Race Before the Wind

Copyright © Jill Salkeld 1988

Part Three: 1826-1831

The Men of Enterprise

Chapter Seven

"Most impressive," said Gaspard Vaillant, adjusting his monocle for a closer look at the drawings scattered across the dining-room table. "Do you have a half-model yet?"

Mace was surprised by his interest. The Vaillants were paying a social call, which meant staying two or three days at Crosstrees, and he had assumed that courtesy alone had prompted the Frenchman to study the new drawings.

"Better than that," he said. "A scale model. Want to see her?"

"My dear fellow, I should be honoured."

The four Vaillant boys were as entranced as their father by the minutely crafted model yacht and, left to themselves, would cheerfully have dismantled it from sheet curiosity. Luke, who knew the time and loving skill that his uncle had put into its construction, challenged Raoul Vaillant to a fight, and all five boys were ejected from the room.

Gaspard spent another minute or two examining the yacht, turning it between his hands, holding it up to the light, stroking the lines of the hull. He glanced up to find himself the focus of every eye in the room - including those of twelve-month-old Annis. The blonde, inquisitive child stood swaying on the hearthrug, steadied by the hands of her elder sister.

"What scale is this?" the Frenchman asked Mace.

"One in thirty. Full size, she'd be around sixty feet overall. And less than a hundred and forty tons burthen."

"She has a very shallow draught. Will one be able to stand upright below decks?"

Mace grinned. "I won't. Tom will, just."

"The keel is abnormally long."

"Cuts down leeway in heavy weather."

"She is extremely.....innovative."

Tom interrupted, pretending outrage. "Of course she is. You are looking at the Tandy flyer. A racer for the new decade. The ultimate product of my partner's genius."

Mace vigorously shook his head. "Perfection is only for dreams. Pursuing it is the best one can hope for. But....." he laughed. "Maybe this little lady comes close."

Gaspard arched his brows. "An utterly biased and unreliable judgement."

"Utterly," said Mace.

"You may build her for me."

Sophie Vaillant, whose attention had reverted to baby Annis, lifted her head in shocked incredulity. The assembled Elderfields and Tandys were staring at Gaspard as though he had materialised that instant out of the air.

Then Mace and Jessica simultaneously let out a whoop of joy. Jess hugged Tom first and Gaspard afterwards, while Mace waltzed a protesting Vinnie around the room and Honor tossed Annis above her head so that the baby squealed and gurgled with delight.

"Mad," Gaspard observed to his wife. "Quite mad, the lot of them."

Gaspard had not owned a yacht before, but he missed life at sea; missed also the freedom to take a risk now and then. He liked to keep up with the fashionable set; and as a timber merchant, he could commission the building of a yacht more cheaply than most people. He had seen Mace Tandy's ideas evolve over the years, while Tom's financial control of the company had enabled it to prosper. His chosen name for the yacht would be Joie-de-Vivre.

To Mace, she would always be what Tom had unwittingly christened her. The Tandy Flyer. That summer and autumn, as she took shape on the new, third slipway, her designer experienced a tremor of almost fearful happiness whenever he glimpsed her through a window or worked alongside the labourers on the scaffolding.

He knew that pride was inexcusable, that he should be objective and critical, seeking to improve the prototype; but he had sweated over the design, including interior fitments, for a whole year, in addition to working on current projects and distributing political pamphlets. To see her now, created in the sun, the dream translated to a reality of hollow oak, was awesome indeed. Sometimes it terrified him. Only mathematics and instinct told him how fast she would be; and the design of a racing hull that would fly in all weather conditions was at best a juggling act between often contradictory principles.

The building of Joie-de-Vivre became something of a face in itself. Tom learned from Charles Pelham that the Earl of Wickham, disgusted by the consistently poor performance of his ageing cutter Xanadu, had commissioned an eighty foot yacht to be launched the following March. Tom and Mace were determined to follow Wickham's example by launching their flyer early in the season, allowing Gaspard as much time as the Earl to experiment with sails and rigging, and discover how the boat handled, before the start of the summer racing programme. The passage of time had convinced the partners that Wickham had either resigned himself to losing Jessica, or was powerless to harm them - and it was easy for Tom, the victor, to shrug his shoulders at the past. All the same, they would derive much satisfaction from seeing Joie-de-Vivre beat Wickham's new Honeydew next summer.

