The Outcasts of Time

by Ian Mortimer

  The mist has now lifted over the moor and there is an uninterrupted view of the hills around us and the high ground beyond. As for the town, all the houses are now two-storey structures, no longer hall houses. The place looks every bit as prosperous as Moreton. And there are many people busying themselves in the streets. Servants are holding horses, waiting while their masters conduct their business. Most cottages have their front doors open as well as their shutters, to allow in as much light as possible, and I see women working thread on wooden machines with large, swift-moving wheels. There are many of these machines, which seem to perform much the same task as the spindle and distaff in our day. It seems the whole country around here is driven by cogs, kept to time by a clock, and kept prosperous by these wooden wheels.

  Although it is not market day, there are many people standing around in the square. Men are chatting to one another, sporting their soft caps and their fine clothes. Several teams of packhorses wait patiently with bundles and boxes on their backs. Farmers are setting about their daily tasks in earnest: one leads a herd of cows up the hill; another is driving a small flock of sheep from one field to another. The clock rings out ten times as we pass among them. To the west of the church they are building a new house amid wooden scaffolding poles and planks. I reflect that, in our time, there used to be a small building in the middle of the square here, where the important tinners would meet to discuss business and have their ingots of tin assayed and marked by the stannary officials. Now in its place there is a great open house of timber, with a gathering area below for the assaying and the bargaining with merchants, and a high room above, which is presumably for the meetings of the stannary court.

  William and I make our way into the covered area. We find ourselves amid the hubbub of a dozen conversations. I look from face to face, searching for someone who might be approachable and who might be able to suggest where we could buy clothes. Here a man is leaning on the low wall while someone talks to him about an idea for a waterwheel. Nearby a man in a long jerkin is listening to someone else speak at length, tapping the toe of his leather boot against the flagstones. But suddenly my view is interrupted by a large figure who stands before us. He has a blue padded tunic tucked into a thick leather belt fastened with a silver buckle. His jaw is clean-shaven and his cap is as black as dyed cloth can get.

  ‘You have business here?’ he asks.

  ‘We hope to find someone who’ll sell us clothes, new or old,’ I say.

  ‘This hall is only for those on the tinners’ business. Or looking for work in one of the beams or blowing houses. You must step outside if you have no business here.’

  ‘We’re looking for work,’ says William suddenly.

  The man who has confronted us looks from William to me and back, weighing us up. ‘You’ve worked on a beam before?’

  I cannot think of what he can mean except a beam of wood, such as the scaffolding we erect around the cathedrals when we work on them. So I reply, ‘Many times.’

  ‘What’s in the sack?’

  ‘Chisels and mallets, and some old clothes.’

  ‘Upstairs with you then,’ says the man, gesturing towards the corner of the building. ‘Alderman Periam’s looking for new workers.’

  We do as he says. On the upper floor there are about twenty men of various ages. A clerk asks our names and we tell him, ‘William Beard and John de Wrayment.’ He scrawls with his pen in an uncertain fashion, leaning on the table and frequently dipping his quill in the ink. He speaks our names very slowly as he writes, ‘W-il-li-am-Bea-ard. Jo-hn-Dr-ay-man’.

  A well-dressed man of about thirty is speaking on the far side of the chamber. ‘. . . and with that in mind, I pray that you listen to the master of the operation, my father, Alderman William Periam.’

  I see an old man seated in a wooden chair. He has one of these soft black caps like so many other people, but his is blacker than anyone else’s. He has white hair and an equally white beard. He does not stand to speak, but his voice is loud, rough and clear.

  ‘This is the fortieth year that I’ve been managing beams on the moor. In all that time my hearing has got worse and my voice louder. But the business has grown. That is why you are here; you all want to be wealthy. Now, in these days, most of the richest lodes are already claimed. So how might you do it? I have the answer. We’ll work and enrich ourselves together. I want to share with you a portion of the wealth that I enjoy.’

