Lieutenant Wakerley reported in the morning, showing the evidence – signets and personal jewellery - that the clan chief and his guard had been of importance to the rebellion. The troop received another commendation. Three days later he was called back to the general, returned to the troop smiling.
“We are too small to be of practical use here. One loose troop attached to no regiment is more of a nuisance than a working unit for what is needed now. We are to return to Derby, taking the long route, working across to the west coast. I am made captain and there is to be some sort of reward for every man – you are to be paid a bounty when your service comes to an end, in addition to that always paid to the Militia and Yeomanry.”
Sergeant Wright nudged Sam, said that he might end up with fifty pounds in his pocket, the way things were going.
“What with the loot we picked up off they Scottish men, and the two bounties, you are going to be well off, Sam. What you going to do with it?”
“Don’t know for sure, Sergeant. I been thinking. That whisky stuff… How do they go about making it? I reckon as ‘ow men would pay good money for a bottle of that stuff. If they men from the mountains can make it, I reckon as ‘ow I could do better. What do you say, Simon?”
“Fifty quid, Sam! I could buy ten acres of good soil and a cow and four sows and a boar, and build a little cottage all of me own, and still ‘ave a few quid besides. Bugger whisky, Sam! Set up for life, so I be.”
Sam told him he was a wise man – there was nothing like having your own piece of land, and a missus to share it within a very few weeks.
“It ain’t what I want, Simon, or not yet for a few years. I ain’t in the way of settling down yet. Might spend a few bob and buy a place on a ship to America, maybe. I likes the idea of whisky, though. Build up a little place up on the moors, out of the way, like, and run off a few gallon of that stuff… I reckon as ‘ow folks would buy it.”
“I’ll go in with you, young Sam, if so be you go for it.” Sergeant Wright grinned, sheepishly, said that he was growing older, didn’t fancy going back to the wars. There would be a place for him in a regiment of heavy dragoons, he expected, but he was getting stiff in the back and his knees didn’t like riding all day every day, not any more. He could settle down very easily, he thought.
“Add to that, Sam, with a hundred quid betwixt us, we could set up something big, make real money from it.”
Sam solemnly clasped his hand – they would go as partners.
The troop rode south almost as far as Edinburgh where they turned to the west and towards the town of Glasgow, which had shown a degree of support for the Jacobites when they had passed through. Captain Wakerley called them together as they set out.
“New orders. There are battalions of foot working the roads across to the west. We have been given the hills – again. We have done well in the higher parts, so we are to do the same again. We will keep to the tracks, not too high up, and work our way across to the sea – every farm and village we come to, we must search for Jacobites – and God help them if we find any!”
They had been well rewarded for their efforts to that point – they were not about to change their ways.
They rode out, keeping to their two sections, a few yards between them so that they could not easily be ambushed, though they had little fear of that.
It was early summer and the flocks were out on the hills, a few of the richer farmers with cattle close to their yards, most busying themselves with remaking fences and working up their vegetable gardens and their patches of oats and barley. The unending work of cutting firewood for next winter had already begun, trees that had died over one winter being chopped up for the next.
“You wants to go back to that, Simon? Not for me. Get rich and hire labourers, that’s the sort of farming I’m goin’ to do if ever I goes back to it.”
“It ain’t a bad life, Sam.”
“It ain’t a good one, either, mate.”
They stopped at each farm, spoke to the men and came away, within reason satisfied that they were honest, until they came to one small place that had no young men of fighting age.
“Two grandads, damned near dead on their feet. Four boys, none more than twelve years. Three grown women what are their mothers. Two girls helping with the wood.”
Sergeant Wright shook his head – there must have been three fathers, and probably some of their older sons. Where were they? They looked around the premises, spotted a sheepfold.
“They ‘ad sheep ‘ere overwinter, Sergeant.”
The flock was up on the hills, forty strong.
“A boy and a dog?”
The women nodded.
“Where are the menfolk?”
They shook their heads.
Captain Wakerley ordered a search of the three cottages. They were empty, apart from smaller children.
“Where are the men? Answer or we burn you out as traitors.”
“They got taken up with that army, sir. We rents off Sir Jack, and ‘e said they got to go. They ain’t come back.”
“Where is Sir Jack?”
The woman who had spoken pointed west along the track; there was a big house, a mile distant.
“Has Sir Jack come back?”
She shook her head – if he had, he had not come to see them.
Captain Wakerley swore quietly – they would lose their children, one after another dying of cold and malnutrition, too few hands available to work their land. The women would probably die first, for starving themselves to put the small amount they had into the little ones’ mouths.
“Leave them. They are not traitors.”
They rode across to the big house, finding it smaller than expected. Sam thought that Squire’s house back at Hucklow had been twice the size. It was a low sort of place, no more than two floors, ten rooms upstairs. Barns and stables to sides and rear and an unpaved yard to the front; a large farm rather than a squire’s mansion.
“Your section to the rear, Sergeant Wright. Gather the servants and farm workers together.” Captain Wakerley took the front door.
“Pistols to hand.”
Sergeant Wright thought there might be trouble.
“Sam, see what’s in the stables.”