Mace's sense of fulfilment, both in his marriage and his career, heightened his awareness of the sufferings of the poor. It was said that dealers were withholding corn from the market, to create artificial shortages and keep prices high. Labourers were found huddled in ditches, dead from simple starvation. Children sickened and died for want of nourishment, their fathers taking home wages barely adequate to feed a single man. The Poor Relief, as well as sapping men's pride, offered too small a supplement. Mace had never noticed a scarcity of pretty faces about the countryside, but that autumn he was shocked by the pale cheeks and wasted limbs of cottagers' wives and daughters. He felt that he should be doing more to help them; they needed articulate spokesmen to put their case forcefully without recourse to violence.

"Nothing will change," Cobbett said, "until the labourers revolt."

Whether or not he intended the comment as an incitement to riot, his words were prophetic. With November came reports of gangs roaming the county, armed with all the deadly weapons of smithy and carpenter's shop, and prepared to terrorise farmers and landowners who would now meet their demands.

Jessica ceased her political activities, and would not join her brother in circulating Cobbett's revived news-sheet, the Twopenny Trash.

"Men are going too far," she said, on the night the Southampton saw-mill was burned by arsonists, with troops being brought in from Portsmouth to aid the companies of dragoons now stationed in the neighbourhood. "Speeches and petitions are one thing - but this! And machines are being smashed, hayricks set afire -"

"There;s no harm in that, Jess," said Mace. "It's better than shedding blood - and it makes folk take notice."

"You don't condone these riots - do you? Macey, you can't!"

"I think the local papers are a mouthpiece for the landowners. Don't take everything you read as gospel!"

But if the accounts of armed gangs were exaggerated, stories of damage to property were not. Threatening notes appeared under the doors of gentlemen farmers, in different handwriting but all signed by 'Captain Swing'. The hinged end of a flail was called a swingel; this was the implement being rendered obsolete by the hated threshing machines which deprived men of winter employment. Mace, along with most country people, accepted the 'Captain' as a mythical figure, a symbol of the labourers' unity under one banner. The landowners and the government thought otherwise; as did the press and many nervous townsfolk. The rumour spread that foreigners - Frenchmen, most likely - were infiltrating the South, stirring up the English labourers, setting class against class. It was claimed that Swing was a Frenchman who rode about the country in a fine carriage, firing ricks and sending the letters which warned farmers to smash their own machinery or take the consequences.

Mace habitually visited The Jolly Sailor on Sunday nights, to collect copies of the Twopenny Trash. The place was always lively, for the shipwrights and sawyers congregated there from their various billets around the village. Often, too, there were farmhands eager to discuss politics and empty bellies, or to accept a quart of ale from a friend.

The Sunday after the saw-mill was burned, Mace's entry to the taproom was greeted by a cheer from a group of men near the hearthfire. A shipwright called out, "Here, Tandy, take a peep at this!"

The workforce invariable addressed Tom as 'Mr Elderfield', whereas Mace had somehow failed to acquire the handle to his name. He was glad of it. Feeling himself equal to any man, neither better nor worse, he preferred to be treated as such.

He crossed the sanded floor, ducking to avoid the roof beams. A smocked labourer whom he did not know - had never seen before - was seated at a table, surrounded by fascinated onlookers. The table was covered with sheets of paper. Mace picked up one at random, arched his brows, and tossed it down among the rest.

"You can't spell 'starving condition', mate," he said.

The stranger - a pink cheeked fellow of about thirty, obviously no starveling himself - asked smoothly, "care to write one, would you? Everyone's been taking a turn."

Mace was not convinced that 'Swing' letters did any good; although their efficacy rather depended on their content. Ordering farmers to destroy machines was a doomed last stand against progress; the important issued were high rents and low wages.

He shrugged, grinned and took the quill from the stranger. The ink in the bottle was red. Mace sniffed at it, then licked the end of the quill.

"Whose blood?" he asked curiously.

"Mine," said the stranger. "And willingly spilt in the cause of justice for all."

Had the man been less pompous, Mace could have liked him; but he asked anyway, "Where d'you hail from?"

"North of Botley, I'm travelling the length of the Hamble River, acquainting folk with the facts. The name's Kitcher. Pleased to see a gent like yourself coming down on the right side."

Mace nodded abstractedly, puzzling over what to write. After a minute he penned the words with a flourish, reading aloud for the benefit of the audience.

Sir - Your name is down among the Blackhearts in the black book! Raise the wages of every man in your employ by four shillings a week, or consign your hayricks to the flames of Hell!

                                                                                                                    Swing

The men cheered. The shipwright who had first greeted Mace said in admiration, "Now that's what I call fancy educated writing. Here, you ought to write the petition."

There was general agreement, and Kitcher said, "Just what I was about to suggest. There's to be a hundred labourers or more. We're taking a petition round, asking for signature. Maybe you'd care to phrase it neat and proper for us - and join the march, if you've a mind to."

