Illusions Of Change: A Poor Man at the Gate Series, #6

By Andrew Wareham

The Depression is over and fears of revolution have subsided, but there is still resentment over the previous year’s hangings. Robert is carrying out some very controversial actions on behalf of the government under cover of his bank’s business in America. Mad King George finally dies and a new reign appears to offer the possibility of change, but the realities of political and economic existence remain unaltered. William Rumpage rises in the world, to his own, and his wife’s trepidation. Business in India shows a profit, and Captain John starts to repair his fortunes. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Electronic Book Company
• Release date: Jul 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781501491733

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This ebook contains detailed research material, combined with the author's own subjective opinions, which are open to debate. Any offence caused to persons either living or dead is purely unintentional. Factual references may include or present the author's own interpretation, based on research and study.

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Illusions of Change

Copyright © 2014 by Andrew Wareham

All Rights Reserved

Contents:

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Copyright Page

Scene Setter

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Book Seven in the Series

Scene Setter

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The continuing story of erstwhile, small-time smuggler Tom Andrews, who in earlier adventures, escaped from England to avoid the hangman’s noose. He was shanghaied onto a Caribbean bound privateering ship, before Tom fled to New York, accompanied by Joseph Star, a part Carib freeman. They were betrayed and were forced to return to England at the beginning of the first great industrial boom; as unscrupulous businessmen they quickly became wealthy. Tom met the beautiful, Lady Verity Masters, the daughter of an impoverished local aristocrat. Later, Tom and Verity set out their plans to place their dynasty in a position of economic, social and political leadership in England. All seemed to be going smoothly until tragedy struck.

In Illusions of Change the families prosper but also face challenges. Tom’s involvement in the hangings of the rioters in the previous year has created a continuing source of resentment that Tom must somehow try to remedy before the situation gets entirely out of hand.

Introduction

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The Depression is over and the fears of revolution have subsided, but there is still resentment in the Burton area over the previous year’s hangings. Tom knows he has to put things right or face a dangerous future. Meanwhile, Robert is enjoying a life in high finance and carrying out some very controversial actions on behalf of the government under cover of his bank’s business in America. Henry Star and John Quillerson become involved.

Mad King George finally dies and a new reign appears to offer the possibility of change, but the realities of political and economic existence remain unaltered. Against this backdrop, James Andrews commences his political career, to the surprise of all, while William Rumpage rises in the world, to his own, and his wife’s trepidation.

Business in India shows a profit, and Captain John starts to repair his fortunes.

Author’s Note: I have written and punctuated Illusions of Change in a style reflecting English usage in novels of the Georgian period, when typically, sentences were much longer than they are in modern English. Editor’s Note:  Andrew’s book was written, produced and edited in the UK where some of the spellings and word usage vary slightly from U.S. English.

Book Six: A Poor Man

at the Gate Series

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Chapter One

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Liar!

I bloody tell you it was that scar-face old bastard what got ‘em all hanged. Me mam’s two brothers and me dad’s big brother’s son, all three of ‘em swinging on the gallows in Burton and all acos of ‘im!

The landlord of the Mulso Arms intervened, he wanted no arguments in his bar and, especially, he could not afford to tolerate abuse of His Lordship, not in a pub whose freehold belonged to the estate.

Calm down, Mr Barney, if you please! And you, whoever you are, bugger off out of my pub! Go and shout your mouth off in Burton, if that’s where you’re from, but we’ll hear no more of your bloody nonsense in these parts. Drink up and get out, quick!

Barney was a well-to-do tenant farmer and as such an important local figure, even if unusually young for the role. The other man was a carter, not much better than a gypsy in the landlord’s estimation, and his seditious rubbish was not wanted where important people might hear of it.

Arse creeper! That’s all you are, you fat old bugger. And you brew a piss-poor pint! As for you, mister, if you wants to step outside and call me a liar there, you can bloody well try it.

The carter stamped out, stood waiting in full view of the door, a big man, heavily built, well-muscled from swinging loads on and off of his wagon. There were forty ten-stone sacks of flour up on the bed, four feet off the ground, and he would have put them there himself, single-handed, one hundred and forty pounds at a time.

Joshua Barney glanced at him, did not fancy the prospect of taking him on bare-knuckle, but he had no choice, there were four other men in the bar and the word would soon go round the village if he showed yellow. All the girls would hear of it and laugh at him and some of the young men would get pushy, would try to bully him if they thought he was a weakling; his labourers on the farm would slack off behind his back as well. 

He put his unfinished pint down on the counter, walked out without a word. The drinkers and the landlord crowded to the window to watch.

Put them up then. I’ll shut your big mouth for you, mister!

The carter rushed him, swinging high and with all his weight. Joshua ducked and stepped in close, bringing his knee up hard. There was a collective wince behind him, an indrawn breath, mutters of ironic commiseration.

