Race Before the Wind

Copyright © Jill Salkeld 1988

Part One: 1814-1815

The Poacher

Chapter Two

After the events of the previous night Tom did not expect to pass through Hatchley unchallenged, but the few people he met were intent on their own business; deliberately so, it seemed. The driver of a dung-cart gave him a sullen, side-long glance and then ignored him; and the shoemaker's wife, taking her husband his breakfast in the workshop, looked at Tom with something like compassion before turning silently away.

Tom began to see guilt in their silence, to imagine eyes watching him from behind frost-patterned windows. Surely the village had never been as quiet as this?

He raced past the deserted green, dodging a startled flurry of geese crossing the lane, and struggled to maintain his pace up the long incline out of Hatchley. He needed transport, and there was only one person he felt able to ask.

Reaching the farmhouse at the top of the hill, he leaned on the gate, panting and called to the man who stood in the porch, quietly smoking.

"Sir….. Mr. Tandy….

The man shifted the pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other, and strolled to the gate. "Fine time of day to come visiting, lad. Something wrong?"

Sacheverell Tandy, a man of liberal but atheistic views, was one of the most talked-about people in the village. Moving to Hatchley as a youngish man, he had bought some land and commissioned the building of an eight-roomed house for his wife and himself. Now a widower, he lived impossibly well on the profits of eighteen acres of sheep pasture. Gossip whispered of a fortune made in youth - by smuggling or highway robbery, no doubt - but whatever the source of Mr. Tandy's wealth, he kept no servants. His four children received board and lodging, and personal tuition in every subject, but were obliged to look elsewhere for their spending money. Remarkably only the eldest, Obadiah, resented this, and even he worked on the farm for a labourer's wage rather than leave home altogether.

Yet Mr. Tandy was generous, less formidable than he looked, and intolerant only of treachery and injustice. Over the years his home had been Tom's frequent refuge; a haven of sanity, companionship and boisterous fun.

Now Tom said jerkily, still breathing hard, "Pa didn't come home from chapel. Some of the men - with Rob Hanson - I reckon Hanson could kill a man if he would provokes enough - and you know what Pa's like for scorning folk that don't share his views - "He choked, close to tears and furious with himself for the weakness.

Sacheverell Tandy opened the gate and dropped a heavy arm across his shoulders. "We'll take the haycart, you and me together. Come along now, no time to be lost."

The man's kindness might have caused Tom to break down, but just then a girl emerged from behind the house and, catching sight of the visitor, hitched her skirts above her ankles and ran to greet him.

"Tom! Tom Elderfield! Our pond is frozen again. I'll have to go skating before I can think of starting any chores at all. Will you come?"

"Now then, Jessica." Sacheverell Tandy lowered his black brows at his daughter. "Tom wants none of your nonsense. He has more urgent matters to attend to than skating on our pond."

Jessica skipped round to Tom's other side, almost running to keep up as they headed for the stables. She was a year younger than he, with the dark eyes and curling black hair of all the Tandy brood, and a promise of heart-stopping beauty.

Also her figure was no longer that of a child, and lately Tom had felt a shyness in her presence sometimes, as if she might read his thoughts and espies him - but today he had too much else on his mind.

Jessica, running again to draw level, straightened her straw bonnet and pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. "Has something bad happened, Tom? Is your Ma worse? Oh!" Catching sight of his injured hand, "Oh, Tom, that must be sore. Did you fall off Belladonna?"

Able to trust his voice again, Tom outlined the story briefly. Jessica was both horrified and fiercely indignant that such things could happen in their own village. She raced back to the house for a bandage and cobwebs, and insisted on binding his hand while Sacheverell Tandy harnessed the workhorse. Tom could not contain his impatience, when the smallest delay might prove fatal. Tying the ends of the bandage with his teeth and hone hand, he bounded up on the cart beside Mr. Tandy. The girl would have joined them, had her father not growled that no passengers were required.

