The Ballad of John Clare (12 page)

The women followed, Ann Clare and Betsy Jackson amongst them. They gathered the fallen swathes of wheat in their arms and lifted them up, as though tending the fallen. They tied each sheaf with twisted straw. They leaned the sheaves together, six at a time, into stooks. Behind them row upon row of lifted stooks stood, each like a cluster of tousle-headed prisoners of war bound together back to back. Overhead a fierce September sun beat down upon bent backs.

On the other side of Lolham Bridge Field, where Mr Bull’s and Bob Turnill’s stooks had stood three weeks in bright sunshine, two great carts had been drawn to the edge of their furlongs. One man stood in each and built the load, six more forked the sheaves up to them as they worked. The waiting horses stamped in the heat.

Beyond them, where the stooks had all been taken, Kitty Otter, Sophie Clare and a gaggle of other girls, old women and village paupers were gleaning the stubble for spilt grain.

When mid-day came, it was to the shade of those two carts, piled high now, that the men retired. They crawled between the high wooden iron-shod wheels and patted down the sharp stubble. Some lit pipes, some unwrapped their baggin. All of them filled mugs from the harvest barrel that had been lifted onto a corner of the cart. They washed the dust from their throats. John and Parker shared the bread and cheese and apples that had been wrapped for them. When they had eaten they stretched out in the shadow of the load and rested.

The women ate apart. They went down to the willows that leaned over Green Dyke at the edge of the field and settled there. They dipped their feet into the cool water and brushed away the flies with withies as they talked.

When the hour was over and Richard Royce called them back to work the men made their slow way across the field to their scythes that lay alongside the uncut corn. As John was drawing the first stroke of his whet-stone against the blade he heard his name being called:

“John Clare.”

He turned and saw Betsy Jackson. She was with the other women, coming back from the stream’s edge. Her face was in shadow under her wide brimmed straw bonnet, but he could see she was smiling at him. She beckoned.

“Come here John!”

He put down his scythe and wandered across to her.

“Us musicianers must stick together John, so I’ve made ye something special.”

She fished beneath the cotton cloth that covered her basket. He could see the yellow stains of dried sweat under the arms of her cotton blouse.

“I’ve made ye a mutton pasty.”

She pulled out a golden brown pastry with pinched edges and handed it to him.

“You’ll enjoy that I reckon.”

John thanked her most civil and took it. He went back to where the men were waiting, broke it in half and shared it with his father. Parker turned and waved at Betsy, he touched his lips with his fingers then opened his hand. She laughed and waved. But it was John she watched as he sharpened his blade and set to work with the reaping team. It was John she watched, and then, as though she had thrown water into her own face, she shook herself so that her brown curls bobbed, and hurried forwards to catch up with the other women.

And John, oblivious of her scrutiny, bent his back to his work and tried not to think what tomorrow morning might hold in store.

*******

At the same time, under the same bright sun, Farmer Joyce was overseeing the reapers at work on his furlongs in Glinton parish. They had stopped to whet their blades for the third time when he heard a horse approaching across the stubble. He turned and saw Ben Price, the bailiff.

Farmer Joyce raised his hand:

“A fine harvesting day Ben, and the dew gone from the ground by six o’clock.”

Ben Price reined in his horse and climbed down from the saddle. The two men shook hands.

“Ay, John.”

He reached down and broke an ear from one of the stalks of wheat. He rubbed it between his hands, blew away the chaff and tipped the grains into his mouth. He chewed in a slow and considered manner, the flicker at the edge of his mouth giving his milling rumination something of a pained air.

“Good,” he said, “’tis a good grain John.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“But ‘twas not to discuss grain that I have ridden out this afternoon. The Earl’s secretary has pressed me most urgent to put this into your hands.”

He opened his jacket and reached into the pocket. He pulled out a letter sealed with wax.

“I am told to tell you to give it your most considered attention.”

Farmer Joyce took the letter. Ben Price climbed up into the saddle, reined his horse around and set off at a trot across the dusty stubble. As soon as he was gone Farmer Joyce broke the seal and unfolded the letter. He read it once and then he read it again.

“Damn him.”