Mace was suspicious. "Will it be a peaceful as it sounds?"

"Lily-livered, are you?" sneered Kitcher.

"No, I'm bloody not - and if it comes to a fight, you'll find me as ready as any man - but the goals are filling up with marchers who've started riots. While we fight with words and not bludgeons, there's a good chance of keeping public sympathy."

The men present were of the same opinion; especially as, for most, it was not their quarrel. But Mace decided after all to join the protest; and he willingly wrote the petition. It stated simply that each man must receive two shillings a day for his labour, every youth eighteen pence, and children over two years old to be given a loaf and sixpence a week. Landowners were advised that they must reduce rents to enable farmers to meet the demands.

Mace was pleased with the document; farmers could presume a threat if they liked, but none was implicit. And at last he had the chance to do something positive; to stand by his beliefs. He gave no more thought to the absurd 'Swing' letter.

Reaching home before eight, he wanted to talk about his plans for the morning, but Vinnie and Jess would only worry, and the twins would raise hell when he refused to let them march with their uncle.

As for Tom, his callous attitude over the whole question had more than once astounded Mace. Jess seemed to think that Tom pitied the labourers, but he did not speak of them with compassion, and would not be drawn into political arguments on the subject - though Mace in recent weeks had nagged him constantly about it.

That evening, tense with excitement and a touch of nerves, Mace was disinclined to let the matter rest. He valued Tom's good opinion, and did not like to feel they were divided on such an important issue. His frustration grew, as Tom waved aside his arguments and sat smoking a cigar and trying to convince Luke of the need for organised schooling.

"How can you stay so aloof from it all?" Mace asked savagely. He leapt to his feet and slammed his first against the mantelpiece. "Don't you see the injustices, the suffering? Don't you care?"

Honor exclaimed, "Oh, Uncle Macey, don't let's talk politics again!"

"Of course he cares," said Jessica, laying her book aside. "Let it drop, little brother."

And Vinnie murmured, patting the vacated cushion beside her, "Sit down, Macey, and sing to us."

Tom's narrow gaze was fixed on his partner. "What I care about most," he grated, " are this family and this yard. Our men are paid a fair wage, and we've given to charities when we could afford it. I'll gladly offer food or shelter to anyone who come here in dire need of either. But I don't like what happens to men when they hunt in packs - No, let me finish, damn it! The French mob hounded my mother's people into penniless exile. A gang of Hatchley louts killed my father and got away with it..... and a trumped up judge and jury murdered my wife and called it a just execution." Tom's voice shook with the strength of his feelings, and Jessica slid her hand into his. He went on without seeming to notice, "if any thugs turn up here hoping to wring money out of us with threats, I won't stop to argue justice with them, nor to ask whether they're disciples of Cobbett or hired by Wickham."

"And you think I would?" But though Mace was angry, his partner's words struck an odd and disturbing note. He added with a ferocity not solely aimed at Tom, "Hired by Wickham? Since when has his precious lordship been likely to set a gang of thugs on us?"

Tom breathed a long sigh, and ground his cigar stub on the fire-guard before flicking it into the grate. "Since our insurers cancelled the policy," he said. "I reckon I couldn't keep it from you indefinitely."

It drained a lot of Mace's anger. He said blankly, "What?" at the same time that Jess said, "No - they can't! How can they?"

"Very easily. The contract states their obligation to give seven days' notice of termination. They did that, two weeks ago."

"You could have told us," Jessica said. "You should have done. How dare they treat us this way - you've always paid the premiums on time."

"I can guess their reasons," said Mace, with a flicker of savagery. "Risks to person and property have been compounded of late, to a degree incompatible with continuation of the said contract. Or words to that effect. Farmers may be losing ricks and threshing machines, but in most cases it must be the insurance companies losing the money."

"Bullseye, partner." Tom's glance, fiercely blue, rested on every member of his family in turn. "None of this goes beyond these walls, is that clear? Luke? Honor?"

The twins nodded. Honor said, evidently speaking for them both, "Mama's right, you should have trusted us. We're all in this together. What are you going to do, Papa?"

"Try to change their minds. I've written to them. They've agreed to see me tomorrow, so I'll be in town all day. I don't hold out much hope."

"Bastards," said Mace; but he thought privately, with more than a twinge of conscience, that at least his partner would be out of the way when he joined the labourers tomorrow. If he had to fight Tom, which was not unlikely he would sooner do so after the event.