Jessica stood glaring up at him, hands firmly on her hips, "Passengers, is it? I'm useful enough in a crisis, Pa, as you know quite well and have said more than once."

This was true; since her mother's death four years ago Jessica had cooked and care for her father and three high-spirited, unpredictable brothers and very often, Tom Elderfield as well. She was accustomed to taking crises in her stride.

Sacheverell Tandy shook his head, glowering to silence any new protest. "You'll stay and prepare a fine breakfast for our return, my girl. If Mr. Elderfield has been hiding out in some barn all night, he'll be half frozen and as hungry as any of us."

Tom might have taken offence at this interpretation of his father's absence, but he knew that Mr. Tandy did not believe in it. As the cart trundled into the lane he looked back to see Jessica swinging on the gate, her solemn face reflecting his own anxiety.

It was in a ditch not half a mile from the village that they found William Elderfield. The blacksmith lay on his face in ice-crusted water, his clothes and hair white with frost. The loyal, aging Belladonna was still nosing his head as if to rouse him from sleep.

Tom jumped from the moving cart and slid down the bank to reach his father. Stooping in the ditch he punched through the ice, breaking it up until he could grasp his father's arm and roll him over.

The delays had been unimportant, after all William Elderfield had not suffered an obvious beating; the bruise on his head suggested that he might have fallen from his horse, knocked himself out and drowned in a few inches of water. His eyes were open, blind, and runnels of muddy water streaked his face like tears.

Tom stood up slowly. Strange; now that the imagined horror had become reality, he felt only emptiness. The whole structure of his life had been ripped away.

Sacheverell Tandy gripped his shoulder. "Come on, lad. Let's get him up in the cart."

"I should have warned him," he whispered. "I owned him that."

"Did you, indeed!" The farmer's voice rose in explosive anger. "Are you a fortune-teller, now? Could you read Hanson's intention before he knew it himself?" Stop your nonsense, boy, and give me a hand!"

Between them they heaved William Elderfield's body into the cart, and Sacheverell Tandy drove rapidly back to Hatchley. Tom followed at a slower pace on Belladonna, gazing straight ahead but seeing nothing, and thinking of the night before.

Several chapel-goers from Andover came to the funeral, as did the Tandys. Tom guessed it was mostly shame that kept the rest of Hatchley's folk away; there had been no trouble of any sort since the tragedy, and none of his alehouse acquaintances would have wanted murder on his conscience. He despised them, these men who were accessories through silence and inaction; following Hanson's lead because they feared to cross him, or passing by, like the Levite, on the other side.

And yet, although Tom grieved for his father - for the injustice of his death, for words unsaid between them and opportunities missed - he was not devastated by the loss. There had never been any real point of contact, the boy understanding neither his father's values nor his father's God.

As an only child, faced with suffocating affection from one parent, and well-meant but often brutal discipline from the other, Tom had spent most of childhood escaping from both.

At the age of six, when his mother began tutoring him, the hours closeted with her patient, cloying tenderness had been too much to bear. He had fled to share the Tandys' lessons whenever possible, in defiance of the beatings he received for it at home. Finally Sacheverell Tandy had taken him as a regular pupil, on equal footing with his own children, pointing out to an enraged William Elderfield that this was apparently the only way to ensure that his son got an education. The clannish Tandy, brood, perhaps because of Tom's refugee status, had welcomed him unreservedly, an honour they allowed to few outsiders.

Now, Tom was a half trained apprentice in sole charge of the village smithy. The future scared him; but its challenge set his blood coursing fast, like the fear before going out poaching, or climbing the church steeple for a wager, or racing Amos Tandy across rough ground on an ill-tempered horse.

In the meantime, one problem needed an immediate solution. When the funeral service was over, Tom left his mother in Jessica's care for a few moments while he drew Sacheverell Tandy aside.

"I was wondering, sir, if you'd do me a great favour."

The man nodded, frowning, and answered as to an equal. "If I can help in any way, Tom, I certainly shall."

