Race Before the Wind

Copyright © Jill Salkeld 1988

Part One: 1814-1815

The Poacher

Chapter One

In the room which his parents liked to call the parlour, Tom Elderfield stood tense and silent, listening to the shouts and catcalls that were closer with every flicker of the candle flame, every breath of icy wind under the door. The men must have left the alehouse much earlier than usual; it was not yet ten o’clock. Did that mean the ringleaders were now goading them to fresh purpose, fresh hatred?

Tightening his grip on the brass candlestick Tom moved to the window. The metal-rimmed soles of his boots clacked on the flagstones. He peered outside, leaning close to the panes to blot out his reflection. There was nothing to see, only the night with its dimly etched clouds and the creaking silhouettes of elms.

Tom realised he was shaking from more than the cold, and at once he despised his cowardice but, at fifteen years old, the responsibility for his mother’s safety as well as his own lay heavily on him. Damn it, why couldn’t his father have missed chapel for once? The Andover meeting house was three miles off – a long ride home to Hatchley village in the dark.

Being the blacksmith’s son set Tom apart in some ways – the craft was more lucrative than most, less dependent on each year’s harvest – but Hatchley was his home and he knew sits folk. The wars with France had brought high prices and low wages; men were restless and bitter, looking for scapegoats. True, they were more full of talk than action, but in the next parish a dissenting chapel-goer had been attacked and nearly killed. This was bad enough, but for a Dissenter like his father, who also had a French wife…. His mother’s voice from upstairs, weary and anxious, made him jump. “Tom, qu’est-ce que tu fais?” “Rien, maman, Je viens.”

The words of her native tongue came to him naturally, without thought. With her he spoke French; with his father, English. It was the way things had always been.

He checked that the doors at front and back were secured, left the candle at hand in case of emergency, and climbed the stairs two at a time. At the top he paused, took a deep breath, and entered his parents’ bedchamber.

“I was just locking up,” he said cheerfully in fluent French. “Are you all right? Warm enough?”

Marie Elderfield turned her head on the pillow and he saw how pale she was. The baby which had arrived two days ago was her third stillborn child. The midwife had told him, when questioned in private, that there would be no more children.

He sat on the bed and took her hand. His mother like to be told nothing and to believe that she had been told everything; a weakness which he humoured out of compassion and to avoid tearful scenes, and he did not know himself which motive was the stronger.

“The men are just letting off steam,” he said. “They won’t hurt us. At least….” He grinned. “They might black Pa’s eye for him, given half a chance.”

Marie Elderfield’s hand jerked, her fingers tightened around his with surprising strength. “I am not a child, Tom, to be shielded from the truth. Englishmen are very patriotic these days. They hate my French blood, and they choose to believe that a man who is not of the established Church is also a traitor, a supporter of Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“They must tell it to Boney, then. I don’t reckon he knows.”

“My dear, can you not be sensible?”

“Seriously, those men out there are my mates – well some of them. That’s why they haven’t turned nasty up to now.” He glanced wryly at the miniature of his father which stood on the dressing chest. “Not that Pa would believe it.”

“Is that why you drink with them, and ride foolish races with the Tandy brothers? To win them to our side?”

“No,” he laughed. “What am I, a saint? And the Tandys have been on our side all along. Listen to me, maman, you’ve lived in England twenty years or more – eleven of them here in Hatchley. And grand-pere was a royalist. If you hadn’t left France, the revolutionaries would have sent you all to the guillotine.”

“We know this, of course.” Marie Elderfield let go of his hand and patted it gently. “But here men are less well informed and this winter has been so hard; their families are hungry. What can we say to them? I am French.”

She was right and Tom knew it. The folk of an inland village would not remember how Marie’s father, along with many of his compatriots, had once been welcomed by the people of Lymington on Hampshire’s coast; or that he and hundreds of others had joined the doomed Quiberon expedition and died fighting the revolutionaries. Now, in the frostbound February of 1814, the men of Hatchley cared only that William Elderfield was a non- conformist who would not work on a Sunday, whatever his obligations, and that Elderfield’s wife sent and received letters in her own language. More than once Tom had noticed that when such a letter arrived from the Vaillants, their Lymington friends, the seal had been broken and badly repaired.

