A Dozen Bakers Read online

  Title

  A DOZEN BAKERS

  Ties of Blood: 11

  Peter Youds

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  The Bird-Swindler’s Friend

  A Worthy Trade

  A Right of Passage

  The White Cockade

  Arranging Affairs

  Escaping the Past

  The Lone Wolf

  Shepherd’s Delight

  A Dozen Bakers

  Paved With Good Intentions

  Princely Glendower

  The Unlikely Heroes

  Two Sides of The Coin

  Credits

  Copyright

  Copyright © Peter Youds 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  The right of Peter Youds to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction, based on historical events. All characters in this novel, other than those plainly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Typeset in Garamond

  First published in 2018

  Bicorn Books

  38 Long Acre

  Bingham

  Nottinghamshire

  NG13 8AH

  [email protected]

  The Bird-Swindler’s Friend

  Church Acton, Shropshire, May 1785

  There was a knocking at the door, loud and insistent.

  ‘Hell,’ he thought, this was trouble!

  Harry Crosse looked about him, as best he could in the smoke. The oak chips were doing a fine job, smouldering beautifully, taking their time to infuse the fish with that wonderful rich flavour which would also preserve them for weeks to come – the two dozen fine fat trout he had taken that morning from Sir John Lacey’s stream.

  Poaching was no small crime. It was a hanging offence – transportation at best. Harry was forty eight years of age; either way it would finish him. Panic gripped the man. He looked around for a weapon and saw the old bayonet he used as a candlestick in the hut – a slim triangular wedge 17 inches long, a blade he had lodged in the guts of more than one enemy. He had no wish to kill some hapless gamekeeper trying to earn his crust for his missus and nippers, but this was his life!

  Again the knocking; he was reaching for the bayonet when the door creaked open. Sure enough, a figure stood there, gun under his arm.

  Harry let out a sigh. ‘God’s tripes, boy!’

  ‘What?’

  Robert Blunt stepped into the hut, looking as if he had no care in the world. He threw a fat hare onto the table.

  ‘You fair put the fear of the devil in me, lad,’ said Crosse, quickly going to close the smokehouse door.

  ‘Thought you might like to hang this ’un up in your larder, perhaps for your supper one evening.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Well, I can hardly present him to the kitchen at the rectory, can I? I’ve had my sport and now you can have a tasty stew.’

  In spite of himself Harry Crosse smiled. He liked young Robert. The boy had spirit, sure enough. He was the adopted son of the Reverend Blunt, minister of the Church Acton parish. He was a rum-looking cove, the lad, short-built with sandy hair and oddly-matched green-grey eyes, but he was a good-natured youth, keen to learn about the world around him, even if he didn’t seem to get on so well with many of the other lads thereabouts. Rumour was that he had been sent away as a baby by his natural father, a rich landowner from across the country. The gent had neglected to marry the boy’s mother and wanted the inconvenient child off his hands. Reverend Blunt was some kind of kin and had agreed to take the baby under his care. So Robert had grown to his fifteen years here in the sleepy Shropshire village on the Severn river, well-enough looked after but never quite fitting in with the family who had given him a roof. His was a restless spirit, not at one with the gentle life of the Church Acton rectory. Rather than paying attention to his book-learning and his duties about the church, Robert spent every moment he could in the open air – football and cricket when invited, more often away on his own coracle fishing, birding, rabbiting – occasionally even indulging in a little poaching, which was how he had come to know Harry Crosse.

  ‘Then I’m obliged to you,’ Crosse said, picking up the hare, calm now. And it truly was a fine specimen, plump and meaty. ‘Where did you pot this handsome fellow?’

  ‘Over on Miller’s Rise. He was off like a harrier, quick as lightning, but I did as you said, aimed a touch forward, and his speed took him into the shot.’