There were two heavy horses, resting after spring ploughing, Sam suspected. Besides that, four of riding stock, gaunt and tired from months of hard work.
“Four nags what been out on the roads over winter, Sergeant.”
“Troopers?”
“Officers’ mounts, Sergeant. Chargers. Blood ‘osses.”
“Bring ‘em out. Leading reins.”
Sam tied the four to a rail outside, then brought out the working horses, turned them out into the paddock at the back. He suspected that the place would be burned out as punishment for treason; he would not leave the horses inside.
The servants came running out of the kitchens and sculleries to the rear of the house, ordered out at pistol point.
“Corporal Heythorne. You and one trooper to the front, to Captain Wakerley.”
Sam nodded to Simon.
They walked their horses back to the main doors, found Captain Wakerley there with his half of the troop and a man in late middle age and two youths, his sons presumably. Half a dozen women, young and old, stood in the background.
One of the boys had an arm in a sling.
“Admitted traitors to their King, Corporal Heythorne. Returned three days since, on their own. They neither know nor care where their followers are. We have no useful trees here. Take them out of sight of the womenfolk and pistol them.”
It was an unpleasant order, but it was nonetheless to be obeyed. The King’s own son had ordered all traitors to be killed out of hand; that was sufficient for Sam. He drew his sword and walked behind the three, pricked them into movement.
“Gimme your pistols when I fired mine, Simon.”
Simon nearly fainted with relief that he would not have to take part in the killing.
Round the sid
e, behind the brick wall of the milking parlour and Sam leaned forward, shot the older in the head without a word spoken. The other two were gone within five more seconds. They said nothing, did not try to fight or run. Sam thought they were just too tired, too dispirited by their defeats to do anything at all.
“What’s the words, Sam? ‘So perish all traitors’, is it?”
“So they say, Simon. Open the doors, all of them. There’s swine and chicken and milch cows here. Let the poor sods out before the place burns down.”
Sam ran his hands over the bodies, removed a few coins, a gold ring, and, usefully, three pairs of good boots. Six months into the campaign and half of the troop had holes in their footwear.
They walked their horses away from the burning buildings, the bloodstock on their long leads, not looking back. Sergeant Wright rode next to Sam.
“They deserved punishment, young Sam. Don’t ‘ee go worrying about that sort. They womenfolk will walk a few miles to the next big house and be taken in there until they can get back to their own families. They won’t starve over winter, nor see their little ones die.”
Sam nodded – they had asked for trouble, should not complain when they received more than they had wanted.
“Besides, Sam, there was a groom, too old to go to the wars but with twenty years in him still, and an indoor man. They got any sense, they’ll round up the working ‘osses first and take them back to those farms and move in there. Over the next few days they’ll pick up the swine and the fowl and put them into pens there. They got time just to use the workin’ osses to put a crop of oats into the ground and harvest before first frost. As long as they stay together, they can make a living this year, and do well next, for grabbing a few more acres and claiming them as theirs. Too many of the gentry dead for them to do much about the land for a year or two. Then, when the new blokes come to take over, they ain’t got no grounds to argue. The rent books are all inside and burned. They ordinary folks are like to end up owning their acres, and a good few more, if they got any know about ‘em.”
That seemed more encouraging – the ordinary people had been badly abused by their masters, Sam thought, but they might just survive.
Sam looked around at his section, suddenly noticed the better part of a dozen chickens with their necks wrung and hanging from saddles. They would eat well for the next couple of days.
“Keep an eye out on that Smithy, Sam.”
Sam had noticed nothing wrong.
“What’s the matter, Sergeant Wright?”
“I watched him with the maids at the house there. Handled one or two a bit familiar, so he did. Given a chance, he was about to pull one of them out of sight for a few minutes.”
“Don’t bloody well need that, Sergeant Wright! I might just get to tickle him up with the straight sword if I see ‘im getting’ up to that sort of trick.”
“It happens, Sam. And a lot more often than they talk about. Don’t like it meself. Won’t have it, if I see it.”
“Nor me. Do you reckon I should talk to ‘im, Sergeant Wright?”
“No – he’d just say he never did no such thing, nor ever would. Can’t put a man on a charge for what he might be thinking about.”
“I’ll ‘ave a talk with Simon. Get ‘im to ‘ave a word to some of the rest and let it sort of pass on down.”
Sergeant Wright was dubious – it might have the effect of putting ideas into their heads that were not originally there.
In the end they spoke to Captain Wakerley and agreed with him that the men would not be split up individually, out of sight and supervision.
Chapter Five
The Killing Man
“One thing, Sergeant.”
Sam had been riding silently for almost an hour, worrying over the morning’s events, making sense of things, slowly. Sergeant Wright had been waiting for him to speak, knew what he was to say.
“What, Sam?”
“Why me, Sergeant? Why did Captain Wakerley call me round rather than ‘ave ‘is own blokes do the job?”