A wordless shout from outside, followed by angry laughter, made Tom glance involuntarily at the window. “Never mind them,” he said, “I’m with you, and the doors are bolted.”

He thought she was willing to be reassured, until her head turned restlessly and he saw the tears on her cheeks glisten in the candlelight. “People were different in Lymington,” she said. “Not bitter and full of hate. Oh my dear, we were such fools to leave.”

Tom thought otherwise. In Lymington William Elderfield had been out of work, with the press gangs growing more active after a brief lull in the war. When he heard that Hatchley needed a blacksmith, bringing his wife and four-year-old son to the village had been by far the most sensible course. Tom’s memories of Lymington were dim, and he had only a vague, yearning curiosity to smell the salt breeze and see tall ships again.

“Wouldn’t you like to go back?” he asked. “Stay with the Vaillants, just until things are quieter?”

“What about you – and your father?”

“0h….” He slanted her a rueful look. “I’d be here to keep Pa out of trouble.”

Marie Elderfield reached up to stroke her son’s tousled blond hair, and he sensed that she was seeing his father twenty years ago, before time and stern outlook had hardened William Elderfield’s brilliant blue eyes and streaked his hair with grey. “We stay or leave together,” she said, “The three of us –".

Her words were cut off by the crash of a breaking window downstairs, followed by a thud and the tinkle of falling glass. In the lane, cheers were mingled with hoarse obscenities. Marie Elderfield gasped, and Tom squeezed her hand before running for the stairs, muttering a very Anglo-Saxon oath.

It turned out to be the parlour window that was broken. A brick lay on the floor and must have been hurled with consider force; the window frame had cracked down one side.

“Where are you, then, madame? Let’s see your pretty French face.” Tom recognised the voice of Rob Hanson, the usual ringleader and a man whose company he rarely sought. “What news have you got for Boney this week? That we can’t buy bread to feed our children? That your man is out praying we soon starve?”

Tom was too angry to be afraid. Flicking back the bolts he opened the door wide and stood facing a score of Hatchley labourers.

You’re a bloody liar, Rob Hanson, and you’ll let my mother alone!”

Astonishment caused a momentary hush among the men. Then someone said, “Oh aye? Thrash us one at a time, will you?” And there were jeers of contempt and sour humour.

Tom stood his ground. “Drink has addled your brains, the lot of you. I don’t see eye to eye with Pa over some things, but I know for bloody sure he’s a loyal Englishman, and so should you, and I’ll fight any bastard who says different.”

“Your fight’s with me then.”

Rob Hanson moved forward, a powerfully built man whose loose-fitting smock emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. As self-appointed spokesman he had talked of ‘our children’, but in fact he was not yet married and therefore suffered less hardship than most from the pitiful wage rates. A couple of paces from the cottage doorway he stopped.

“Come on out, Elderfield, and shut the door behind you. I wouldn’t want your poor mother to see this.”

Tom stepped into the lane and began warily circling his opponent, fists raised in the manner of a prize-fighter. The crowd was growing uneasy. From the back a man shouted, “Why not call it a day, Rob? The constable ain’t abed yet, and there’s no sense in killing the lad.”

There were several murmurs of agreement. Tom called back, “Isn’t this what you came to see, Dan? Or do you only like chucking bricks and threatening women?” And Hanson growled over his shoulder, “I’m for killing no one, but he needs a lesson in-“

The much-needed lesson was to remain undefined, for as Hanson’s eyes left his opponent, Tom bounded forward and punched him on the jaw.

The blow was a hard one. Two years working alongside his father at the smithy, wielding a nine pound sledge-hammer as often as not, had given Tom an efficient set of muscles. Rob Hanson was taken completely off guard and would have fallen if his companions had not steadied him in time.

Now the murmurs were those of nervous laughter. Rob Hanson rubbed his jaw and looked at Tom, who had backed off and resumed his former stance. The expression in Hanson’s eyes twisted Tom’s stomach with dread; the man stood a head taller than him and the discrepancy in weight must make any contest a one-sided affair. Well, wasn’t his Pa forever saying he had the luck of the devil? He was going to need it.

Even as he finished the thought Hanson came at him with a roar. Tom saw the heavy fist swing and he ducked fast beneath it, getting in a short left jab to Hanson’s back before the labourer’s second punch caught him a glancing blow on the temple.