  ‘And nobody saw or heard?’ Crosse asked. Just a hare, perhaps, but it was still poaching and heartily frowned upon by the law. Robert might live at the rectory, but it was Sir John Lacey who owned the land here. Acton Lodge was used infrequently, only when Sir John came up from London two or three times a year for his sport, but his gamekeepers were a constant presence and the boy was as like to be taken for a poacher as any other, his age no argument against the rope or a sentence for hard labour on the other side of the world.

  ‘Quiet as the grave,’ Blunt told him. ‘I used the cover like you taught me, hidden snug in the trees, cosy as a sleeping nightjar.’

  ‘Gun barrel?’

  The boy showed him his fowling piece, its barrel blackened to take away the risk of a betraying flash of metal.

  ‘Good. Well, you must have had to lay there a while to get your shot. I suppose you might reckon yourself able to come over to the cottage for some tea?’

  ‘If I was my step-father,’ Blunt grinned, ‘I’d bless you.’

  ‘Have you brought one?’ Crosse asked, setting water to boil over the grate. He put the loaf on the table, butter and bramble jam; boys were always hungry.

  ‘One what?’ Robert said innocently.

  The older man gave him a look. ‘You know fine well, you damned rascal.’

  They were in the kitchen of the cottage now, a room which took up the whole ground floor, fulfilling every purpose but sleep. There was still an appetising smell from the stew that had served for Crosse’s dinner and would later make his supper.

  The lad reached into his haversack and produced a newspaper, laying it on the table. Crosse smiled with satisfaction. He could neither read nor write and it was young Blunt’s habit to bring an aged edition of The Morning Chronicle to give him the news of the day, as printed some weeks past. The newspaper was originally read by Sir John, who sent it up to his estate manager, who then passed it to the rectory. If truth were told, the views expressed by the Chronicle were a mite too Whig-ish for Crosse’s tastes. From what he had heard of newspapers, he believed he might prefer The London Gazette or the new Examiner, but he was aware that beggars could not be choosers and it was good to know something of what the gentlemen of the government were up to, as well as learning what was on at the theatre and how the rich and famous were misbehaving themselves.

  In recent weeks, for instance, Crosse had learned the astonishing news that men had crossed the whole way over English Channel in a balloon; Governor General Hastings’ doings in India were still the talk of Parliament; Mr Watt and Mr Cavendish were conducting mighty experiments with steam and air; more fast-flying coaches were coming into service, carrying the mail quicker than ever to all corners. Even the duty on the very leaves he was using to make his tea had been reduced, so that smuggling them was almost made redundant. Harry liked to keep up, he looked forward to listening to Robert reading from the Chronicle. He knew he would find out precious little of the useful knowledge to be gleaned from the paper in the parochial tittle-tattle he might hear in the tap-room of the Waggon and Horses!

  Now he would add to his store of information. ‘You can make a start on reading whilst I fix your brew. Nowt wrong with me lugs, you know.’

  ‘Story first,’ Blunt said, laying his hand firmly on the folded newspaper.

  ‘Eh?’ Crosse shot his visitor a glance.

  The boy was unsmiling. He made no move to pick up the paper. ‘You know the deal, Harry.’

  ‘Deal is it?’ the man said, wondering whether he should check the youth for impudence. But it was true that he knew the arrangement well enough; he would only get his news if first he told the lad a story. Not just any old story – for Harry Crosse had been a soldier. He might now eke out a living as a coppicer, burning his charcoal and skilfully cutting down Sir John’s trees year on year to crop birch for faggots, hazel for wattle fencing – but not too many years before he had been Sergeant Crosse of the 53rd Foot. He started as a boy soldier with the regiment when it was raised and he had gone on to see action enough, mostly in the American war. The officers had soon picked out the young countryman as a quick thinker, a man with cunning and initiative, and he had served the majority of his time in the Old Brickdusts’ light company. In the woods of North America such men had been invaluable to the British as they tracked the fast-moving locals, and Crosse and his mates had seen brisk work under Burgoyne and Carleton.

