He could not be there next Sunday for Clapperley had sent a letter begging his presence for a discussion of his investments, ‘best done in person, not by letter’. The little rogue almost certainly had a proposal so unlawful that he dared not commit it to paper, Tom mused; he wondered just what it might be.
“Our little adventure to the West Indies, Sir Thomas – I have been discussing the matter with acquaintances and they tell me that the government is recruiting soldiers there, black men to join a number of West India Regiments.”
“Freemen? There were numbers of them, I remember, without employment or any hope of a future, but I cannot see many of them taking to the discipline of the ranks.”
“Not freemen, Sir Thomas. Slaves, fresh from the ships, not yet inured to the lash nor full of hatred for their masters, their spirit as yet unbroken. Mr Thompson tells me that most of the blacks he buys are warriors captured in battle by another tribe, by the Kingdom of Ashanti mostly; they are taken and sold for cloth and gin and muskets, armour and swords, so that more can be taken next season. The thing is, Sir Thomas, they are soldiers already, many of them used to firelocks even. So, it is my proposal that we should hire another two or perhaps three bottoms to run late in the trading season and pick up five or six hundred more, men only, at a cheaper rate, because they will have to be kept till next year’s trading otherwise, and run them to Dominica where Cochrane-Johnstone is Governor and will pay top price. The rate in Jamaica and Antigua is between sixty and eighty guineas per head, but he will pay one hundred and twenty, while fifteen a head is deposited to his account in Liverpool. Even with commissions and Thompson’s share of the profit, there will be a clear eight thousands, on top of the six or so that he will have used to fund the three hired vessels. There is a risk, of course, which is why I have begged your presence, Sir Thomas, to explain it fully, and Cochrane-Johnstone is a dangerous man to deal with – wild and criminal, wholly untrustworthy after he has been paid – but he will behave until he knows he has his money safe in hand. After that, Sir Thomas, I trust that your connections can keep him in line, that and the expectation of profiting again next year.”
“What of his connections? He is Governor so he must have some political influence.”
“Younger brother of Lord Cochrane, the chemical inventor, and of Admiral Cochrane, married richly and added his wife’s name to his – there are seven or eight other brothers besides – all of them wild, mad or drunk, some of them all three, I understand, with the result that their standing is rapidly declining – he will be dismissed his Governorship before too long, he is too flagrant in his derelictions and keeps a harem besides running privateers of his own. He will not be able to stand against your influence, Sir Thomas. I shall, by the bye, be taking my place in Westminster, at this election – all is arranged and my patron agrees that I should be a Tory, though he, himself, favours the Whigs, is, in fact, almost a Radical by inclination.”
“I shall speak with the Marquis and he will pass the good word to Mr Dundas for me.”
“Thank you, Sir Thomas. The Marquis has a place on the Navy Board, does he not, Sir Thomas? I believe I could give the direction of a Jamaica merchant who could supply rum in some quantity and would be glad to do so; the best-looking rum, old brown in colour as if aged in the cask for some three years but priced to us as new, fresh from the still.”
“Ourselves to be the importer, selling to the Navy Board from a warehouse in Liverpool?”
“Just so, Sir Thomas – our warehouse to be registered in the name of Campbell and McDonald – there are a large number of Scots in the West Indies, I believe.”
“The… ah, colouring agent, would not be harmful to the seamen, I trust?”
“Not at all, Sir Thomas, and the alcohol content of the rum would be as high as ever. Cut with lime-juice and water to make their ‘grog’, I believe that none would notice the taste to be a little harsher, rawer, than usual, and in any case, seamen will drink anything!”
“I shall speak to the Marquis, Mr Clapperley. A partnership seems more appropriate than our normal commission arrangement, perhaps? Whilst I think of it, is it a large warehouse? Sufficient to store raw cotton in bulk?”
“It can be, Sir Thomas.”
“Good. If the occasion arises next year, I shall give you the word.”
A consultation with Michael seemed a wise idea, and he could use the occasion to speak with the Marquis and to discuss the issues that Clapperley had raised. He wondered whether the Marquis had any connection with the Ordnance Board; Frederick Mason was pressing for a second steam lathe and it would be better to have a tied down contract for siege cannon or the naval chasers before he went to such an expense; it would as well ensure that he received a very fair price for his great guns.
Mr Walker returned for the formality of his own election and to appear on the hustings with the Members for the County, both of whom were seeking re-election, standing against a pair of Whig gentlemen and a Radical, drawn, regrettably, from the middle sort of people, and a perennial local hopeful who sought the ‘government of the elect’, not apparently to be confused with the ‘elected’, though the difference was clearer in his mind than anyone else’s. Every elector had three votes, one for his local member, two for the County, and must give those votes in public. For the local member there was little choice – the burgesses would be true to their landlords and patrons, would deliver as expected - but the County elections tended to be free and to depend upon conscience, political opinion and corruption in equal parts. The Militia, and now the Volunteers, would be called to duty for every election meeting and on Election Day itself; this created a new problem as many of the Volunteers were sufficiently genteel and wealthy to possess a vote and would wish to leave their place in the guard to march up to the table and cast their ballot, thus associating themselves with one side or other in the ongoing riots.