The crowd that set forth from Hamble next day, gaining in numbers with every mile, was comprised mainly of farmhands, but there were some professional men among them. Most of the labourers carried bludgeons or sledge-hammers, with the intention of damaging machines rather than people, and then only upon extreme provocation. Mace walked with the leaders; for having a clear, strong voice he had volunteered to read the petition aloud at each stop. During that morning, the paper was signed by hundreds of folk from three villages, along with several farmers who were openly sympathetic to the demands of the men. Mace was proud to have his own name at the head of the list. His only slight disappointment was that the man Kitcher, after all his self-righteous words, had not appeared; but that was no real loss to the cause.

They did meet some opposition. A farmer in Botley refused either to sign the petition or to pay a forfeit of five pounds for his obstinacy. Standing squarely before a muttering and hungry crowd three hundred strong, he showed great resolve.

"When the quire lowers the rents, and the parson cuts the tithes," he said, "that'll be the time to think of upping wages."

Hensting, one of the labourers' spokesmen, said coldly, "Then I'll point out to 'ee, the nights are long. I can't tell what might happen."

"So 'tis threats now! You'll fetch your mob one dark night to murder my little ones in their beds -"

Mace cut in quickly, "You mistook my friend's meaning, sir. Your family is safe enough - but hayricks and threshing machines are expendable."

The farmer must have been well insured. He became recklessly abusive, and finally stalked into his cowshed. Hensting was all for taking action then and there, and the mob would have follow him.

Mace shouted above the growing clamour, "Have you run mad? How many of your faces are known around here? There are two hundred men filling Hampshire gaols, awaiting trial on charges of rick-burning and machine smashing. Do you want to spend Christmas with them, and the next seven years in Van Diemen's Land?"

The men were not ready to make such a sacrifice. In spite of the many Special Constables sworn in, and the presence of foot-soldiers and dragoons in the area, sudden raids carried out at night were still a pretty safe bet, whereas a crime committed in daylight was indeed highly chancy. Disconsolate, but aware of the day's many small victories so far, the labourers shambled after Mace and Hensting.

They had not walked half a mile along the lane, when the sound of a troop of horsemen approaching at speed halted them in confusion. Hensting swore, and Mace glanced back at the crowd. The advance of a mounted but still unseen enemy had induced the beginnings of panic. Already some labourers were turning, backing away, preparing for flight.

The lane was wide, but the hedges were high and thick. It was likely that some men would be injured in the event of a stampede; but casualties would be far worse if they stayed to fight - and even attempting to sound an officer of the Crown was a capital or transportable offence.

Mace shouted, "Run" Run for your lives!"

Hensting turned on him in a rage. "You sodding coward -"

"Are you willing to stand with me, and face the troops?" The man stared.

"How else," said Mace, "do we give this crowd time to disperse? And drop that bloody hammer, unless you want to swing for the cause. I'm not fool enough to do battle on foot with armed and mounted men, even if you are."

Hensting flung his sledgehammer into the ditch.

The dragoons galloped into view, their blue coats dark against the gleam of unsheathed sabres. Mace stood his ground, along with Hensting and half a dozen others, blocking the road as behind them the mob fled back towards Botley.

The dragoons, seeing their opponents unarmed and not remotely dangerous, would not ride them down. They drew to a halt.

"Gentlemen," said Mace, holding out the petition. "This is no riot. We have here a document signed by more than three hundred and fifty - "

"Arrest them" the Captain barked. "All the ringleaders. Let the rest go free - they'll be founded up before the Assizes."

It was over quickly. The petition was snatched from Mace's hands, and when he made a grab for it a sabre glinted in front of his face. He looked up at the man holding weapon.

"We are not guilty of riotous assembly," he said.

Another dragoon dismounted and tied his hands, roping all eight of the prisoners together in a line. Hensting put up a token struggle, but Mace's words had struck home; Van Diemen's Land had little appeal.

They were marched beside the horses towards the County Gaol at Winchester, some eleven miles away. As he tramped along the dismal November lane, Mace realised that being a first offender with no poaching or smuggling convictions, he might still get as much as three months' hard labour for unlawful assembly, if the judge was intent on making examples of the 'rioters'. If that happened, he would miss Vinnie unbearably - but at least he would be freed before the launching of Joie-de-Vivre.

His flyer.....The Tandy Flyer. I t would have been a fine name for her. To hell with modesty; he could hardly wait to see her in action against Wickham's Honeydew.

Mace knew that he was a lucky man. A short goal sentence would be a very minor misfortune, by comparison with the labourers' sufferings these past few years.

His main concern was that Tom would be furious.

Part 3, The Men of Enterprise, Chapter 8

Click here to
download SEO Elite!
the Search Engine
Optimiser
we would recommend

Discover this Incredible Secret System To Making Money Online Within 10 Days!