  The older man put the tea on the table and sat. ‘So then, young Robert, what is your fancy? Will you hear of the terrible Iroquois, stalking the forests? Shall you have a tale of the Yankee sharpshooters, who could take the eye out of an owl at two hundred paces? What say you? Shall we have the mighty fort
ress of Ticonderoga - or might I tell you of Saratoga? Then again, I could caution you how Gentleman Johnnie Burgoyne sat on his arse by the Hudson, waiting for Clinton who never came, then let the Jonathons harvest us like windfalls in an orchard. Shall that be our text, eh?’

  ‘Yes, Saratoga!’ Blunt said with enthusiasm. He had heard it before, of course, how Burgoyne dithered, then found himself facing odds of two to one against and ultimately had to surrender his army. It was a disaster for the British, one which gave comfort to the Americans and brought both the French and Spanish into the war. It was also a savage blow to national pride, and a shock to Robert that his idolised redcoats could prove so fallible. But Crosse’s telling of the story made it into something different, a lesson for Britannia herself. He saw it as a cautionary tale, one he believed would serve to help improve the army, ultimately making it stronger so it might fulfil its greater purpose – serving in the long, enduring war against the nation’s true enemy, the French.

  And young Robert never tired of Crosse’s yarns, seldom failing to have his imagination fired by hearing of the adventures of dashing soldiers fighting their far-off battles. So Harry Crosse, aware that any deal had two sides, supped his tea and told the story.

  ‘Have you practised your music?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Blunt lied.

  ‘Indeed?’

  He thought it best to say nothing more. He was trying to read his book. It was The Pilgrim’s Progress, the nearest to an adventure story he was likely to be allowed in the rectory. He was having difficulty keeping to the straight and narrow of the worthy story and would have preferred to be outside on such a fine afternoon. But it was not the hour. The family always sat together after dinner. Reading was encouraged, a game of chess, even a little conversation, just so long as it was not of a frivolous nature.

  ‘There were several wrong notes in your playing last evensong.’

  ‘Really, sir?’ He knew it, of course; a couple had been struck on purpose.

  ‘Certainly there were,’ said the Reverend Blunt, a disapproving look on his face, well-practised censure in his tone. ‘This is no light matter, Robert. We sing hymns to praise the Lord, not to mock Him.’

  ‘I have no wish to do that, sir.’

  ‘You say so? Well, I must tell you that such is entirely the effect of your levity, sir; mockery – that is how the congregation will view such shoddy work.’

  ‘Then I apologise – to you, the congregation and to God himself.’

  Reverend Blunt looked hard at the boy, searching out signs of facetiousness. But as usual Robert’s face gave nothing away.

  ‘If you are quite sincere in such remorse, which I may say I doubt, the remedy would best be accomplished by practising, do you not think?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘An hour will suffice.’

  ‘May I ask Frank to pump for me?’ He looked affectionately at his younger brother, in fact his cousin, a pen in his inky hand, a book of tables in front of him. The ten year-old’s face lit up.

  Their father considered it. ‘Very well, for an hour, as I say; then you may sweep the church, Robert. All men may be equal under God, but I regret that country farmers leave a deal more dirt about them than other folk. Francis will return here to his studies.’

  ‘You mustn’t,’ Frank shrieked. ‘He’ll hear!’

  Robert was seated at the church’s ancient pipe organ, hands flying up and down the keyboard, pedals clattering wildly. He had dutifully run through the list of hymns his step-father had given him, fine worthy pieces such as ‘When I Survey the Wondrous Cross’ and ‘Oh God, Our Help in Ages Past’. But now, their hour nearly at an end, he couldn’t resist – ‘The British Grenadiers’ had been followed by ‘Hearts of Oak’ and ‘The Roast Beef of Old England’. Now he was rattling through a stirring ‘Rule Britannia’.