He fell across the doorstep, the night around him bright with coloured sparks. A booted foot drove into his side and he curled up defensively. So much for fighting fair – but two could play the game! The next time Hanson lashed out Tom grabbed his ankle and tried to tug him off balance – with the result that the man kicked out savagely and slammed Tom’s fingers against the edge of the doorpost.

With a cry of pain the boy rolled to avoid another kick, starting to clamber to his feet. Hanson almost nonchalantly drove a fist into his stomach.

Tom doubled over and sank to his knees, gasping for air. He heard voices raised in protest. There was a burst of shouting and, looking up, he saw Rob Hanson dragged back.

It’s not the boy that’s at fault –“

“Let him alone, Rob –“

Through the general din came Hanson’s loud oaths, gradually subsiding as the men’s words penetrated. Rob Hanson knew his mates were a set of boot-licking disciples and nervous hangers-on, but many of them liked the Elderfield brat, in spite of him being half Frog and the son of a joyless Bible-preaching traitor, and bloody arrogant besides. Giving him the beating he deserved would cause Hanson to lose face. Shrugging off the restraining arms he stood quite still, regarding Tom.

“What’s the matter, boy? Had enough already, have you?”

Tom would have yelled defiance, if only he could have found the breath. After a moment the labourer spat directly into his face and turned away, giving the man nearest to him a clap on the back.

“Cringing cowards,” he said gruffly. “Like father, like son.”

When they had gone, Tom sat down and wiped away the spittle. His right hand throbbed unmercifully, swamping all the other aches. He bit back a groan as he tried to straighten his fingers. At least they were not broken. There was no excuse for sitting in the lane feeling sorry for himself.

He went upstairs slowly, nursing his swollen, bleeding fingers, uttering a stream of obscenities in a breathless undertone. He slid the hand gingerly into his breeches pocket before going into the bedroom. His mother was sitting up, the covers thrown aside as if she would have rescued him herself.

“Tom – oh my darling, I was so afraid. I heard them shouting. I thought –“

“That I couldn’t take care of myself? Maman, you know better than that. Don’t cry, it’s all over, they’ve gone away.”

He rearranged her pillows and made her lie down, drawing the blankets up to cover her thin shoulders. When he bent to kiss her she stopped him; her hand trembled as she smoothed the hair back from his temple.

“Your head…. Tom, you’re bleeding.”

“Only a graze. It doesn’t hurt now.” He would have to clean up before his father came home. Time enough in the morning to confess to brawling on the doorstep and to endure contempt for his inept handling of the situation. “Hush now,” he said, “You mustn’t think about it any more.”

“Stay here, Tom. Sit with me. Just for a while.”

When she slept at last, he went down to tidy the debris of battle from the parlour floor. Afterwards he took the candle through to the kitchen; the stone sink contained water drawn from the well that afternoon, and he bathed his hand and washed the blood out of his hair and furtively relieved himself outside the back door. A walk to the privy beyond the vegetable patch would have required too much energy.

It was after eleven when he settled himself in the hard armchair beside the kitchen hearth and turnspit, to wait for his father. The ticking of the clock was sombre, monotonous, out of time with the beat of pain through his swollen fingers. His breath turned to mist on the air, and he made the effort to build a fire before the candle burned low and died.

William Elderfield did not come home.

At first Tom thought he might have stayed with acquaintances in Andover for, after all, wouldn’t the mare have trotted back to her own stable if there had been trouble on the road? It took a lot to keep old Belladonna from her feed. But Tom decided to wait a while longer, just in case. He curled up on the hard chair and dozed through the night.

By dawn he had acknowledged that his father would not have stayed away from home deliberately, the times being what they were. Straightening his cramped limbs he rose stiffly and went to the writing table in the parlour – a proud purchase years ago, when business had been brisk in spite of the war. He penned a note of explanation for his mother, the need to write left-handed making the message brief and nearly illegible, then crept up to her room and proper the slip of paper against the rosewood dressing box which had belonged to his wealthy French grandmother.

Then he left himself silently out of the cottage, and sprinted along the lane that would take him through Hatchley and on to the Andover road.

Chapter Two

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