“More nor one reason, Sam. First off, he trusts you. He knows that if he gives you a job, no matter just how dirty it is, you’ll do it. That’s the biggest reason – he knows you won’t be whinging and saying some bugger else should do it. Second, he thinks it won’t do you no harm. Some of the men, well, they’d almost go mad with worrying, not being able to get their heads round killing men like you can. You know, Sam, that if so be a man has chosen to be a traitor, well, that’s up to him – and he can take everything that comes with it, good or bad. Don’t make no difference if they takes him to Tyburn and cuts his head off all official, or if you walks him round the corner and puts a ball through his napper – it was his choice to go playing with treason. Third is that if I go down, you make sergeant in my place. You’re young, and the men might not like it, for ordinary sorts of blokes, but they ain’t going to argue with you. You tells them to move and they’re going to run, no questions asked.”
Sam listened and thought for a while.
“You’re saying that I don’t care about killin’ ain’t you, Sergeant.”
“You killed too many, too young, Sam. Time you’re soldiering, well, that makes you useful, Sam. A soldier’s job is to kill people, and not ask why. When you ain’t a soldier no more, it ain’t going to be half so easy, young Sam. You’ll still be in the way of killing those what need it, but they’ll be calling it ‘murder’ if you do. There’s men who are much better off for having a ball put through their heads, but it ain’t the way things are done in peacetime. Might be you’d be better off sticking to soldiering, Sam.”
“Only if there’s a war, Sergeant Wright. I seen them redcoats over winter, and it ain’t goin’ to do for me. Standing on parade, every button bright and shiny. Polishin’ and cleanin’ and worritin’ about bugger all, every day, and gettin’ the skin flogged off their backs for no reason at all. Not for me, Sergeant.”
Sergeant Wright made no response – he knew Sam to be right. Peacetime life in barracks was little short of Hell on Earth for private soldiers; he had survived it before he was promoted and, looking back, he could not see how.
“I reckons as ‘ow I shall stay in England, and not in the army, Sergeant Wright. If I got a few quid, not in Derbyshire, either. It ain’t that I don’t like the place, but there’s no point stayin’ where people know me face. Say I got fifty – that’s a lot of money, but it ain’t enough by a long way. If you and me put the cash together, like you said, then we can get into booze, and make a quick few ‘undred more. After that, we looks for what comes next.”
“Thinking big, Sam?”
“Why not? No point to being small, is there.”
The weather was not as bad as it might have been, so the locals said, for Scotland in spring. The rain was frequent and cold, and the ground was more mud than solid earth, but they were able to make at least a plodding walk every day and put the miles behind them. The crossing into England, up over the high hills again, was slow and unpleasant, but they put it behind them eventually and made their way into the north of Lancashire.
“Back in England, Sergeant Wright, well south of the border. Can forget about they bloody Jacobites now.”
“Not nohow, Sam. This part of the country was always a hotbed of Popery – the Old Religion, they called it. We needs keep an eye out sharp for traitors hereabouts. Captain will be talking to us, you can bet.”
They had relaxed in the counties immediately south of the border but were ordered to thoroughly check every village and estate for the miles down to Lancaster itself. They noticed immediately that there was a shortage of young men to be seen. Many had left and not returned, it seemed, and probably far more were hiding from the troops. They began again to dismount and rummage their way through cottages and barns, and to demand an accounting of all of the big houses.
Late of an afternoon in May, they came to a squire’s manor house close under the Pennines, sheltered from the bitter easterly winds by the hills
rising behind and with a view out over the flat lands and to the Irish Sea.
“Put up in a barn overnight, Sergeant Wright. We’ll look over the house first.”
Captain Wakerley led his section into the house, ordering the staff outside and demanding that the owners of the house identify themselves. Six maids and a single old manservant stood out in the back yard, together with one groom and a stable lad who was no more than a boy of sixteen or seventeen.
Sam thought it felt wrong.
“Ought to be a couple of younger men, Sergeant Wright. They got a dozen of ‘osses in the stables and cows and pigs in the stalls and sties. The womenfolk looks after the chicken and that, but they needs one more farm ‘and, if not two.”
There was no home farm, as such – the Squire himself farming those of his own acres which he did not rent out. The arable lands down to the east, the lower part of the estate, were open, not enclosed in fields. The land uphill was obviously mostly sheepwalk.
“They fields is held in champion, Sergeant Wright, in the old way. Ought to be a village full of people. Most of ‘em should be in sight, working they fields. They ain’t been ploughed as much as ‘ow they should ‘ave been, neither. Got to be bloody nigh ‘alf the land in fallow, when it ought to be one part in three.”
“Keep an eye out, Sam. Tell the lads to keep awake.”
Sam ordered Simon to hold the horses of the dismounted men, put four troopers to watch the yard and the barns, the others to remain mounted and ready.
There was an outburst of shouting inside the house, followed by screams from a woman. Sam saw Smithy nudging Henry, looking excited. Captain Wakerley and two of his men appeared, pushing three very young men in front of them. Their mother, probably, came behind them, still yelling and howling.
“Hold these three under arrest, Sergeant Wright. They may be rebels. The man of the house, the Squire, is missing, it seems. These are three of his sons, and they may be too young to have gone out to the wars with him. They can be taken into Lancaster and the authorities there can investigate them.”
The Killing Man Page 9