He visited the premises of Johnny Higby, the smith, who had a growing foundry and did a lot of work for the new pottery kilns and ovens and contracted for a cast iron gutter – far easier and cheaper to make than a closed pipe – to bring the water to the still and the cooling pot.
His last, and nearly the most expensive, purchase was of two hundred of earthenware half-gallon jugs, each with a cork stopper. He would take them full to his customers one week, bring the empties back the next, charging them heavily for breakages.
Then it was back to the pit, digging his coals and loading the cart himself, bringing them down to a shed roughly bodged at the back of the barn.
Abe had sent a carpenter and a mason up for a few days and they were building the bothy into a tiny cottage, just about fit for a man and his wife to live through the winter weather. If the coal miner had anything about him, then he would clear a patch of ground for a little kitchen garden, perhaps add a lean-to for cooking in. It would not be too hard to find little patches of topsoil and carry them up to make a bed for vegetables, and then throw a bit of peat in as well and possibly end up with a potato patch. A man willing to work a ten or twelve hour shift in the pit and then put in two or three hours more on the garden could make a comfortable living within two or three years. If his woman did not fall pregnant too early, she could work the garden as well, and go out for damsons and sloes and blackberries and little wild strawberries when the season was right. Sam thought that a willing hand could do very well for himself at the pit, might even be able to save a few pennies and eventually take up his own little bit of land; it was an opportunity, provided he was not a drinker.
Fortunately for Sam’s future, the great bulk of men were drinkers, habitually spending more money than they could afford on the booze that offered a relief from the misery of their lives.
‘Weaklings – not my worry if they choose to piss their wages up against the wall.’
He readied everything for his run. He had decided to start with a potato mash first, simply because the spuds were available in the months before the grain harvest came in. The principle was the same – ferment the base and then boil off the alcohol, producing a simple gin, nothing special at first.
Mick would only pay him nineteen pence for the potato base gin, saying it was harsher than the average drinker really liked; he took it though, because spirits were in short supply, particularly in the months leading up to harvest.
Sam distilled a mash a day for a month, and then looked at the cash in hand and the profitability of the business. He had pocketed seven pounds and eight shillings, one shilling more than seven guineas. It was a start. He visited Johnny Higby and put the cash down for another still before talking with his uncle.
“How do I go about hiring on a young man, Uncle Abe? I have ordered a second still made and that means I must have a man watching the run while I drive into Stoke. I shall need to find another buyer as well, for Mick not being able to take everything I will be making.”
“Two shillings a day, six days a week, will have bright young fellows queuing up for the chance, Sam. Living at home and walking in every morning – no difficulties with that, there’s a dozen of boys living inside two miles from here who can’t find work except at harvest-tide and spring ploughing and who would sell their souls for a permanent job of work close to home. Many of them are so desperate as to be thinking of joining up, going into the army, and that tells you how bad things are for them. Two or three of my regulars have sons begging for work. I shall put out the word and they will be knocking on the door by this time tomorrow.”
Times were hard, Sam knew – he wondered why it should be, but Abe had no answer for that.
“As for a buyer, Sam – do you just drop in to see Rufus. He knows everybody and will put the word round for thee.”
“What do I pay him, Uncle Abe?”
“You don’t. Be rude to offer him money for doing a favour. One day, he will ask thee quiet like to do him a good turn of some sort, and you will do it, same day, nothing said. Might be big, might be small. Could be to speak to a man who owes him money and sort of hint that if he wants to keep both legs, and walk on them, then he might think of paying up. Might be to take a little box of something in the trap and give it to me to stick behind the bar until a gentleman comes by and asks for it. He knows everybody and everything, does Rufus. Makes a good friend.”
That meant he would be a bad enemy, Sam knew. The trouble was that the gin trade was not wholly respectable, for Sam being unwilling to pay his taxes to the Revenue Men; as a result, he was on the edge of the criminal fraternity and he had to keep to their rules. If he spoke to Rufus, which he could hardly avoid, then he would be committing himself and would be obliged to him, as he suspected Uncle Abe was.
“Any friend of yours will do for me, Uncle Abe. I shall go into town this very afternoon.”
Abe let Sam go on his own – he was a grown man now, did not need his uncle to hold his hand.
“Mr Rufus? Sam Heythorne, Mr Makepeace’s sister’s son. You sold me a useful blade and gun not so long back, sir. I wonder now if you might be able to offer me a little assistance. I am distilling gin, have had a successful first month and wish to increase my output, and that means I must find more purchasers, sir. My uncle suggested you might be able to point me in the right direction.”
“I could, Mr Heythorne. You are selling to Mick, are you not?”
“I am, sir. At this time of year a potato mash, and rather harsh on the throat. After harvest I intend to use cracked barley for my mash, which will be a softer spirit. I have been told that one can run potato gin through charcoal to remove some of its impurities – I may look at that possibility over the coming year.”
“There are many ways of improving a bottle, Mr Heythorne. There are those who hold with adding liquorice to the bottle for a few days; others, expensively, will drop in the peel of a lemon. My advice, for all that it is worth, is simply to make a clean bottle and sell as it is – the drinkers of gin need drunkenness and anything more is an unnecessary luxury. What does Mick pay you?”
