It was an unlikely off chance, Sam decided, but not impossible – he should have taken care to discover and refuse any literate hind offering himself to go.
Josie was dismissive – who would a single man or widower send a letter to? Those who could be persuaded overseas almost certainly left few kinsfolk behind them, and those few probably glad to see the back of unemployed layabouts who might have a claim on their charity.
“Nothing to fear, Sam, and a certain five pounds and maybe more in our pockets for your day’s endeavours. A very worthwhile excursion, I believe, sir, and one to be repeated. Where next, Sam? Will you go to Stafford? Would that be wise?”
It most definitely would not be prudent, in Sam’s opinion. He rather thought that he might go as far as Nantwich, a fine old town, he believed, and one that drew upon a large and agricultural part of Cheshire for its sustenance.
“As soon as the carriers are back, then a week on the road, standing in the marketplace of the town and then perhaps making a tour of the villages out to the west, towards the Welsh Marches, known to be poor lands. There might well be some few of more skilled men on their beam ends there. Ploughmen, stockmen, thatchers, perhaps – possibly the odd dairymaid besides. There might be a smith’s journeyman, learned in his trade but unable to set up his own forge as a master in his own right and could become a farrier in America. There is no end to the possibilities, you know, my dear.”
She agreed, a poor land might have many spare bodies.
“Even charcoal burners, husband, though that is a very low trade, but there will be need for their skills wherever there are forges and foundries.”
Sam agreed rather dubiously – charcoal burners were renowned as drunken layabouts, untrustworthy sorts at best.
“There will be young labourers, that is a certainty, Josie, for people are proliferating on the land, for some cause I do not pretend to understand. Wherever you go in the country, where, fifty years since, there was but one man, now there are two, but only the same number of fields to feed them and give them work. By offering them a helping hand, I am saving them from starvation, from a life of misery in the very gutters of England.”
Sam was very pleased to think of himself as a philanthropist, one who was a true friend to those he aided to cross the long seas.
Chapter Seven
A Killing Too Far
The summer passed in a rush of frantic activity, the daylight hours too few for all that Sam needed to do.
He found himself away from home more often than he was present, drumming up young men in the villages mostly and recruiting a few of their sisters as well to go across the seas with them. The numbers amazed him – his first day of recruitment in Stone transpired to be one of his least successful, a score of willing bodies a day not uncommon. The further west he ventured into the borders of Wales, the greater his catch, for the lands there were poor, it transpired, but the size of families was no less. He was forced to put on another pair of carters, and to spend time organising their loads back south, and finding that was a steady source of profit as well.
There were no great towns in the border areas to the south-west of Stoke and consequently no newssheets, no well-off burgesses to write to correspondents in London, few squires with relatives or influence with government and almost no resident peers of the realm. The countryside was close to starvation, and the people’s plight was unknown and attracted no interest at all. The offer of free transport out of the hopeless desert that the lands had become was irresistible; the young, and those of the middle-aged with any hope left, begged to be taken across the seas. Even those who came with open eyes, sure that there was no paradise in the west, were convinced that they could not be worse off and climbed into the carriers’ carts gripping their bread and cheese and knowing that they at least had a full belly whatever else might happen.
The sole worry was that the chapels were busy in the Marches, and that commonly included Sunday School; far too many of the young folk were at least basically literate, able to pen a letter home. One day, in a year or two, that could present a problem, although there was no postal service as such and sending a letter depended on the good faith of seamen sailing east. There would be no great flow of letters home bewailing the senders’ fate, but even one or two in the wrong hands could become a nuisance if the king’s government became interested. There was small chance of that, Sam thought, and if the occasion arose, then he would increase his bribes to the Lord Lieutenant and expect all investigations to come to a halt at his hands.
For the while, he was able to send healthy - if undernourished - and willing young men and women across the sea to a new life, even if they did not fully comprehend the conditions that would be imposed upon them when they entered into their new status.
He visited Liverpool frequently, at least once each month, and coming to a friendly understanding with Mr Hayes.
“The Carolinas, Mr Heythorne, is the place for these people you are sending me in such pleasing numbers. There is less in the way of towns there and consequently fewer to pay heed to any complaints that might be uttered. As well, there are few men there to do the artisan work, so virtually every one of the more skilled young men finds himself in very congenial employment in the nature of things; most of the better educated are pleased with their lives. Working in the ports mostly, they are stables hands or wagoners or warehousemen while a few are shopmen and clerks in the offices, occupations that offer a pleasing future and the chance of becoming masters themselves. The bulk of the indentured men, in the nature of things, are not so skilled and fortunate and find themselves in the tobacco fields, often working shoulder to shoulder with Africans and in no better condition.”
Sam was aware that the Africans must be slaves; he knew nothing of the tobacco fields.
