The four farmers gathered together with their whole families to inspect the boys’ latest spoils. They gloated over the foodstuffs and agreed that the wines must be given to the vicar – for they wanted to hear no complaints from him that they might, just possibly, be stealing goods that really should be handed across to the army or to the constable as the property of traitors.
“What’s that on the barrels, Sam? Marked on the head?”
Sam spelt the letters out, one by one.
“C-O-G-N-A-C, Da. Dunno what that means.”
“Smells like brandy to I, boy. Sell it like you said – was we to drink that much it would be the death of us! Might be worth as much as a golden guinea, I reckons.”
The bacon and flour and the wrapped cheeses were split scrupulously equally between the four families; they would have the best winter ever for food.
“What about that big old leather bag, Da?”
They heaved the bag down, taking three men to shift it. It was a trunk, Sam’s father said, such as the gentry used to carry all the clothes what they had so much of.
There was a length of iron chain, ten feet of it at least, wrapped twice round the trunk and secured by a padlock, a big smith-crafted lump of iron the size of a man’s fist. They had no key.
“Squire ‘ad a farrier’s tools in they old stables of ‘is, Da.”
“You can go and fetch they tomorrow, Sam, when we takes the bottles to vicar. No worry about them now.”
The others agreed – the food was the important stuff. The trunk was weighty and probably had army stuff in it – swords and suchlike, even pistols and powder and ball, what was dangerous and no use to them in any case.
“What about you four? Do you reckon to go out again, Sam?”
“Don’t reckon so, Da. They Scottish men must be miles gone be now. Don’t see goin’ chasin’ after they again. More like to run into redcoats, ain’t we, and be tellin’ they just why we got muskets and what we reckons to do with they and sayin’ as ‘ow we ain’t the bloody rebels what they’re chasin’. We ended up better off than we started out, Da. That’ll do me, for the while.”
Sam’s mother spoke up to agree with him. He had risked his neck more than sufficiently for her liking, and she thought she saw a cold look in his eye that had not been there previously.
“You stay ‘ome, our Sam. You been out enough, boy.”
Sam laughed, shook his head.
“Did what we got to, didn’t I, Ma. Anyhow, come spring, I got to be looking about for summat to do. We ain’t got work on this farm for five men, Ma, and I’m next to youngest, so I goes – I reckon I’m big enough now.”
They took the crates across to the vicar next morning, all four farmers escorting the boys in the wagon.
The Vicar of Hucklow Parish was a large gentleman, well fed for many years from the proceeds of a private income. He was younger brother to the late Squire, was still shocked by the appalling deaths of all of the family, and the loss of the manor house where he had been born. He was slowly coming to terms with his new place as squarson – squire and parson both – for he was sole heir to his brother’s estate.
“These wicked Scottish villains killed my nephews as well, Farmer Thwaites. Boys of ten and twelve years, found knocked over the head, next to the bodies of their sisters.”
The eight agreed that to have been very bad, evil the like of which they had never heard.
“I am told that you have managed to make something of a recover, Farmer Thwaites.”
“The boys did lay their ‘ands upon some of the beasts what was stole, Reverend.”
“That is fortunate, for there is little I could do for you this year. They stole all of the animals from the Home Farm but did not take the goats and pigs from the Glebe. Nor did they burn out the Tithe Barn, so that I shall live this year. They would not touch the goods of the Church, it would seem. I shall remit your rents for the next three quarters – I can do no less. You may commence payments again after harvest coming.”
They had not expected that degree of charity, appreciated the goodwill shown by their new master.
“I trusts as ‘ow thy own family be unharmed, Reverend.”
“Untouched, I thank you, Farmer Thwaites. My brother rather foolishly took to arms to defend his property and lost all. I have today received a letter from the Lord Lieutenant; he demands that the village shall supply men to the militia, Farmer Thwaites, two at least from the estate. The period of service to be just two years, and there will be a bounty payable on satisfactory discharge. I will add a further ten guineas, gold, into the hands of any young man who shall volunteer to march north and destroy these Jacobite villains.”