“Nineteen pennies for a gallon, sir.”
“I can help you at that price, Mr Heythorne. See me when you make your delivery to Mick and I will send you elsewhere to move the remainder of your product. No fee, of course – between friends, as with your uncle.”
“You are generous, Mr Rufus. I much appreciate your friendship, sir.”
There was no need to say more.
The demand for cheap spirits was high and Sam could sell every pint he distilled. Harvest came and he bought tons of barley and hired a barn to store it, which was a nuisance for transporting the grain, but not too expensive. His labourer, Timothy, a young and unmarried man, proved reliable and willing to learn, so much so that Sam began to consider setting up in an additional premises to be run by Timothy, who would get a suitable increase in his wage, while he took on another two boys to train up. He talked to Abe about the possibility.
“Where, Sam? Will you remain in this area?”
“Probably, Uncle Abe. I am known here. There are potteries opening every month and more men coming in as workers with money to spend. I have not been tapped for protection yet, Uncle Abe. Is that Rufus’ doing?”
“Must be, Sam. A good argument for remaining hereabouts. The whole area is becoming busier – I am seeing that in the White Horse, businessmen on the road and stopping for a drink and a bite to eat. I have bought in coffee and a mill to grind it, Sam!”
Coffee was a rare luxury outside of the biggest towns; Sam had never so much as smelled it.
The expanded enterprise made a profit almost immediately and Sam found himself placing as much as twenty pounds into his banker’s hands every month. He worked every hour of daylight, and often found himself needing more, but he was making his fortune.
Rufus spoke to him one morning when he came with a delivery.
“Mr Heythorne! I hoped to see you this morning. Would it be possib
le for you to come back here when you have dropped off this consignment?”
It was of course, eminently possible, there was nothing Sam would enjoy more.
He returned knowing that it was time to repay Rufus for his favours.
“Mr Heythorne, I am told that you were one of Captain Wakerley’s Troop of Yeomanry – a small band who nonetheless distinguished themselves during the Rebellion.”
“I was fortunate to serve under the Captain, Mr Rufus. A fine soldier, and a good officer to his men.”
“I have been told that by others, Mr Heythorne. He was awarded an estate lost by a traitor in Lancashire, well deserved – but he is now being threatened by a son of the executed rebel. The young man has kept himself quiet and probably could not be convicted in a court of law, but he has certainly made the promise to kill Captain Wakerley if he does not renounce the estate. He has said he will end the life of the Captain’s newly taken bride, and of any children they produce, as well.”
“Has he now, Mr Rufus? I do not believe I approve of such doings, sir. Do we know a name and location for this gentleman? I might well be inclined to look him up and remonstrate with him.”
“An excellent idea Mr Heythorne. The man is called Fanshawe and tends to shift around the countryside, having lost his family house, of course. It is thought that he may even make his daily bread on the highway!”
“That is an accusation frequently made of those who were rebels, Mr Rufus. There do seem to be a few more highwaymen on the roads of late, but in my opinion, they are as likely to be discharged soldiers as Jacobites.”
Mr Rufus laughed – a rare event – said that he knew of an absolute certainty that that was so. “This Fanshawe fellow is more into stealing from wagons parked up of a night outside of town. No Gentleman of the Road, that one!”
“He might be difficult to find, sir.”
“That can be dealt with, Mr Heythorne. If you was to make your way to Preston, to the Rose Inn on the outskirts of the town to the north, then a friend of mine would be able to lead you to a proper place to find him. He would point him out for you as well. I understand that dealing with him will be no great difficulty to you, Mr Heythorne?”
“I can do what is needed, Mr Rufus.”
No more was said, Rufus making no attempt to explain how he had heard of Captain Wakerley’s difficulties and Sam certainly not about to ask.
Sam told Timothy to mind the stills for a few days – he must be away on business for Mr Rufus.
He needed say no more. Timothy pledged himself to be good – the name of Rufus was more than sufficient to keep him honest.
“What’s the best way of travelling to Preston, Uncle Abe?”
“Horseback, Sam. There are stagecoaches, but people look up when the stage goes by – passengers may be noticed. You would stop at Stafford and every other town on the way north, and the ostlers and innkeepers would see your face. Walking your own horse, you avoid most of the towns, where there are lanes to follow, and choose where you wish to put up of a night. At this time of year, you could even camp out overnight, though that might seem a little singular, you might be suspect for so doing. The livery in Stoke will supply you with a nag, Sam, being a known local man of affairs.”
“I shall be off in the morning, Uncle Abe. Timothy knows of my absence and will look after the barn.”
“I shall just wander across and see that all is well, Sam.”
“I hoped you might, Uncle. I have it in mind now to make Timothy master here while I work in the new place I am thinking of. You might just mention that, and ask if he has brothers, or cousins perhaps, who might like to work for me.”
Abe nodded; he was well known and was not a man to cross; Timothy would plan no misdeeds, and not fob an idler off on Sam.
The road north was as muddy and slow as ever, but there were gangs of workers in places, slowly laying road-metal and bringing the carriageway into all-weather use. Sam stopped overnight in a small inn on the outskirts of Warrington and asked the landlord how it came about that the highway was being mended, and who was paying.