“The hardest of labour, Mr Heythorne; not perhaps representing the ideal lifetime for a young man. Hot, damp and tedious, one might say, sir. Their living conditions are not of the best, and the overseers are vigorous in their encouragement of hard labour. They are as likely to use their whips to touch up an indentured servant as a slave, one might suggest. Additionally, slaves cost far more than the indentured hands, and are thus to be protected in their labour where they will remain for life. The indenturers, as they are sometimes called, will leave the fields after three or five, or perhaps seven years of service, so are of less value. Not all survive the period of their labours, it would seem, which is very unfortunate, but none of our affair. Better they should be distant from the sight of those who might wish to interfere in their perfectly lawful service, I feel, Mr Heythorne. The Virginias are better known in England; the Carolinas are obscure.”
Sam agreed – he wanted no great complaints made that might interfere with his lucrative trade. It seemed, however, that the brighter and more literate of his indentured servants were finding themselves in the most attractive labours. Those who might write a letter home would have least to complain about, most to praise in their new lives. For those who found themselves in the fields, working side by side with African slaves, well, he had some sympathy, but they would not be there for the whole of their natural lives, unless those lives were unnaturally short, which would be quite shocking, but none of his business. He could do no more than he was and must continue to offer the benefits of the New World to those sufficiently talented to appreciate them. He noticed that Mr Hayes had nothing to say about the females and saw no reason to press him; no doubt they found their labours sufficiently congenial.
Josie came to her time and delivered a healthy son, which Sam greatly approved of; he quite wished that he might have been present, in the house at least, on the occasion, but work had demanded his presence in Liverpool at the time. He came back to the celebrations of the successful parturition and took part in them with a clean conscience – a man must do his best to provide for his family, he said.
“What of a fire company, Uncle Abe?”
“I have written letters, Sam, and have obtained ans
wers, but that must be for tomorrow. Today is for your lady and your new son, Sam. What is he to be called, Sam?”
“Josie wishes him to be Samuel Thomas Joshua, Uncle Abe. Three names, as he might grow up to be a gentleman, she says.”
Abe was moved almost to tears by the choice of his son’s name; he thought it was very good of them.
Sam said nothing, not wishing to comment upon the possibility of inheriting from his uncle and the desirability of keeping him sweet.
“What of your own condition, Uncle Abe? You seem better in yourself than in many a month, if I might make so bold as to say so.”
“I am, Sam, due, though I blush to admit it, to my taking your jocular advice.”
Sam tried to think of anything he might have said laughingly, suddenly remembered his suggestion that Uncle Abe might look to enliven his private life.
“Oh? ‘A sprightly young miss’, if I recall, sir.”
“Just so, nephew! Excellent advice and surprisingly easy to act upon. Miss Dorothea is set up in a little cottage of her own in Stoke and shows a substantial degree of enjoyment in her labours – indeed, one might suspect we both are content in each other.”
“I am glad indeed to hear that, Uncle Abe. Better far that one should be able to discover a little of relaxation in, shall we say, one’s later years.”
“Quite right too, Sam!”
All very well, Sam thought, but he trusted that Uncle Abe would employ a degree of discretion in his Will; not too much to be left to offspring on the wrong side of the blanket.
Sam was pleasantly surprised by the flow of christening gifts; every day for a week saw tokens of affection for the newborn arriving from his good friends in and about Stoke. Some sent the traditional mugs and shawls; others chose to make a presentation of cash, to be dedicated to the young one’s needs. He made a list of all who had made him a present of either sort – it was as well to remember exactly who one’s friends were.
There was only one missing name on his list when he had finally decided that no more gifts would be arriving; he went to the White Horse to discuss whether he must react to the announcement of unfriendliness that such a dereliction of the duty that a client held to his patron implied.
“The Irishman, Malone, Uncle Abe. He owns three drinking houses, you will recall, as well as a ‘lodging house’, as he insists on calling the premises. All of them together, or nearly so, on the south of town. There was some question of how willing the previous owners were to sell to him, but no complaint was ever made to us. We did not see him at Thomas’ funeral, you may recall.”
“The better part of wo years since, I think, Sam, he bought two of the pubs within weeks of each other. There was some talk of a windfall, of coming into an unexpected sum of money. It was soon after we dealt with the criminal Tapper family and I was busy with our other affairs. I do not believe I ever brought Malone to your attention, Sam. He was in good standing with the Tappers, I know, may well have been a collector for them, thinking on it.”
Sam was not certain he approved of all that Abe was saying; it seemed not impossible that Malone had been in possession of funds rightly belonging to the Tapper brothers and which, it might be argued, should have accrued to their successors as leading figures in the town.
“When it comes down to it, Uncle Abe, it seems likely that he kept in his own purse money that was, or could well have become, ours. I suppose we cannot blame a man for looking after his own interests, and, indeed, we would have a hard time demonstrating that we were the lawful heirs and assigns of the Tappers. Best we say nothing of that, other than to congratulate him on his initiative… but then to forget his rightful obligations to his seniors… that I cannot approve of, Uncle Abe.”
“No more can I, Sam. A message to Mr Malone begging the pleasure of his company for an hour or two of a convenient morning, I think, Sam. Him to come to us, rather than we should pay him a visit.”
