White Hart was conveniently placed for the carriers’ carts and was not so grand as to frighten country boys away from venturing inside.
“Seven shillings and sixpence is no small sum, Mr Crabtree. Acceptable perhaps on our first dealing together. I might look for more favourable consideration in future, sir. To show good faith in my dealings, sir, a half guinea in your hand, to pay the room and some of the pints you will serve out.”
Sam pulled out a purse and let it be seen to contain gold as well as silver.
“Two coach wheels, sir!”
Sam handed over the large crown pieces with some ceremony, suspecting that the landlord was more in the habit of handling sixpences and shillings.
“I have two carriers and their carts outside, Mr Crabtree. They could wait in the yard and unharness their horses for the while and set them in a stall to rest, to some advantage.”
“Sixpence each for they and free bait for thy own riding horse, Mr Heythorne. I shall bid the ostler give him a feed of grain and curry him well, sir.”
Sam nodded his thanks, produced another shilling and returned to the stables where he pulled a package from his saddlebags and tucked it under his arm while he walked the furlong to the marketplace. He looked about him, spotting wrought iron fence palings surrounding a larger building, a town hall or some such, he thought, taking up one side of the square. A couple of minutes and he had unfurled a canvas banner some eight feet long and three high and had tied it to the fence; painted on in bold scarlet was ‘America – land of plenty’. He stood to the side and waited while a bailiff made his way across.
The bailiff’s function was to collect pennies from the stallholders and lesser sellers for the privilege of using the marketplace; he had no remit to deal with the unusual because nothing out of the ordinary ever happened in his little town. He took refuge in the small authority he possessed.
“Can’t put that thing there, master.”
The bailiff peered at the banner; he recognised that it had writing on it, had no idea what it might say. He feared that it might be something to do with religion and wanted no trouble with the vicar.
“Can’t have thee upsetting folks, master.”
“It says ‘America’. I am here to aid young men to go to the colonies to make their fortunes. How much?”
That sounded promising; the bailiff was placed in another quandary – if he demanded too much, the stranger might leave, but he did not want to ask too little.
“Well… I dunno, like.”
“A shilling, fee for the day?”
“Couldn’t no wise do it for a bob, master.”
“Eighteen pence?”
“Half a crown?”
The bailiff looked hopeful and Sam guessed that was more than his wages for the day.
“Two bob? Four silver tanners in your hand? I shall be back every month at least, more often if there are many young men interested to go across the seas. A penny in your hands besides for every man you bring to speak to me.”
This was riches
indeed; even if he had to admit to taking a few pence and add that to the money he handed across at day’s end, he would still make a handsome addition to his wages.
“Make that tuppence and I be your man, master.”
“A deal, sir! Here is your two shillings, and another shilling in advance for the first six you bring to me. Men grown, that is all I ask for, and not too old to work for five years, nor too young to work at all.”
Sam thought it not to be too great a risk; the bailiff working for the mayor and burgesses of a small town would be paid very little – a cottage and ten shillings a week if he was lucky. The chance of putting as much as three shillings in his pocket would not be sniffed at. He would also be in the way of keeping the peace and could not be unhappy at the prospect of young idlers leaving his little town; he might well in fact encourage them to go.
The bailiff was back within five minutes, a pair of young men at his side.
“Here be two what be wishful of talking with thee, master. Good lads both. Horace here have been a ploughman in his time, and his brother Sim be a good hand about a holding. Unlucky they be, their master upping and dying on them and his land being taken in hand by his own brother, what has got his own labourers already like and doth need no more. America be the place for they, master, excepting they don’t have the pennies in their pockets.”
Sam placed his broadest smile on his mouth, clapped the bailiff on his shoulder.
“Then you have brought them to the right place, Mr Bailiff, for I can put them aboard ship for the Virginias within the month, if that be their desire. Let me explain all to the young men.”
The bailiff wandered off, eyes open for others he might guide in the proper direction, while Sam commenced his spiel.
“There are too few men in the Virginias, due to there being so great an expanse of virgin land – which is why it is named, as you will understand.”
They nodded dubiously, giving the impression that, as true illiterate country boys, they understood very little, except that they had never known fields to be virgins, or not to their understanding of the word.
“There are fields that are unploughed, for lack of men to work them. Ploughmen are uncommon there, and valuable men who will earn a fine wage and live in their own cottage, a wife soon to cling to their side.”
Horace thought that sounded very fine; Sim was less enthralled, scowled grimly.
“Useful farmhands are rare as well, Mr Sim.”
Sim nodded his pleasure.
“Because you are short of the readies – through no fault of your own, I am told – I am able to offer you a bargain, the chance of a lifetime! I can put you on a carrier’s cart to the port of Liverpool and then aboard a fine, well-found ship to cross the wide Atlantic Ocean, all for free, not a penny to be paid for passage or your meals. Once you land ashore in the rich harbours of Virginia, or the Carolinas, perhaps, then you will be found a place with a master, to work for him until the price of your passage has been paid off. You will be fed and housed and given a few pennies in beer money for the while. When you are clear of your debts, then you will be free to work for who you choose, or you may stay a few years with the same master and he will finally buy a farm for you, for land is cheap in America. When you have worked your own land for a while you will find the gold coins piling up in your purse and you will be able to buy more acres, and horses, and keep a wife and children in your own farmhouse. Twenty years from now and you will bless the day you left these shores to become a rich man!”
They thought that sounded good.
“I am glad you agree that it is a fine life, lads. But! I must warn you – it will not be easy, every day sat in a rocking chair with a pint in your hand. No, there will be work, but there will be rewards you could never gain in England.”
Both had started as stone-pickers in the fields at the age of six; work held no fears for them.
“What do us do, master? How do ‘ee want us to go about it?”
