Race Before the Wind

Copyright © Jill Salkeld 1988

Part One: 1814-1815

The Poacher

Chapter Four

Persuading Amos was easy. Working for Jonah Wooldridge made a man unpopular if he carried out his duties too zealously, and it was a short step from this laxity to giving active assistance to a friend.

Obadiah proved less amenable. He picked a fight the next time Tom entered the farmhouse, and a violent free-for-all developed to include Amos, with Jessica struggling to part the three boys and Mace dodging in and out of the fray and throwing punches at random.

Into this scene came Sacheverell Tandy, sour and irritable after a row with the parson over bringing up his children outside the guidance of the Church. Having separated the main antagonists, and ordered the furniture set to rights, he occupied his favourite chair and mutely held out his hand for a brandy, which Jessica quietly supplied.

"Now," he said ominously, "I'm waiting."

Explanations took some time, and more than once Mr Tandy hook his head in apparent despair. But instead of condemning Tom's actions he said briskly, "You must take your chances, then, the pair of you, just as usual. I'm in no position to lecture on morality. Don't you ever wonder how we live like this, or how I made my fortune?"

Only Obadiah looked as if he knew what to expect, and he was still glaring from Tom to his father and back again, obviously incensed by Sacheverell Tandy's mild reaction.

The farmer continued, "I lived in Mudeford, west of Lymington. I became a lander, a beachmaster. You know what that is? I organised the landing of cargoes, and the distribution of goods inland, sometimes as far away as London Town."

Tom whistled through his teeth, enormously impressed. "You really were a smuggler?"

"Just like the gossips say."

It was Jessica who asked, wide-eyed, "What cargoes, Pa? French brandy?"

"And a lot of tea, in those days. The list of commodities in demand is endless. You would be yawning before I reached the end of it. Although I might be prevailed upon, after supper…"

This was all the encouragement Tom needed to stay well into the evening. He was less concerned, nowadays, about leaving his mother alone after dark; folk were more tolerant, with Napoleon's once formidable army demoralised and disintegrating. He listened entranced to stories of sea and land smugglers; of fast purpose-built ships which the Revenue Service could not catch; of fierce battles, and women whose charms had distracted the attention of the Customs men at appropriate moments. It was a glimpse of another world. He understood now why men on the coast were neither poor nor embittered. Sacheverell Tandy stressed that promotion often took years, but Tom made no secret of the fact that the business attracted him.

Much later, when he set out for home, the ex-smuggler hurried after him. "Wait, lad - wait a minute."

Tom allowed Sacheverell Tandy to fall into step beside him; but the man gripped his arm and forced him to a halt.

"You haven't understood yet, have you?" his voice a hiss, his expression unreadable in the dark. "You've no idea why I chose tonight to tell you those yarns. Why do you think I left the Free Trade, eh?"

"Because of the risks?"

"Risks! By God….I left while I still could. My wife was carrying Obadiah, I had a family to think of. The gang was taking all my loyalty. If I told you the things that were done to informers - the things I've done, on suspicion alone, and sold what was left of their corpses to the Resurrection Men, just to be rid of the evidence..."

"No!" The denial was wrenched from Tom; he respected and loved this man more than he had his own father. "No, sir, I won't believe it."

"I was the beachmaster. It goes with the job. The men under my command were too scared to give up the Trade, in case I got to thinking they might turn informer. I made enemies. And I was sick of it all, of seeing hate and terror in men's eyes. So I came inland with the money I'd made, and I've never regretted it. The parson complains that I don't give my children proper moral instruction, but I've no right, Tom. No right. You hope to make your fortune and then set up a legitimate business in Lymington. Don't do it, lad. They'd find a use for you, sure enough, but believe me, it's not worth the cost."

"What about Jess?" Tom's voice shook; he felt betrayed, somehow a victim of deception, and the knowledge that this was both childish and unreasonable made him angry. "If you tell Jess any of this, sir, I'll fight you over it, and I won't care who knows the reason."

"My God, Tom, if I thought for one moment that Jessica would ever find out, or the boys either..."

"Goodnight, then, Mr. Tandy."

Tom walked quickly away, and this time he was not followed. He kept his eyes fixed on the dark road, his mood as black as the moonless night. There was no one left to admire, or tune to for advice. Amos was a good mate, but his habitual loud exuberance was offset by deep insecurity and a tendency to pessimism, which in Tom's opinion made his judgement as unreliable as his temper. Even Jess' ……Jess was marvellous, a girl in a million, but she was only fourteen.