The candidates toured the county, in duty bound, and spoke at meetings, in the nature of things mostly addressing their own supporters – few would turn out to listen to their opposition; dissent was limited to a few shouts and the odd missile, mostly thrown half-heartedly to make a point rather than break a head. Their agents engaged in active electioneering in between times, organising free beer at the local pubs in the towns and deliveries of joints of beef in the chapel-strong villages; competition between the Whigs and Tories was strong and fairly even, but the Radical, a poorer man, had to rely much more on rhetoric, an argument that lacked conviction.
Traditionally, Finedon was split fairly evenly between Whig and Tory, to the profit of the burgesses there, but the Radical and the religious gentleman could expect very little support. The Tories took an early lead in the village, however, after the cabbages in the back gardens were found to be sprouting half-crowns in the way of manna; the Whigs suggested this was corruption, it not being normal to actually give money, but no-one could be found who had actually seen a Tory agent in his garden distributing the coins so no action could be taken. Even when the Whigs responded by placing silver shilling pieces in the flower beds it was felt that they had been forced to it by the Tories, were only following their lead, would not have done it otherwise.
The War provided the meat for most political addresses – the Tories calling for patriotic support for King and Country, the Whigs happy to offer their backing but enquiring why there had been so few victories for so much money spent, why had the Army achieved very little and the Navy been forced to bear the brunt of battle. As well, references to the King were a double-edged weapon for the Tories – it was generally accepted that he had lost the Americans through his foolish interventions in the previous war and his current madness was no secret. Comments that the wicked French had cut their king’s head off brought the response that the British monarchy would be both more intelligent and saner for the same remedy applied here. The Radical raised the question of enclosures and the hardships suffered by the Commoners as a result, but both Whigs and Tories were landowners, and
almost none of the dispossessed had the vote, so the sole result was to provoke a riot rather than force a political response.
The Volunteers, still without their Scots captains, were ordered to disperse the mob. They knew every rioter by sight at least, were related to quite a number of them, were unwilling to take any strong action.
Tom, at the head of his men, surveyed the scene.
The rioters were not, he felt, too serious in their commitment to disorder – they were not equipped to burn or destroy, no flaming torches, no felling axes or swaphooks. There were stones flying, but not too many, and there was more mud than lethal missiles.
The mob was occupying an acre or so of the village green, on the banks of the Isebrook, the stream at their backs, the stage for the hustings, a small, ramshackle platform of a dozen planks and an unpainted canvas cover to their front. There was a pub on either side of the green and both had had their doors kicked in at an early stage, barrels broached and contributing to the noise and fun.
“Two hundred of them, Major Hunt?”
“About that, Sir Thomas. Load muskets?”
“No. Form the men into a double rank across the front of the green and then fix bayonets. Carry them at high port, across their chests – they know how to do that, we’ve practised it four Sundays running.”
It took ten minutes, and some laughter from the crowd, to achieve the desired formation, the company of eighty men looking quite impressive in the end.
“Walk them forward, Major Hunt, slowly, the drummer to give the pace.”
The drummer, Jacky, the village idiot, a youth of little brain but good musical sense who enquired every day whether ‘it were Sunday’ and time to don his uniform, ran to his place at the flank of the company, gave a rousing fanfare with his trumpet to open proceedings and then, having gained everyone’s attention, began to thump his drum in funeral time.
Tom walked his horse slowly forward, two paces ahead of the ranks, sword drawn and his pistol holsters very prominent; stories had circulated ever since he had built his little practise range – he was known to be deadly, to have earned his scar in the bloodiest of battles, corpses strewn about him. The advance, silent except for the drum, unnerved the mob – they had been no more than half-hearted from the beginning; the leading youths edged back, away from the pistols and the threatening bayonets, trod on the toes of the men behind them, forcing them to give ground in turn. A minute and the rearmost reached the stream - no more than ten feet wide and two deep but with four foot high banks – and two of the drunker skulkers at the back fell in with loud shouts of dismay; brothers and sons jumped in to rescue them and then there was a general run and splashing as the rest followed, sped up the twenty yards of turf on the other side and disappeared into the blackthorn and elder shrubs surrounding the quarry. Ten minutes and they were gone, without casualties, the Volunteers masters of the green.
It was generally accepted as very satisfactory – the Militia would almost certainly have opened fire, have killed half a dozen; Dragoons would have charged – the charge was all that cavalry knew – sabering the slow and unhandy and trampling children under their hooves. The landlords of the pubs were unhappy at first, until Major Hunt instructed them to send in their bills for damage done. The Lord Lieutenant was informed of the riot and the success of the Volunteers, was moved to write a letter of commendation to them, to be read out on parade, admiring their discipline and self-restraint; he also informed the Lord Chancellor, his own master, of the event and the fortunate results of the use of the local men, well controlled by Sir Thomas Andrews and his second, Major Hunt.