He stuffed it into his pocket.

“Damn him to hell.”

He strode across the field to where his mare was tethered in the shade of a stand of sycamores. He untied her and rode to the village. When he came to his yard he handed the horse to Will Farrell and strode into the sudden dark shade of the house.

“Mary!”

She was in the bake-house with Kate Dyball.

“Mary, where are ye?”

She came running into the parlour where her father was pacing up and down. She ran forward to him.

“What’s amiss?”

“Mary, I cannot stand witness at the assize …”

“But you promised that you would ….”

“Read this.”

He pulled the letter from his pocket and thrust it angrily into her hand. She unfolded it and read aloud.

Sir

It has come to the attention of the Earl of Fitzwilliam that you intend to stand witness in favour of one against whom the Earl presses charges for affront to his Property, Game and the very Life of one of his most trusted Keepers. He wishes you to know that should you continue in your Folly no cheese, ham or husbandry will assuage his displeasure. He wishes also to remind you that your Land and Living, your Rents, Privileges and Entitlements are entirely at his Discretion.

Yours

Robert Smethwick

Secretary to the Earl of Fitzwilliam

Mary looked at her father:

“You must stand true to your conscience.”

He shook his head.

“And risk losing all that I have worked for, and my father before me and my old grandsire, bless his soul … and all that I might pass on to you Mary. And put all these other lives in jeopardy that depend upon me for their living, Will Farrell, John Fell, Nathan Cushion, Kate, Lizzie and Hope ….all for the sake of a gypsy I have only once clapped eyes upon …‘tis too high a price.”

Mary was silent. She looked down at the floor so that her hair fell forwards across her face. He took her hands. He whispered:

“I’m sorry Mary, I know this injustice hurts you very sore … but you will not prevail.”

She nodded.

He turned and left the room. She stood a long time alone in the parlour.

*******

In the Bluebell after sundown it was the same story. The fear of the Earl’s displeasure was too strong a medicine for any to swallow save Old Otter.

“I’ll come with thee John, for what have I to lose by telling God’s truth?”

From the rest there was nought but a shaking of heads. He was only a thieving gypsy after all, and if innocent of firing the gun there could be no denying the poaching. Even those who knew Wisdom shook their heads. Jonathan Burbridge feared losing his carpenter’s shop and half his custom. James Bain feared for his forge. Sam Billings feared the loss of his carting business. Even Parker Clare feared for his cottage, though he saw but little danger in John standing witness.

“You say your piece, son, for we know who’s at fault in the matter and the truth must be spoke according to your conscience and even the mighty stand naked before the law.”

Sam Billings stood then and raised his mug.

“Here’s to Wisdom Boswell.”

Most of the tap room ignored him, but one or two raised their mugs in response:

“Ay, Wisdom Boswell, poor sod, and may his neck be spared.”

But there was a despondency, a dullness in the pitch and cadence of their toasting that did little to engender hope in John’s heart for the next day’s verdict.

*******

Yesterday the dawn broke clear. The village woke to Richard Royce’s horn. But as the rest were shouldering their scythes John was making his way first to Old Otter’s squat on Snow Common, and then to Langley Bush where King Boswell was camped again.

The three of them walked the dusty road to Peterborough: the two old men and John. From behind, seeing them silhouetted against the early sun, any watcher would have been hard pressed to discern which of them was old and which young. Otter was on the left, with his lifting-falling lope; King Boswell on the right, thick-set and broad as a bare-fist boxer in the Fancy, with two pups dancing at his heels; and between them John, shorter by a head, dimute and small, though with little narrowing where head meets neck. But from the front, with the sun shining strong upon them, their faces told a different tale. John fresh-faced, with the bloom of boyhood upon him still, clear-eyed and holding the world to its promises. The others, one dark-haired, one white-bearded, each in his own way carrying his burthen of experience upon his features.

Barely a word had been spoken between them as they drew close to the outermost edges of town. The yellow stubble fields were giving way to tanneries and ware-houses when John heard the steady hollow ringing of a horse’s hooves striking the dry stones and baked earth of the road behind them.

“John! John!”