Sam thought that sounded like a good idea – he would spend two years in uniform and then have some gold in his pocket. He had to go somewhere and the Militia might be the best place.
“Where do us go to join, Reverend, sir?”
Sam’s father started to protest then decided that it might be better for the boy if he went away from the farm into the Militia, where he would be given orders and taken in hand before he became too wild. Two years in uniform might do him some good, and at the end of the period he would have fifteen pounds at least in his pocket. A man with fifteen pounds could rent a few acres and build a pigsty and start a holding that could make a good enough living within twenty years, or thereabouts. It was a better prospect than that faced by most younger sons.
“Buxton, Samuel. In two days from today.”
“Can I go, Da?”
“Best you should, Sam. Take thy musket with thee, to show willin’ like.”
Simon said that he would go too; Bob and Eddie were content to stay at home, their adventuring days done.
“To business, Reverend. The boys come across Scottish soldiers driving this ‘ere wagon, what got bottle and casks inside, sir. Seems to I, sir, that this might be that wine what the gentry do drink. The casks smells of brandy, Reverend, and I did think as ‘ow we might sell that down at the nearest inn, Tideswell way, or to my missus’ brother what be even farther off. The wine, though, we didn’t pay owt for it, so it ain’t right to ask money of thee, sir, if thee wishes to take it off us.”
A quick inspection suggested that the casks contained the best of French brandy; rather than go to all the bother of taking it to Tideswell, the Reverend offered to buy it for four guineas, one apiece. They closed on the deal, offloading casks and crates into the cellar of the Rectory.
“Is the manor to be built again, Reverend?”
“I much doubt it Farmer Thwaites – the cost would be very high. It will be many years before I can put the money together for the purpose. The Home Farm will take the barns and that will be all for the time being.”
They returned to the farms, Sam to pack a tiny bedroll despite his mother’s muted protests, made for the form of things, he suspected.
“What about that old leather trunk, Da?”
“Forget it, for the while, Sam. Sat in the front, that be, with a blanket over its top, and nowt to be said. Just ‘twixt thee and me, our Sam, I reckon as ‘ow that might be one of they pay chests what the army ‘as. Suppose it be full of silver shillings, boy – we finds out and splits they four ways, equal like, ‘ow long do you reckon before one of they daft buggers starts to shout ‘is mouth off about ‘ow ‘e’s got rich? Let it wait a year or two, till it be forgot about, then maybe us can open ‘er up and spend it, a little bit at a time. You comes back from the North Country, discharge paper in thy ‘and, and prize-money in your pocket, boy, and there’s none to argue what’s what. But, just suppose we goes to buy a ‘undred acres for usselves next month?”
Sam realised then that his father was a clever man.
“So’s you boy – and you got to get it from someplace, ain’t you? None of your brothers got nothing between the ears, but you ‘as, boy, just as much as me. You bugger off to Buxton, Sam, with that Simon what you thinks so much of by yer side – riding they ‘osses and with they muskets
at the saddle. When you goes to the Militia to sign up and writes yer name as well, they going to join you up to the ‘oss-soldiers, most like – and they gets the best life, boy. You tells ‘em straight that you ran into they Scottish soldiers what come thievin’, and you put them underground and took they stuff for theesself. Either they thinks you’s a bad big- ‘ead, or they reckons you the right sort of lad they wants. One way they send you ‘ome again, t’other they looks after you.”
They set off at first light, two days later, not another word said about the leather trunk.
Buxton was a huge town, at least two thousand people living there, ten times bigger than Hucklow, tucked away in the hills, with shops and fancy buildings which the boys had never seen the like of. They stopped at the outskirts, not knowing which of five or six lanes they must go down. There was a small pub and they asked the gaffer who was standing in the open doorway, where the Militia might be found.
“Straight on down, young sir, a furlong, no more, and you comes to the square and the Town Hall, which is the place what you wants.”