“I must stay here for the day, speaking to other sensible young men like you who want to make a life for themselves. If you go to the White Hart and speak to Mr Crabtree there, he will show you into a room to wait, and give you a pint to be going on with. I shall be back at midday to put you onto a carrier’s cart, if you still wish to go, and then I must come back here.”
They nodded slowly. Horace spoke up.
“What if we takes thy pint, master, and then talks it over like, and reckons like we be better off not goin’?”
“Then I shall shake your hand and bid you farewell, Mr Horace. I shall force no man against his better will.”
“Ah, but what about the pint, master?”
“I can afford to buy a good man a drink for thinking about doing business with me, Mr Horace. I place no obligation upon you. I am not the recruiting sergeant to put a shilling in your hand and then tell you that the army has your life. Sit in the White Hart and talk about the chance and speak to any other young men who may join you. If you wish to make a new life in a new land, then here is your opportunity. It will not be easy, but there will be work and a wage and one day, land of your own.”
Sim spoke for the first time.
“Reckon as ‘ow it might be best for us, ‘Orace. Bugger all ‘ereabouts, for sure. Cross the seas and make a new life, so they says. Iffen ‘e’d said it was goin’ to be easy, like, I’d ‘ave said ‘e was puttin’ one over us, but ‘e ain’t. Bloody ‘ard work, master says, and I ain’t never been afeared of that. I’m for goin’, so long as you be comin’ with I.”
Horace pledged himself never to let his brother down. They walked off to the White Hart, shoulder to shoulder. Sam looked for the next taker.
He put six men into the carrier’s cart soon after midday, each of them with a small loaf and a slab of cheese in his hand.
“Eat up as you go, men. The carrier will stop the cart for the night and find the shelter of a roof of some sort and will see that you have a meal this evening, and a breakfast tomorrow morning and for the days of your ride.”
Horace and Sim made their thanks to him as they climbed aboard; the other four, each from a separate village were silent, worried by being in the company of foreigners. Sam wondered if they might not jump off and run home as soon as they were round the first corner. He had no fears for them changing their minds after that – none of them had ever been away from their homes further than to the market and they would know nothing of the lands surrounding them at more than an hour’s walk. Once away from the town, they would know nowhere to run to.
Back at the marketplace and the bailiff was waiting with three youngsters and one older man, in his forties, Sam suspected.
“Jacob Archer, and his three boys, master. Jacob’s missus upped and died on him last year as ever was, and the cottage ain’t so fair without her, like. Jacob be a chair bodger by trade, and bringing the boys up to learn, but times is hard just now and Squire has told him he cannot take wood like what he was used to; he got to pay for every cord he do take from Squire’s lands now. And he still got to pay his rent, like what he allus had to!”
“That’s hard, Master Bailiff! How is a poor man to get by when his every penny is taken from him in such a way?”
The bailiff nodded gravely but said nothing; Sam guessed that the squire was an important man in the town and that a wise local official said nothing behind his back, not if he wished to keep his job.
“So, Mr Archer, do you and your three boys wish to go to America? There is money there, I know, and every chance for the boys to learn a trade and make a fine life for themselves. As for you, well, every house needs its chairs, whether it be in England or in Virginia…”
“So they do, master. But tis a far long haul to go, across the seas to Americky, and no coming back again if so be it ain’t so fine as was ‘oped. Leaving all behind as well, and the folks what we knows as neighbours.”
Sam agreed, gravely and sombre of the face.
“It is a great step for a sensible man to
take, Mr Archer. The more so for your having your boys to go with you. No doubt, sir, you would wish to sell up your household before you left.”
Sam thought it unlikely that the man would have anything left to sell; if times were hard then he would be no stranger to the pawn shop.
“Nay, master, there be little enough to sell other than a few sticks of furnishings, and them oldish. Besides, if so be I am known to be selling, then Squire’s agent will be there with ‘is bloody ‘and out for the rent what ain’t been paid.”
“Then, Mr Archer, I have a carrier’s cart leaving the White Hart an hour before sundown. Three meals a day while you travel north to Liverpool, and then aboard ship, food and passage paid…”
The four had shared a loaf on the previous evening and had sat hoping for a customer most of the day, pockets and bellies empty and a set of four chairs with never a buyer even to look at them and small prospect of things getting better.
“Not what I wanted for me, or for the boys, master, but better than empty bellies.”
“As you say, Mr Archer. A life in a far land is better than starving here. And it may be a good life yet, with a little of luck.”
Ten bodies in a day! Sam led his catch up to the White Hart and saw them fed and sat in the cart and sent them on their way, not perhaps rejoicing, but reconciled to the necessity. He walked back down to the marketplace and folded up his banner and sought out the bailiff.
“Eightpence more I owe you, Mr Bailiff. I do not have the coppers in my pocket, so here is my shilling, for I will owe nothing to any man. If I am not here next market day, then I shall be the one following, for I like the way you do business, sir.”
The bailiff, an extra groat in his pocket, all unexpected, replied in kind; he would look for other young fellows over the next week or so.
Only as he rode back home did it occur to Sam that he had not enquired whether any of his catch had been literate. Few farm labourers had their letters, but the chair bodger, Archer, was a cut above the common hind and might perhaps have the basics of reading and writing, or he might have been able to send one or more of the boys to dame school in better times. Letters coming back to England might well prove an embarrassment in a future year, Sam thought. To be practical, there was no regular postal service as such – any letter written would be put into the hand of a merchantman crossing the Atlantic and relying on the good faith of one of the ship’s officers to be sent inland, probably on a carrier’s cart. The process was slow and unreliable, but occasionally worked, though mainly for those with money who could afford to put a substantial sweetener in a merchant’s pocket.
A Killing Too Far Page 13