"I'm going to watch the grave for a couple of nights, and I, er - I don't want to leave Ma alone in the cottage after dark. I know it's short notice, but if she could stay with you, just until..."

"Good God, is that all? We'll be glad to have her, and that's the truth."

Tom's hand was grasped in a warm, hard grip and he thanked Sacheverell Tandy with a feeling of tremendous relief. Hospitals paid well for fresh cadavers for dissection and research, and no question asked, so that one had to keep an eye on new graves. The professional bodysnatchers - the so-called Resurrection Men who sometimes murdered to help supply and meet demand - had become active in most neighbourhoods.

Having seen his mother safe in her temporary lodgings, Tom worked at the smithy for the rest of the day, and returned to the churchyard at dusk. He was met by no less than three of the young Tandys, Amos, the same age as Tom and his partner in most escapades, volunteered to share sentry duty. Ten-year-old Thomas - invariably known as Mace - was there to prove he was not afraid of ghosts, and Jessica insisted she had only come to see that Mace behaved himself.

The eldest of the brothers, Obadiah, had business elsewhere. He had gone to Andover with Hanson, to see a cockfight; and, as Jessica said, at seventeen he was old enough to keep company with whoever he liked, even a bullying, murdering pig.

The girl had brought blankets, and supper in a covered basket. They chose a grassy hollow over some long forgotten villager's grave and ate chicken and new bread in the twilight, talking in low voices as befitted the place. Mace scampered off afterwards to watch for owls, but when full darkness came he strolled back, humming, pretending nonchalance, and sat rather close to Jessica, his eyes round and his whole body taut with unconfessed terror.

Jessica whispered, "Want to go home, Macey?" But he shook his head, affronted, and clenched his chattering teeth.

A rota was agreed. Tom and Amos would take alternate two hour stints, Amos having brrowed his father's pocket watch for the purpose. Jessica and Mace were reserve troops who could sleep when they pleased.

The night passed without incident, though it was colder than any of them had anticipated, in spite of the thaw having set in some days before. By morning, Tom and Amos were bleary-eyed and less than eager to start the working day. Amos had lately become on of the Squire's new 'watchers', assisting Sir Charles Gullifer's head gamekeeper in laying the hated man-traps and spring-guns along tracks frequented by poachers, or else working the night shift to patrol the estate. The number of men willing to risk injury and perhaps death, either from the keepers or the traps, had increased in proportion to their poverty and they were not deterred by the threat of capture and a summary trial. The recent Enclosure Acts had deprived them of their common, used as grazing land by generations of cottagers. Sir Charles considered himself a fair-minded and honourable man, but he had small patience with the labourers' grievances, excepting those which could be laid at Buonaparte's door. Were their wages not supplemented from the Poor Relief Fund, to which he subscribed more generously than duty demanded? He had been quick to recruit more watchers to protect his game.

As Tom trudged back with the Tandys for an early breakfast, he voiced his thoughts reluctantly. "Best not stand duty with me any more, Amos, or you'll be falling down asleep on your own traps. It's not likely the Resurrection Men will bother us hereabouts."

"You're a bigger fool than you look, Tom Elderfield." This was Jessica, running beside Mace to catch up with the older boys. "You'll be telling us next that Hampshire surgeons don't need corpses. Why, I believe the cold dew has turned your brain, if you have one."

Tom had quarrelled often with this bold, vital, fiery-natured girl whose dark eyes missed nothing and who apparently spoke each thought as it occurred to her. And now he was cold and weary, disinclined to swallow the insult just because she was female. He said rudely, "You can stay out of it. You weren't invited last night and needn't come again, so keep your opinions to yourself."

Jessica drew breath to deliver her current opinion of Tom Elderfield; but one look at his face stopped her. To Tom's lasting bewilderment she linked her arm through his and sent Mace ahead with Amos. Having thus established herself as Tom's ally against all comers, she walked beside him with her head high, not saying a word, and ignoring the winks and grins of her brothers.