  As William Periam speaks he looks around the room. ‘I was not born a rich man. My father was a solid, God-fearing husbandman from the east of the county: a farmer who sweated over the few acres he held from the lord of the manor. But he wanted something better for me. So he sent me to learn the trade of a capper, in Exeter. Now, a capper is a worthy manufacturer, don’t mistake my meaning; many cappers are good, upstanding men. But none of them is what you would call wealthy. I knew I’d never be truly admirable in my father’s eyes unless I could exceed – exceed – his expectations. It would never have been enough merely to meet them.’

  The old man lifts his hand from the arm of the chair and holds up a finger.

  ‘I noticed that men wanted badges in their caps but there was insufficient tin, and silver was too expensive. All the tin was being taken for export, or for the casting of bronze guns. And when I asked, “Why do we not dig more tin out of the ground?” I was told that it was because it takes a lot of time. You need to remember that in those days some tinners still made their coin by following the streams after heavy rainfall and looking for tiny nuggets. Well, I thought, if there is tin enough in the streams when it rains, there must be much more underground – it does not fall from the sky. So why wait for the rain? I claimed my first patch of land, in the Ashburton quarter, and set to work with hired men from Widecombe. I soon learned that the hills of Dartmoor are threaded through with tin ore, and only scraps are washed to the surface in wet weather. Within ten years I was one of the richest men in Exeter. Within twenty, I was the richest. Within thirty, I was not only an alderman of the city but I had been elected mayor too, and had land in many parishes. I had silk-covered cushions on the benches in my hall, gilt candlesticks and red velvet altar dressings in my chapel, and tapestries in my parlour. Now, after forty years of tinning, I’ve nothing else to spend my money on but the future. On good men like my son John here. And men like you.

  ‘What sort of men am I looking for? Strong men, you’ll be thinking. You would not be wrong. But I want more besides. I want good men – those of a generous and hospitable disposition. I want men who are to their fellows what Job was to those among whom he lived: a pair of eyes to the blind, legs and feet to the lame, and a steady rock to those who find themselves swept away by despair. Many of you, I know, still cling to the old religion. I understand that a man’s truth is a man’s truth, and there’s no dislodging it. So I want men who are both strong and forgiving. Tolerant men. For this I know well: there is no creature on God’s earth more damnable in his fellow’s eyes than man himself. Homo homini daemon – man is a devil to man – as they say. I would rather have a weak man working my beams than an aggressive and selfish one, or one who seeks to put his faith before his fellow workers.’

  When William Periam finishes his speech, his son steps forward. ‘The moor can be a tough place, especially in winter. You’ve all heard the tale of Childe the Hunter, I am sure. For those who haven’t, suffice to say that Childe was a rich landowner long ago who regularly hunted on the moor. One day the mist and snow came down and a gale began to howl and he was separated from his men. Then the snow started to fall even harder. When his horse crumpled beneath him, he took his knife and killed the beast. He slit the belly open, pulled out its entrails, and crept into the warm cavity. But not even that was enough to save him. When the snows cleared the monks of Tavistock found his frozen body, still wrapped in the corpse of his horse. So take that as a lesson.’

  ‘That is true,’ adds his old father. ‘The weather up on the moor can be cruel hard, and c
an change viciously, and without warning.’

  ‘There’s another thing to be mindful of,’ says John Periam, ‘and that’s the mires. They’re not like bogs – you don’t just sink into them – they suck you down, as if the earth were hungry for your flesh and bones. Every movement makes the mire suck you down more. If you fall into one, the only way out is to lie flat and roll to the side. But if that happens, you had better be quick: I’ve seen a horse go down in less time than I could tie a noose in a rope to try and save her. So, when you are on the moor, trust the ponies. The horses might fall straight into a mire but the ponies are born and bred on the moor and they’ll not put a foot near danger. And if you have no pony with you, take care not to step off the path.’