Well, he thought, trying desperately to laugh at his tears, wasn't this what he had always wanted? Total independence, sole responsibility for his actions and his fate? Maybe he was wrong to put Amos at risk, and maybe he would never be able to thrash Rob Hanson at singlestick or anything else. Maybe he would move to Lymington and regret it for the rest of his life. Too bloody bad. He was not about to change his plans on the recommendation of a murderer. He did not need Sacheverell Tandy's advice.

But he felt he had lost a father twice over. Nothing else which had happened that evening seemed important by comparison; not even the fact that he had made an enemy of Obadiah.

During the following week Tom passed several evenings at The King's Head. It was well known that Colbourne sold to agents who came and went furtively, the so-called 'higglers', members of a city-spawned underworld, who arranged for the secret transport of game to London from all the counties within easy travelling distance. Tales of the hagglers were numerous and often chilling, but Tom was resolved to deal with them direct, relying on local grapevines to spread the word that a new operator was looking for outlets.

His fellow poachers were against the project, mainly from a conviction that no good could come of meddling with 'foreigners'. Tom remained politely aloof; these men, the Farminers included, had been with Hanson the night his father died. He care no more for their opinion than for Mr. Tandy's.

Then came news which diverted nearly everyone's attention for a week or two. Jogging home at dawn from a successful foray into the heart of Sir Charles's estate, Tom vaulted over the last gate to find the lane through Hatchley crowded and children dancing in circles on the green. He left a brace of partridges out of sight, and concealed the net, wire and cudgel in the deep pockets of his poachers' smock before running to question the nearest child.

"Have we won a battle, then, Hannah? Or is Boney dead?"

"It's peace! Peace! The allies are in Paris! Boney is defeated."

It had to be impossible. Buonaparte was the arch enemy, the ogre of his childhood. Tom had never known a time when Britain was not fighting the Empe4or, life without the background of war could scarcely be imagined. And yet the news was true.

After twenty years of war, the fall of Paris was incredible to old and young alike. In church on Easter Sunday men jostled for standing room in the aisles, and the parson, beaming with delight, had to delay his sermon of thanksgiving until the clatter of hob-nailed boots had subsided.

Even before Easter came, the distant boom of a triumphant salute, fired from Winchester, was barely heard through the pealing of bells from every church for miles around. Harry Colbourne at The King's Head enjoyed record profits, while outside the young folk danced to Ned Farminer's fiddle as darkness fell and the stars went reeling.

In honour of the occasion, Sir Charles organised a single-stick tournament on the green. The result in the men's category was as forecast; Hanson beat four tough opponents and ended the day two guineas richer. The youths were more evenly matched. Each was armed with the standard weapon, a cudgel three feet long and an inch and a half thick, and inevitably the boys wielded these with less punishing force than their elders. There were only three cases of concussion. Tom beat Amos in six rounds, lost his chance of the ten shilling purse to the wheelwright's son, and retired from the ring dizzy but undismayed; but the thought that in a year's time he would be eligible to face Rob Hanson was a sobering one.

In the afternoon there was a feast, Sir Charles presenting the singlestick prizes while his wife actually waited upon the villagers, with plenty of roast beef and plum pudding to go around, and ale for everyone old enough to lift a mug.

Jessica nudged Tom in the ribs, whispering, "The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts, and gave them to all the grateful little poachers. What price your revolution now, Frenchie?"

Tom made a face, gazing at Lady Gullifer's extravagantly feathered hat. "The one that got away." He said gravely. "Didn't you bring the partridge net?" And Jessica had to smother her laughter against his shirt.

When the day's celebrations were over, and folk had sung 'Gold Save the King' to the accompaniment of the church bells which would ring all night, the villagers took their benches and tables home, with full bellies and a sense of euphoria induced by victory and alcohol. But the excitement had wearied Marie Elderfield to a degree which worried Tom. She had been stronger last spring. He helped her upstairs and made sure she was asleep before he slipped out into the night.

There were some stragglers still lurching home, singing 'God Save Great Wellington' to the tune of the national anthem. From the King's Head came cheers and raucous yelling, muffled by the thickness of the tavern walls. Harry Colbourne was holding a cockfight there.

Tom sauntered along the lane, kicking at stones, and sat down on the low churchyard wall. He would not be poaching tonight. He had drunk less than most, staying fairly sober for the singlestick matches, but all the same he felt light-headed and his reactions would be slower than usual.