Sam was much heartened by the man’s courtesy, had half expected to be told to bugger off and stop disturbing his betters. He did not realise that he was a fearsome sight, armed and cold-faced, a musket to his saddle that he knew exactly what to do with.
The square was large, bigger than the green down at Hucklow, and covered in stone slabs. The Town Hall was at least the size of Squire’s manor, they thought. There were soldiers, militiamen in red coats, standing outside.
Sam and Simon dismounted, led their horses across the square.
Sam opened his mouth, was cut short by a sergeant.
“You boys been sent ‘ere to join?”
“Yes, sir. Up from Hucklow way, sir.”
“Sergeant, not ‘sir’. Round the back, that side.” The sergeant pointed, wise enough with country boys not to venture into ‘left’ or ‘right’. “Stables there, what they got for your sort.”
“Thank ‘ee, Sergeant.”
The courtesy was immediately acceptable.
“You’ll do, boys. Off you go.”
They walked the horses round to the back of the big building, found the stables block, a livery catering for farmers riding in with business in town. There was a troop of Yeomanry, mounted militia, half formed, anxious for extra bodies. They had a lieutenant, appointed by the Lord Lieutenant, who needed sufficient men at his back not to look silly when he rode into camp.
“Are you men for the Yeomanry?”
“Sent up from Hucklow, sir, to join.”
“Good. Are those your horses?”
“Yes, sir. Belonged to some Scottish men what tried to steal our dads’ cows, sir. We saw to they, sir. Got no use for riding stock on the farm, sir, so we got sent up with ‘em, sir.”
“Did you keep your cows?”
“Yes, sir. And some more what they stolen before, sir.”
“And the muskets?”
“They didn’t need ‘em no more, sir. We got old crossbows, sir, what we used for goin’ rabbiting, like.”
The lieutenant exchanged glances with his sergeant, eyebrows raising.
“Had you, by God! Are those muskets loaded?”
“No, sir. Didn’t reckon to need ‘em round ‘ere, sir.”
“Sensible. Let me see.”
Sam pulled the carbine from the boot on his saddle, passed it across to the lieutenant, trying to take the man’s measure as he did. The officer was older than him by a good ten years, he thought, a countryman as well, face tanned by sun and wind. He stood taller than Sam and upright, did not slouch comfortably like the boys. He very obviously knew how to handle a musket.
“Fired recently and not cleaned properly.”
“Beg pardon, sir, but we ain’t got the stuff for cleaning no gun, nor I don’t know ‘ow to.”
“You will learn. You are volunteering to sign up to two years of service to His Britannic Majesty, King George. If you sign, then you become subject to discipline – you may be flogged or even hanged if you misbehave. If you bring a horse, you will be paid eight pounds. We are short of muskets, of carbines especially. This is of military calibre and you will be paid two pounds for it. You will be issued a sword and two dragoon pistols and a uniform and will be supplied with rations. As a horse soldier, you will be paid eight pence a day, less deductions. There is a signing on bounty of seven pounds and ten shillings, just for the Yeomanry. Will you sign up?”
“That’s what I were sent for, sir. I dunno what the proper words are, sir, but yes, sir.”
“’Yes, sir’ is all I wish to hear from you. The sergeant will take you inside to the desk there; he will ask you what your name is, and you must make your mark where he shows you.”
“Beg pardon, sir, but I got me letters, sir.”
“Have you now?”
The officer inspected Sam more closely.
“My name is Wakerley, Lieutenant, Derbyshire Yeomanry. You will be part of my troop. Troopers who can read and write can expect to be promoted, provided they are good soldiers. What is your name?”
“Heythornethwaite, sir. Samuel.”
“That’s too big a mouthful for shouting out an order. Heythorne, you are, Trooper.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sam left Thwaites behind him, with the farm.
“What we goin’ to do wi’ all this money, Sam?”
Simon was almost horrified, it was too much for him to comprehend. Seventeen pounds and ten shillings – more of cash money than his father saw in two years, good harvests at that.
The sergeant who had just signed them into service overheard, grunted in amusement.