  A stern-looking, narrow-faced foreman separates the men in the room into two groups. He allocates William and me to a group of nine men heading north to a tinworks at Watern Tor. After a few further words of blessing from our employers, and the news that we will earn fourpence a day for our labours, plus meals, we are ushered back downstairs.

  The men stamp their feet trying to keep warm. We all look at one other. They are mostly bearded. Their breath billows around their faces. One man extracts a small wooden comb from a pocket and starts dragging it through his hair, tugging at the knots, and wiping off the lice on his sleeve.

  As the church bell starts chiming again – eleven times – I catch the eye of one of our group. He is tall, with thick dark hair and beard, and is wearing a thigh-length leather jerkin, leather cap, loose long breeches and rough leather boots. His lip almost curls as he looks at me. ‘Why are you wearing women’s kirtles?’ he asks William and me. ‘Are you going to give us some entertainment?’

  This meets with a few laughs.

  William pulls himself up to his full height and looks the man up and down. Even he is not as tall as this tinner. He touches the man’s leather jerkin. ‘I see that you feel the cold terribly. Already you’ve killed your mount and crept inside. I’ll call you Childe.’

  The tall man smiles. ‘Friend, where are you from? Your voice sounds strange.’

  ‘Salisbury,’ William replies.

  I turn to the team of pack animals that will be travelling with us: two horses and ten ponies waiting patiently on the north of the square, each with a halter roped to the beast in front. They all carry wooden frames with high sides on their backs, in place of the saddle. A few of the ponies bear panniers stacked high with wicker cases of bread, meat, eggs and cheese; they are covered with canvas sheets bound with ropes. There are wooden cages containing hens tied on top of these high-packed loads. The horses and the rest of the ponies bear pickaxes, saws, heavy hammers and metal chisels; there are more folded sheets of canvas, wooden poles and planks, barrels of nails, sacks of leather ties and a couple of pairs of stout boots. One horse is laden with two huge sets of leather bellows, a good four feet in length, not including the handles. As far as I can see, there is nothing in the way of spare clothes.

  The foreman who selected us suddenly appears, wearing a leather jerkin and cap like the man who referred to our garments as ‘women’s kirtles’. He walks briskly around to the front of the packhorse team. ‘We’ll be setting out now, down to the blowing house at Outer Down, and then up to Teigncombe, over the bridge at Teignever and up to Watern Tor to the workings there. Follow the horses, and if the mist comes down and you get lost, follow the River Teign downstream: it’ll bring you back here to Chagford.’

  ‘What were you thinking in putting us forward to work tin?’ I ask William as we set off, walking at the back of the men.

  ‘I was thinking of you. How can you hope to do good works and save your soul if you are in a town? We know nothing, and can do nothing. We are like children – having to be shown how to dress and speak, and what spices are hot to taste and so forth. At least if we head out on to the moor, it’ll be like a levelling of things. Surely if you are ever going to be able to help a soul, it will be out there.’

  I walk on. Behind me, William tries to strike up a conversation with a taciturn man called George Beddoes, whose clothes look almost as rough as our own. He gives one-word answers to William. I understand that he is from Exeter and has not previously been on the moor, but has a wife and until recently had three daughters. One died. Her death has clearly caused him great pain.

  The crags rising above us look challenging. On the crest of a hill, we feel the cold wind blow harder – so much it begins to draw tears from the corners of my eyes. The colours of nature ahead of us are drawn roughly. Beneath blocks of grey sky and scudding clouds there is the grey-green strip of the high moor, half obscured by the still-drifting mist, where the grass is intermingled with blocks of granite. Nearer, there is a thick strip of red-brown, which I know is the huge swathes of dead bracken up on the moor. Nearer still is the green and brown of the trees and field grass, and the moss-covered granite posts and walls of the fields.

  The tall man wearing leather who referred to us wearing ‘women’s kirtles’ drops back and starts talking to me. His name is Richard Townsend. I learn that he too is from Exeter.

  ‘Your first trip out on to the moor?’ I ask.