From here he could see the Tandys' farmhouse on the hill, black against the twilight. A lamp burned in Jessica's window. Maybe she would like awake thinking of him, wishing she could have stayed all night at the smithy cottage.

Tom moved restlessly, and pulled a tuft of moss from between the stones of the wall. He wanted Jess so much; God, how he wanted her! But if they were lovers there would be a child, most likely, and a wedding, and years of struggle and hardship. Jess deserved better than that. He would take her as well as his mother to Lymington, make a home for them all….

His thoughts were cut off abruptly by the consciousness of being watched. There was no one else in the lane now; no one but himself, and the figure which stood in the shadow of the churchyard yew, cloaked by darkness and the loud pealing of bells.

Tom stood up, saying loudly, "If it's you, Hanson, come out and show yourself."

The figure laughed; a low giggle which jarred with the sound of bells and lifted the hairs at Tom's nape. Emphatically this was not Rob Hanson.

Before he could act on the thought, the apparition darted forward with a speed and suddenness that caught him unawares. Tom swore and lashed out, an instinctive impulse, and the man dodged sideways out of reach.

"No call to get personal, Mr. Elderfield," he purred.

Seen more clearly, the man was shorter and not much older than Tom, with a mouth that in the dark seemed grotesquely widened by the sores at either side. A leap of intuition told Tom what this encounter must be about.

"Are you Colbourne's higgler?"

The young man giggled again, and Tom decided this was a nervous affliction, having little to do with mirth. "A higgler I am, Mr. Elderfield, and Higgler you'll call me. I don't use no other name hereabouts. To business, then. I'll pay a shilling for a hare, two for a plump pheasant, ninepence for a brace of partridges. Guaranteed."

Tom regarded Higgler steadily, then turned his back and strolled homeward along the deserted lane, whistling softly.

Footsteps hurried after him. Imagining a slit throat or a knife in the back, Tom gritted his teeth and waited until the last possible moment before swinging round to face the other man.

Higgler squeaked in surprise and retreated a few paces. "I ain't meaning no 'arm, Mr. Elderfield. We should talk. Friendly, like.

"You must think me very green, Mr. Higgler." Tom fervently hoped that the bells' melodious din hid the tremor in his voice. He had not expected to make contact like this; to have to bargain in the dark with this sly, greedy, malevolent creature. "I'll have the same rates as Colbourne. No more, no less. I wouldn't like you to be paying me one amount and telling your boss another, and pocketing the difference. Six months of that, and you'd be setting up as another Harry Colbourne yourself. Not very fair on me, Mr. Higgler."

The effect of this speech was dramatic. For the second time the speed of the little man took Tom by surprise. Higgler snatched an unsheathed knife from his breeches pocket and thrust it close to Tom's face. Tom backed hastily and Higgler laughed, fingering the naked blade.

"Green as the sweet Hampshire grass, ain't you, Mr. Elderfield? I could've had you then, and both of us the loser. We'd best reach an agreement. You want a guaranteed market and I want my chance of a decent living."

"If you need charity, try the workhouse. My hares are two shillings, pheasants three-and-sixpence, partridges half a crown a brace."

Higgler's eyes narrowed; he emitted his low, nervous giggle. "Now, Mr. Elderfield..."

"Take it or leave it."

Higgler sucked his teeth; the knife gleamed as he took an uncertain step forward.

"The point is," said Tom evenly, "wounded men don't set snares, and dead men are no use to anybody." He paused to let the words register, then added, "Which days could you pick up the goods?"

Higgler blinked. After an interval he said grudgingly, my cart behind the alehouse." The knife flashed. "And don't you go setting no keepers on me. I dare say you're fond of that clever tongue of yours, and men in our business don't peach on their mates. Understand me, Mr. Elderfield?"

"Well enough, Mr. Higgler."

This time Tom did not care to turn his back until the man was out of sight. Then he walked slowly home, and by the time he reached the cottage he was shaking uncontrollably with reaction. Latching the door quietly, not to wake his mother, he leaned against it and shut his eyes. He was still alive, he had dealt with the higgler on his own terms - and he was working for the same percentage as Harry Colbourne.

Tom opened his eyes and grinned, triumphant, the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach forgotten as the significance of the victory came home to him. This was the first step towards buying the home that he and Jessica would share.

He had become a professional poacher.

Chapter Five

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