Tom was glad to have lost the argument; Amos and Jess knew how he would have hated to continue the dismal, freezing, eerie vigil alone. Making plans for the future was all very fine and exhilarating, but with the Tandys he could be himself, without being required to bear his new responsibilities like a man, with a man's strength of mind and purpose. He was sorry to have snapped at Jessica.

He waited to tell her so until breakfast was over, and the girl had shut herself in the kitchen to wash the dishes. Tom heard her singing; her voices was sweet and clear, but the ballad was a sad one. With the menfolk gone from the house, and his mother in bed, Tom sauntered into the kitchen and leaned on the door jamb, hands in his pockets. Jessica was scrubbing each item of crockery with savage concentration, the violent movements of her arm at odds with her gentle singing.

"That's a pretty tune, Jess."

"I learned it last Michaelmas, from a balladeer at Weyhill Fair." She glanced round, half smiling. "You don't have to say sorry. I was unkind to you."

He grinned sheepishly and advanced to peer over her shoulder. "I'll choose my own punishment, then. Want some help with that?"

"And have our best plates all in pieces on the floor? Get away with you, Tom."

He picked up a clean plate, set it rolling the length of the dresser, and leapt to catch it three inches above the floor.

"There - how's that?"

Jessica clicked her tongue as if exasperated, moving to the long table to fuss with the arrangement of some snowdrops in a vase. Tom lounged against the dresser and watched her narrowly.

"Still angry with me?" he asked.

"You're putting me off my work." Her voice sounded odd, and when she turned he saw her eyes brimming with tears. "Oh, Tom, I keep thinking about Rob Hanson. If it was my Pa that was killed, I know I'd go after Rob to murder him. You wouldn't try anything like that on your own, would you, without telling any of us? He'd kill you if you did, Tom, you're no match for him yet..."

"I'm not going to murder Rob Hanson."

The girl caught her breath. "You mean you don't even want to?" Clearly this was worse than that he should risk his life in the attempt.

He answered seriously, aware that this was something he would tell no one but her. "Hanson is a day-labourer, out of work most winters. He gets his glory leading a gang of thugs, and winning the county championship for singlestick-playing. All right, let him."

"Tom!"

"I shan't swing for him, he's not bloody worth it. But I'll beat him, Jess, by God I will. This time next year I swear I'll be earning as much every week as Hanson could in a month - and I'll take the championship from him too, soon as I'm old enough to qualify. "He stopped, with a breath of ironical laughter. "Here endeth today's lesson."

Jessica came to him and placed her hands on his shoulders; her hands were still damp and he felt their warmth through his shirt. Last year she had been the same height as himself, but already he was at least three inches the taller. She stood so close that he noticed how thick and long her eyelashes were, and discovered with a flicker of surprise that she had borrowed his mother's French perfume. On Jessica it smelt different; fresher, more elusive, wholly enticing. The nearness of her sent a heat through his body and quickened his blood.

The girl leaned forward on tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth, her lips just touching his before she stood back to look solemnly into his eyes.

"You'll show them, Tom." She said. "I know you will."

Tom had never kissed a girl before, but no girl had ever looked up at him with that shining confidence, as if she would take his side against a thousand Rob Hansons. Hesitantly and awkwardly he pulled her close and returned her kiss, with much gentleness at first, and then with certainty and hunger as all the stresses of the past week found unexpected release, and her need seemed as great as his own.

At last she struggled free of his arms and backed away, smoothing her hair and dress, although neither was disarranged. "If that's your idea of an apology, Tom Elderfield, she said breathlessly, "I'd as soon have it in plain ordinary words next time." But her eyes lifted to his and she smiled, and Tom's grin in return made them at once conspirators. "Well," she said, "I'll see you in the churchyard, I suppose.

"Oh, bet on it, Jess," he said, and retreated from the kitchen in awe and wonder, hardly aware of the ground under his feet. He ran most of the way home, and all that day derived a ridiculous amount of pleasure from whistling the tune that Jessica Tandy had learned at Weyhill Fair.

Chapter Three

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