He turned and saw Mary. She was sitting side-saddle on Dobbie, her dappled cob. She sprang nimbly down and ran forwards with the reins in one hand, the horse trotting beside her. She slipped the other hand under John’s arm. She pressed her lips to his cheek. King Boswell stood aside and bowed most gentlemanly. He looked first at Mary in her striped gown, her petticoat of blue printed cotton and her ribboned hat, then at the mare, that was as pretty a coloured cob as ever he’d clapped eyes upon. For a moment Wisdom was forgot in the double loveliness that beguiled his eyes.

But John and Old Otter could see that Mary was not herself. Otter was the first to speak:

“What troubles thee Mary Joyce?”

She shook her head.

“Father will not come. He has received a letter from the Earl. He risks losing all if he stands witness.”

There was quiet for a moment. Then John said:

“And he has let you come alone to the assize?”

“I did not ask him. He was out upon the harvest. I took the mare and slipped away.”

“He’ll be unhappy when he finds you gone.”

“Happy or unhappy, I’m coming with you John. I’ve writ him a note, though chances are he shall not find it. He lets the business of the farm over-ride his conscience, for he knows clear enough who is innocent and who guilty and would speak plainly if he dared.”

*******

The Sessions Court was three-fourths filled when they entered, though there was still a full hour before the Judge would make his entry. John, Old Otter and King Boswell registered themselves to the clerk as witnesses, giving names and places of residence. They found a bench in the gallery and sat and waited. The crowd pushed in through the court doors until the room was packed. And there was a clear divide between those that had come to see their own kin stand trial, and those that had come for a day’s diversion; for there were some that sat quiet and said but little, and some that peeled oranges and talked merry. Mary entwined her fingers with John’s. His palm was damp with sweat. The room grew hotter and hotter and there was a greasy smell that pervaded the air, of clothes too long worn, of rotten teeth, of unwashed children and shit besmirched leather. In front of them the jury’s bench, the judge’s seat, the witness box and the caged dock for the accused stood empty.

Then at last came the ringing of the bell. First the jury took their place, though they would be of little succour to poor Wisdom, his being a Game Case and punishable by the judge alone. They sat down upon their bench with that air of dignified self-import that signals small-mindedness and fair-play in equal measure. Then the Court Room fell quiet as Justice Ashurst made his entry. Solemn and stately in his scarlet robes lined with ermine and his full bottomed wig, his chin still greasy with breakfast, he walked to his seat. Behind him the mayor and aldermen of the soke of Peterborough took their places along the front row. They took off their tri-corn hats and rested them upon their knees.

A woman, the daughter of some gentleman, stood and curtseyed to the judge and put a nose-gay of scented flowers upon his desk to sweeten the air.

The first of the accused was brought forward. He stood chained in the dock, his head bowed. When his name was spoken he lifted his head and glowered at the room.

“William Samson. Aged thirty five. You stand accused of feloniously assaulting Luke Rowbotham between eleven and twelve in the night in a field near the King’s Highway and stealing from his person three promissory ten pound notes, eight or ten shillings in silver, one silver stop-watch and various other chattels.”

The case was heard. Witnesses for the prosecution said their piece. Witnesses for the defence claimed that he was on a pauper’s wage with five children to feed. The jury found him guilty.

And then the second of the accused took his place. Elizabeth Firth, aged fourteen, stood trembling before the judge, accused of ‘twice administering a quantity of verdigrease powder with intent to murder Susanna, the infant daughter of George Barnes of Market Deeping.’ She was found innocent, her weeping mother ran forwards to embrace her but was pushed back to her seat and told to await the afternoon.

Then came James Moody, aged twenty eight, charged with ‘committing the odious and detestable crime and felony called sodomy’. He was found guilty.

Wisdom was the last to be brought up to the dock. John could see, by the rough way that the turn-keys pushed him into the cage, that he did not rank as a favourite amongst them. And when he lifted his head and looked at the judge it was with the same insolent directness of gaze that had so enraged Will Bloodworth. He is like some dog that will not be kicked into submission and refuses to be cowed. John shook his head at Wisdom, willing him to show some contrition, but it was clear that he could not see him in the ocean of faces.