“Put it away safe, boy. Down the road, to the saddlery, and buy yourself a leather purse, with a drawstring. Bloke there makes ‘em up out of his offcut leather. Cost you a tanner, it will. Put the seventeen quid inside and tie it up tight and then hang it on a string around your neck, good and safe. The ten bob you can keep in yer pockets – you might want to buy a warm blanket or such, or woollen stockings to put inside they new boots what you got. Put yer stuff up in the billet and I shall take thee down the road meself and you can buy me a pint to say thank’ee, Sergeant Wright. Ain’t goin’ to be no more than a score of us – acos of we can only take blokes what got their own ‘osses, as there ain’t none to hand for us. Rides out day after tomorrow, so we do, so you needs to get your hands on what you needs today, and I’ll show thee what’s what tomorrow, quick like, and you better learn it all, too. Lieutenant was five years in Colonel Harris’ Regiment of Horse, and saw the wars, too, afore ‘e come back home when his old father snuffed it and he picked up the land. Now, he’s coming back to the wars again, for getting pissed off with watching the daisies grow, and you better not let him down, for not knowing what to do.”
Sergeant Wright took them round the few shops and told them what to buy and what not.
“You needs a working knife, with a short, thick blade, what you can slice up salt beef or bacon with, or trim a bit of leather, or cut a slice off a loaf of bread. You got to ‘ave a razor of yer own, or put up with a regimental barber, what we ‘aven’t got. Being as ‘ow we are dragoons, sort of, you got to look after yer ‘oss. Useful if you got some sort of grass ‘ook what you can cut fodder with, supposin’ you got to keep the ’oss on a picket line where ‘e can’t graze for ‘imself. Supposed to be supplied, they are, but they ain’t except to full regiments. One o’ you gets a grass ‘ook, t’other gets a billhook, what’s good for cutting firewood. No need for two each.”
They stood in the small hardware store and nodded to the man at the counter to put up according to the sergeant’s orders and shelled out their shillings as demanded – very few of them, the blades being locally made and cheap.
Woollen stockings and blankets cost a little more, for being brought in from Yorkshire way, which added pack pony costs on the mud tracks that passed for roads.
“Tinder box, Sergeant Wright?”
“No nee
d. A dusting of gunpowder on the kindling, then a spark off the old pistol does the job. I’ll show thee ‘ow that’s done.”
“What about that medicine stuff up on the shelf, Sergeant Wright?”
“No bloody use, boy! What’s it call itself? ‘Dr Bowdrie’s Patent Cure-all’. What’s it good for? ‘Bloody Flux, Worms, Costive Disorders, French Pox, Toothache’. All cured by a swig from the one bottle! You believes that, you’re a bigger bloody fool than I takes you for, boy!”
“Don’t even know what all of them is, Sergeant Wright.”
“Good thing too, at your age!”
They received their introduction to army food that night, salt beef and crushed biscuit made up into a sort of hash. It was better than most meals they would eat at home in winter – hot, filling and recognisably meaty. The tea that accompanied it was a different matter – that was hot, wet and utterly unrecognisable.
“’Finest stuff a man can imagine’, that’s what Colonel Harris was used to say, Sam Heythorne! Put’s ‘airs on yer chest, boy!”
“Feels like it does the same to me throat, Sergeant Wright. Bloody ‘orrible stuff!”
“You’ll get used to it. Give it a year and you won’t want to drink bugger all else.”
“What is it?”
“Well… depends where you buys it. You don’t generally ask what it is – better you don’t. You just takes what’s given for a penny and says thank’ee kindly and that’s it. Better that way. What you does, and I’ll show thee in the mornin’, is to put a lining of oilcloth inside yer coat, and keeps a handful dry that way, so that you always got a brew-up on you. Can’t do without tea, boy.”
Sam and Simon listened and did as they were told. They knew only that they must fit in to the new existence.
The next day was busy from first light, learning how to wear a uniform, to stand properly, to salute, to recognise the basic commands and to clean and carry their weapons.
The Killing Man Page 4