Whig and Tory candidates united to deplore the excesses of the Mob, and of the Radical who had deliberately, they said, incited the trouble. The local newssheet published their words and editorialised on the vicious nature of all revolutionaries and on the kindly restraint shown by their own local leaders and brave Volunteers; let the French invade if they dared, their own valiant boys would know how to serve them out!
The only complaint Tom heard was from Squire Latimer in Burton who deplored his weakness – better to have shot a dozen and hanged as many more to teach them a lesson – Tom’s laxity would only store up trouble for future years, he feared.
Election Day came and was almost trouble-free in Finedon, although there was a full-blooded riot in Burton, two houses burnt down, and another in Kettering, Militia opening fire in the latter and killing one slow runner. There was much wise nodding of heads in Finedon – they knew how to do things properly there, thanks to Sir Thomas, shown the right way by Lady Verity, no doubt, the new and the old working together for the well-being of all, as it should be. The curate ventured on a sermon moralising on the events and was gravely congratulated by Jane Masters after the service, she being prodded into speech by a blooming Verity.
Walker was elected, as was only proper, and so were both Tory members for the County, to Dundas’ relief. Tom’s account went strongly into credit in Downing Street, added to still more when Mr Clapperley appeared in the House and sat in the proper place on the government back-benches where he was soon identified as Sir Thomas’ man.
Deep into a cold, wet, gloomy November, the mud a foot thick, a letter arrived from West Wales, directed to Tom and with a thick enclosure for Jane Masters. Both were edged in black.
Tom quickly scanned his message before calling for Jane to come to him.
“I am very sorry, Jane. You must read this, you will want to be on your own, I believe – I will tell Morton not to disturb you. I will be with Lady Verity in her work room.”
Tom left his library, closing the door behind him.
“A letter from Lord Frederick, Verry. Lady Frederick died suddenly, last week. The letter has taken ten days to get here so she will be long buried by now. Should Jane go home, do you think? The letter says very little and I am not sure what to read into it.”
Verity read the letter, trying to dig behind its conventional phrases.
“She should stay here, I believe – her father three times mentions the difficulty of travel on the Welsh roads, once would be sufficient if he really wanted her to return. I wonder… he is no more than forty-five, might well still wish for a son, might feel embarrassed at Jane’s presence if he contemplated a second marriage, necessarily to a much younger woman not much older than her. I think, Thomas, that a letter in return might well mention the possibility of a match for Jane, yourself doubtful of its eligibility due to the young gentleman’s circumstances. It will be interesting to see if he is willing to come down with a few hundred a year extra to ensure her comfort in her new home – and to make sure that she goes to it.”
Book Two: A Poor Man
at the Gate Series
Chapter 8
Spring was slowly dragging in, leaves budding, daffodils and crocuses showing first colour after another brown, muddy, wet, miserable winter, a month of snow followed by three of deluge, the farmers all swearing that they would never get onto the fields for ploughing, would never sow a crop and anything they did get in the ground would be full of mildew.
“Fifteen years, Sir Thomas, since last we had a proper winter and a good spring and summer, not since I was a boy.”
Quillerson, still not thirty, was rapidly developing the habits of speech of a middle-aged man – the influence of a happy marriage and the cares of the estate combining to place a burden of respectability on him – he had a part to play, he felt, possibly unconsciously, and adopted the gravitas that was necessary to it. Tom was amused, and did not care at all while the young man did his job so well, he could be as ponderous as he felt necessary while his brain still worked.
“Weather changes, Quillerson – about the only thing that I learned at sea with my father was that yesterday was gone and would never come again. We must live with the rain we have rather than rue the sun of the past. More drainage, I suppose?”
“Certainly in the lower-lying fields, Sir Thomas. More ditches and a couple of tile-drains for the Ho
me Farm and I am talking with Ferns about planting another hedgerow across his hillside, a double line of blackthorn and some larger trees at intervals, ornamentals, I think, not commercial timber. The trees suck water out of the soil, and slow down the run-off, sir; in addition they provide a wind-break and shelter for the cattle and we will not want them to be felled for timber at a later date.”
Tom made a mental note of Quillerson’s words – he had never realised that hedges served any purpose other than as boundaries.
“What of the Village Smallholdings, Quillerson? We have bought, what, forty acres there, now?”
“Eight separate blocks, Sir Thomas – bad land, all of it, the ironstone close to the surface, the topsoil thin and acid as a result and poor-growing, the water lying long. It was thought to be better than that when it was allocated to the villagers, but it was not part of the Great Field and had not seen a plough – the Commissioners, and the villagers themselves, had no idea of its true nature. Most of those who did not really want to be smallholders have sold out, preferring to take the more than fair price they were offered, the rest have goats or a cow or two at pasture. Two of the families think they were robbed, however, given inferior land, cheated of their rights. To an extent, Sir Thomas, one could argue that they have a fair case.”
Nouveau Riche (A Poor Man at the Gate Series, Book 2) Page 22