“The King, sir, in London town, has found the money. By the time all is done there will be a road north, sir, all the way to Glasgow, that can be marched by a regiment of soldiers even in dead winter. They say that there are more roads being built in Scotland, for the soldiers to make speed on. Should there be another wicked rebellion, sir, then the army will soon be on their tails.”
“Sensible, sir. I carried a musket for some part of the Jacobite Rising, and spent as much time struggling through mud as I did walking a dry track. Military roads will keep the villains quiet, I much hope.”
“So do we all, sir. We need no more of such adventures killing off our young men and stealing our purses. I know nowt of kings, sir, and I much suspect they have never heard of me. None of my business, and I trust it will stay that way for the rest of my existence!”
“So say I, landlord. Right, wrong or indifferent, we have seen enough of civil wars in our land.”
There were others sat over meals, travellers in both directions, who agreed with that sentiment – fighting was for fools, they said.
Three days of walking the horse, carefully not seeming to be in a hurry, brought Sam to the Rose Inn. He asked for a room and stabling for his horse, paying silver down on the counter, then casually mentioned he had been recommended to the Rose by his friend Mr Rufus of Stoke.
“Ah! A fine gentleman with his flourishing head of red hair.”
“I might not have thought his hair to be flourishing, sir, though indeed it must have been bright red in his youth.”
The landlord was satisfied that Sam had met Rufus.
“So it was. You might wish to be informed of the location of a Mr Fanshawe, young man?”
“I was asked to look him up, relating to a certain business enterprise. I believe him to have made a mistake in taking up the affair and will seek to discourage him from any further error.”
The landlord looked him up and down, disparagingly.
“Aye. You look the sort to do just that. You will not wish to sleep the night here, sir.” He picked up the shillings from the counter. “Your money back, sir. Go to the stables, sir. The ostler will put you up on another nag – you have worked yours enough for the while, he will benefit from a few hours in a stall, and a feed, and he will be groomed for you. There will be no charge. The second lad will lead you to the place you wish to be and point out the man you need to see. He will bring you back again to pick up your own beast. There will be a meal waiting for you, sir, all for free, and you will be able to make some miles south before dark.”
Sam obeyed, a little nettled at such disdain, was given a riding horse far better than he had hired from the livery. The lad, well grown and with a knowing, smirking air, said they had five miles to go.
“Gentleman Johnny Fanshawe do spend ‘is days over at the hedge pub up at the top, sir. Sleeps of a morning, so they say, and has a drink of an afternoon, sometimes on his own, more often with men of his that go out with him, one or two is all, sir.”
“Wait a minute before we set out.”
Sam took the long bag he had carried at the saddle, pulled out his pistols and the heavy cut-down shotgun and checked they were primed. He strapped the pistols to his belt and put the gun-bucket to the saddle of the new horse and then took out the sword Rufus had sold him, tucked that into the bucket next to the long gun.
“Ready now.”
The watching stable lad had lost his superior smirk; he nodded silently and led the way.
There was a lane leading off the highway, narrow and shadowed by trees and thick bushes, winding up the hillsides, fording two small rivers and leading through one small hamlet and past two farms. There were people in all three places; they looked once at the riders, then turned their backs and disappeared inside cottage or barn, anywhere not to see or be seen.
Sam grinned – these people knew there were villains about and wanted no part in them
or their doings. They would say nothing.
“Crossroads up ahead, sir. Pub there. Furlong or so, round the bend.”
Sam readied himself, nudged the horse slowly forward.
The hedge pub was typical of the sort, little more than a cottage with an outhouse where the keeper brewed his beer. The barroom would be the old kitchen, a single table and benches, a bar rough-made in the corner. There should be a back door leading to the brewing shed where the barrels were racked and a front entrance directly onto the lane; most would have no more than a single window. It would be small and barely paying for itself, probably just keeping the owner in the beer he drank. Back-country pubs were always poor, for lack of customers, serving only a small village, and were favourites of the footpads and occasional highwaymen needing a hideaway.
“Fanshawe keeps is ‘oss in the shed beside the brewers, sir. Can see it from the road, if ‘e’s there.”
They turned towards the pub, saw a shed with a pair of horses.
“Got one of ‘is blokes with ‘im, sir. Might be going out tonight.”
Sam got down, passed his reins to the boy and took out the long gun and put the sword to his waist.
“Over that side of the door, sir. Where the window is.”
The pub’s bar was low-ceilinged and the window was open in the late autumn warmth. Sam strolled across the lane, glanced inside. There were two men at a table, one on either side, just coming alert to the presence of a stranger.
“The one with the neck tie, sir. That’s Fanshawe.”
Sam levelled the long gun, waist high, rested it on the window sill and pulled one trigger, then the other to make sure. He let the gun slide to the ground and drew a pistol, shooting the second man at range of less than a yard. He pointed the second pistol at a scrawny little fellow stood by the bar, frozen in place.
“Are you the landlord?”
“Aye.”
“Get rid of them and you own two horses.”
“What?”
The Killing Man Page 17