“Quite right too, sir. I shall send a friendly note, but place it in Jacky’s hands for the delivery. I shall suggest that Happy Henry might wish to take the air, to accompany Jacky on the journey and have the pleasure of greeting Mr Malone, too.”
“Nothing more than a friendly ‘good morning’, I trust, Sam. Far too early to offer violence.”
“Exactly, Uncle Abe. He must not be occasioned any discomfort, except perhaps in his mind. He must know of Happy Henry – the whole town has seen him and has a knowledge of some of his deeds – and he must understand that his presence is, shall we say, a hint of the possible future.”
It occurred to Sam that if Mr Malone had been a collector for the Tappers, then he would be no stranger to at least the threat of violence. It was sometimes the case that reluctant payers needed be geed up, with the suggestion of a broken leg or two, quite often. Such being the case, he might be displeased to be offered a little of coercion in his turn.
Jacky was, as always, willing to oblige and thought that Happy Henry would benefit from a little excursion.
“Not so easy to get Henry out of his bed these mornings, sir, since I found him a warm comforter, at your so wise suggestion, Mr Sam. Very happy in his life is Henry, nowadays.”
Sam was glad to hear that, knew that he was a benefactor to the human race, able as he had been to assist both Uncle Abe and Happy Henry – such very different characters as they were – to achieve a degree of content in their previously sterile existences.
“Be most polite to Mr Malone, Jacky… But watch him! It might not be impossible that he has ambitions of his own, plans which have no place for me in them, you might say. He might seek to declare his independence in some unsubtle way, such as shooting you and Happy Henry.”
“Oh, that would never do, Mr Sam! I shall take all sensible steps to prevent him being so foolish, Mr Sam.”
Jacky set out on his errand, expecting to take no more than three hours, he suggested. Sam glanced at his newly purchased pocket watch and said he would look for him in the early afternoon. He watched as Jacky hustled his brother up onto the box of the wagon and then came out of the cottage a second time bearing a long thin parcel wrapped in sackcloth and set it carefully down in the tray.
‘A fowling piece, I much suspect’, Sam said to himself and turned away so that he might not have seen it. Far better to be ignorant of such things.
Mid-afternoon saw Jacky back, all gone well, the note delivered and Mr Malone saying that he would send a reply at soonest.
“To my mind, he has not got his letters himself, Mr Sam, so needs to have a note written for him, sir. He won’t want to make it public that he cannot read or write, so will pretend a slight delay while he thinks up his answer to you.”
“That had not occurred to me, Jacky, but I am sure you are right. He is quite comfortably off now and will not want the humiliation of being known to be illiterate. Possibly he has to go to his house for his wife to write for him, out of public view. Clever of you to spot it, Jacky.”
Jacky agreed – he did think that he might be brighter than the average run of fellows.
A neatly folded sheet of paper was brought to Bancrofts next morning, superscribed ‘Mr Samuel Heythorne’ in an Italianate hand, most fashionable.
Opening the missive Sam found that Mr Malone would be pleased to pay a call upon him and Mr Makepeace at the White Horse on the following morning at about eleven of the clock.
Sam called for his horse and went visiting himself, arranging for Nick to come to the White Horse that evening and be ready for anything that might occur during the night or early morning.
“One never knows, Nick, but it is not impossible that Mr Malone may be gulling us, bringing us to a sense of false security.”
“He may indeed, Mr Sam, and wise one must be to foresee such a chance.”
“The cottage which is being built just down the lane from the White Horse is nearly complete, Nick. You might wish to discuss furnishings with the appropriate suppliers at any time now. The accounts, needless to say, are mine.”
>
Nick considered that to be most kind, gracious, indeed.
“It is to be yours, Nick. In freehold, and with four acres behind it; a sufficiency for a busy woman to feed a family.”
Nick had fully expected the little house to be rent free, had not dreamed that it might be made his as owner. His gratitude was almost tedious, Sam thought, prolix in the extreme and bowing his head frequently.
Nothing untoward occurred overnight, almost to Sam’s surprise. He had thought that Malone would have offered some sort of violence, even if no more than a barn set afire to announce that he was an independently-minded sort of fellow and must be treated with respect. Possibly seeing Happy Henry had suggested how he might be respected.
A gig pulled into the yard of the White Horse at exactly eleven o’clock and the weighty, red-haired figure of Mr Malone stepped down and entered the front door of the inn. The ostler obeyed the orders given him in advance and took the gig into the stables to unharness and rest the horse.
“Mr Makepeace and Mr Heythorne! I give you good day, gentlemen.”
Sam and Abe were stood at the counter, a good ten feet apart so that Malone would be able to shoot at one only if that was in his mind. Sam relaxed his grip on his pocket murderer as it became clear that Malone was not bent on immediate mayhem.
“You are welcome in the White Horse, Mr Malone. Would you come through to my working room, sir? Tea, coffee or something a little stronger?”
A Killing Too Far Page 14