  ‘No, I’ve been following Alderman Periam’s expeditions up here for many years,’ he tells me. ‘But soon I’ll be doing it on my own account.’

  ‘You have a plan?’

  ‘I’ll make a claim at the stannary court and start to work my own beam. Our lad needs schooling, in Exeter, so he can read and write.’

  ‘You want him to enter the Church then?

  ‘There’s no money to be made in the Church. Unless you’re one of those rich folk who can buy the old monastery lands. But every man of substance has need of writing men nowadays.’

  ‘You’re the second man today that has spoken to me of the monasteries.’

  ‘They’ve all gone now. One morning the monks were singing their prayers for the souls of the dear departed and the next the king’s officers were banging on the door, telling them all to leave within an hour, never to return, and demanding that they hand over all their gilt, silver, precious reliquaries, ornaments and croziers. Tavistock, Buckland, Torre – all have been sold to enrich the royal purse. Many of us think it the greatest act of theft ever committed in the whole history of the world.’

  ‘And the priory in Exeter?’

  ‘A mercer nowadays uses it for his house.’

  ‘No! What about the cathedral?’

  ‘That still stands as a place of holiness. But I fear it too will go the way of the priories if the zealots get their way. They want to ban everything – religious vestments, rosaries, wedding rings, sculptures, paintings . . .’

  ‘Why sculptures?’

  ‘Why anything? Those that would reform the Church have this notion of wanting to return to the religion of the Bible, and the Bible says nothing about tithes and bishops and wedding rings. So they say that those things must go. As for sculptures, they say that the Good Book says you should not make graven images.’

  ‘But sculpture is pure worship – it needs no words.’

  ‘Be proper careful to whom you say that,’ he warns.

  I can hear a booming noise coming up the valley. It sounds as if the stone hammers of the furies in the underworld are beating out a steady rhythm on a huge drum. The birds are still singing in the trees, so they are used to the sound. But to my ears it sounds unearthly.

  ‘What’s that thundering?’ I ask, looking around at the other men.

  ‘The blowing house,’ Richard explains. ‘It’s where we break up the ore. Two hammers, driven by a waterwheel, smash it all into crumble. That’s so the ore can be put in the furnace and smelted.’

  Within a few steps the sound of the hammers drowns out the birdsong from the nearby trees. A group of men is tending to the turf-covered charcoal fires which are burning beside the path. Ahead is a thatched building set into the side of a hill. To one side, there is a large waterwheel, fed by a leat running from the river. William and I and
several other new men move forward to see this marvel of thunderous noise which stops us from speaking to one another.

  The wooden door is open and we step inside. The whole building seems to be shaking with the repeated sound of crashing metal. It is smoky, dimly lit by two small empty windows, and very hot and humid. As my eyes become accustomed to the darkness I see a furnace set against the wall directly opposite me. Two men with long-handled ladles stand near, lifting the white-yellow molten metal from where it is seeping out from a stone spout into a trough to let it set. I know that metal runs like a thick pottage when it gets very hot – I have seen lead melted to seal the joins of the sheets on church roofs – but I have never seen tin dished up in a ladle. When one man sets his ladle aside and starts pumping the bellows to fire the furnace again, I see the sweat on the other man’s forearms gleam in the glowing heat.

  To the right of the furnace is an open doorway and it is from here the great crashing sound is coming. In there two men are shovelling ore on to granite mortar stones to be pounded by two massive hammers. As the waterwheel rotates it drives a shaft that lifts and then drops each hammer in turn, crushing the ore to gravel and dust. I have seen fulling mills before, which employ similar water-driven heavy hammers to thump the woollen cloth, but this is something altogether more overwhelming. I wonder at the resilience of the men working with that infernal noise all the time, and the dust rising from the smashed ore choking them.

  Outside the air is cold and strangely dull. I can no longer hear the birdsong but only the crash of the hammers.

  ‘I’ll be going to take a piss upstream,’ says William, as we stand there, numb from the noise. ‘Those hammers will soon start beating double time.’