  ‘He’ll hear!’ Frank repeated, half laughing, half in terror, pumping like a mad thing. The rectory was only a hundred yards away and, though a little deaf, the Reverend Blunt was perfectly capable of having walked over to check on Robert’s work.

  With a run of the hand down the keys Robert brought his martial recital to an end.

  ‘Phew,’ Frank breathed out, relieved.

  ‘Very well,’ Blunt said, climbing down. ‘Practice done, now it’s time for sweeping for me.’ He walked towards the vestry, where the brooms were kept.

  ‘I’ll help,’ Frank said.

  ‘No, we’ve had our hour. You must go back directly, else you’ll land yourself in trouble.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Frank said gloomily. He was well aware that he was the favourite son, knew even at that young age he was marked to be his father’s successor at the rectory. ‘And, in any case, you’re always in trouble.’

  Robert had picked up his broom. Frank collected another but it was gently taken from him and put back in the rack. ‘That’s my job – getting in trouble. Yours is to get back to your studies.’

  ‘But it’s so boring!’

  ‘Even so.’

  He went into the nave of the church, Frank following.

  ‘He treats you little better than a servant.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Blunt said, knowing it was right that he should defend his step-father, but recognising also that there was some truth in what his cousin said. He looked around the church, Reverend Blunt’s world. ‘He does his best for me, for all of us.’

  ‘But it’s not much of a life he has marked out for you,’ Frank grumbled. He knew that in a year or so Robert would likely be sent to Shrewsbury, apprenticed as a clerk to some lawyer or manufacturer. ‘Well, is it, Rob?’

  Blunt thought about it. ‘Mebbe not, Frank. But if that’s so, I can’t rightly blame your father. He’s a good man and only does what he believes to be his duty. Who knows, though, there could be something in what you say. Possibly I should be thinking of marking out my own life, eh?’

  And he began to sweep.

  Crosse was checking his birds.

  He had built a large willow cage out in the open air in his yard and here he kept the green finches he caught. He captured the birds at night, cunningly using a bell and net to snare them, then he sold them to Tom Belton at an agreed time. He regretted taking away the creatures’ freedom, but they brought him a valuable income, for the man called Tom Belton was an accomplished bird-swindler.

  Canaries and their like were much in demand in England, their song and colour offering a fashionable exoticism, but they were hard to come by. Belton took Harry Crosse’s finches away, then he trimmed and dyed the birds, selling them at a good price to gullible gentlefolk as rare species. He plied his trade across the Midlands, with several suppliers catching everyday birds for him to transform into profitable ‘specialities’.

  Crosse was filling the birds’ water dish when he heard the creak of a carriage wheel and the tread of a horse. Not Belton’s wagon, he thought, something lighter, more like a dog-cart. Then he saw it was Parson Blunt driving down the track, his boy Frank sitting at his back.

  ‘Good morning, Crosse.’

  ‘Reverend.’ He gave a little nod of greeting. Harry was not a great church-goer, attending only when it would damage him to be absent, but he respected the rector as a man who did his duty, even if he didn’t entirely care for the cleric’s attitude to his older boy. ‘Will you step inside, sir?’

  ‘I thank you, no. But some water for the horse?’

  ‘By all means,’ Crosse said, bucket in hand, but not moving. ‘The well is just yonder.’

  ‘Francis?’

  The youngster got down awkwardly.

  ‘And you’ll find some oats in the kitchen,’ Crosse told the boy kindly, giving him the bucket. He had no horse himself, but he had a taste for porridge.

  The rector had remained seated.

  Crosse turned his attention to the older man. ‘How can I help you, sir?’

  ‘You are acquainted with my – my son, my other son, I believe?’

  ‘I am,’ Crosse said guardedly. He was very fond of the boy, of course, and enjoyed spending time with him. But his principal association with young Robert had been in teaching him the skills that would enable him to indulge in a range of activities unlikely to be approved by the rector of Church Acton. The old soldier would tread carefully until the other made his business plain.