Joshua punched the carter as he dropped, more for the show of it than for any need, belting him on the nose and bringing a spray of blood, much appreciated by the audience.

The onlookers came out, picked the carter up and bundled him onto his seat, shoved the reins into his hands and urged the pair of horses into motion. With any luck he wouldn’t fall off, they thought, not really caring – he was a foreigner from five miles up the road, not one of their own people.

The word reached Quillerson that afternoon, the village grapevine effective as ever, news spreading almost by magic.

Lord Andrews was in London with my lady and intending to make a visit to her parents in Dorset afterwards, they demanding company while they made their annual duty stay with their thoroughly boring son. My lord would not be back at the Hall for nearly two months and, with any luck, this little matter would have blown over by then. There was no need to send him a letter, he concluded, although this was the third time in four weeks he had heard word of bitterness among the Burton people.

The hangings of the previous year had produced shock and fear, as had been intended, but both had worn off and now there was grief and anger in their place. Quillerson did not think there was any intention of revenge as yet, but loose talk could lead to bad temper and that could produce anything. Fighting on a grand scale between the two sets of villagers was always a possibility as there had never been any love lost between Burton and Finedon; that had been so for generations, at least since the days of the Roundheads and Cavaliers when it seemed that the squires had taken different sides.

The country as a whole was calming down, so my lord had told him, perhaps as a result of the hangings in more than one small town, and they did not want any further disorder to flare up and spread.

It would be a waste of time to speak to the Latimers. Sir Charles had no concept of tactful dealing with his people, would certainly react with a heavy hand: threats and evictions and trumped-up prosecutions that would make matters worse. The only sensible course was to watch, to collect names of troublemakers against future need and to do nothing at all while it could be avoided.

The best thing immediately would be for Joshua Barney to settle down with a wife and keep out of the pub, but farmers did not commonly marry until they were in their thirties, especially if they had a mother in the house to run the yard for them. The milking shed, poultry and the dairy itself were all in the domain of the womenfolk and there could be friction when a new wife expected to take over from a still fit and active mother-in-law, so most wise men delayed marriage until their mothers were ready to sit by the fireside and rock their grandchildren’s cradles. It often led to engagements lasting ten or more years before the actual marriage and had the beneficial effect of reducing the size of the farmer’s family.

Only one son could inherit the tenancy or the land itself in the case of a yeoman. Younger brothers might find a life of their own in another trade, in the past very often becoming soldiers, now more likely to go overseas. The sole alternative was to remain as unpaid labourers to their brothers, never marrying and a nuisance to the farm, having to be kept on even if they lacked skills and the willingness to put in a good day’s work. Daughters were useful in the dairy and with the poultry but were an expense to marry off, needing a bottom drawer at minimum, often a couple of hundreds in cash as a dowry which a prosperous farmer had to provide, or seem mean-spirited and possibly unthrifty and unable to meet his obligations.

There was much to be said for late marriage for countrymen generally, but it could lead to a degree of wildness among the unsettled young men, especially where church and chapel were weak and unable to keep their flock in line.

That led Quillerson to his other worry, the chapels and their prickly relationship with each other and in particular with Mr Nugent, pastor of the original and largest but no longer fullest of the Methody denominations.

Nugent was increasingly unstable, Quillerson believed, becoming unreliable in his anxiety to refill his pews, reaching out to the least desirable members of the community.

Quillerson had had some success in the previous year persuading young men with no work and no prospect of finding a job to emigrate, to go away for good. Farm labourers’ sons could find little enough to occupy them in the local area. Jobs at the iron foundry and the boot manufactury were increasingly rare, due to the average age of the workers being low – vacancies among the original workers had been taken up by younger men who would not, in all probabilities, die for another thirty years, a long time to wait. Without work and a cottage of their own the men would be unable to marry and the girls would not even speak to them, so there was nothing to keep them in the area. Many had gone to the new mines opening in neighbouring counties, a few farther north to the mills and manufacturies building in increasing numbers there. The rest, generally, had taken the ticket and the few pounds Quillerson had offered and had shipped out to the Americas.

Now Nugent was interfering, actively working to keep the men in the village.

A member of the congregation, a retired and widowed merchant, a man with more money than sense, Quillerson believed, had built a dozen cottages, each with two or three acres attached, and had rented them out for pennies at Nugent’s instigation. Young men had been installed as smallholders, able, just, to keep body and soul together on their little bits of land. Nugent had encouraged them to wed and the local Poor Law had then had to step in and supply loaves of bread every day and scrag ends of meat once a week to avert starvation. All had started families and, being young, those families might be expected to grow quite enthusiastically, and the cost to the Poor Law would grow as well. No doubt Mr Nugent would lead them to praise the Lord on Sundays, but for the rest of the week the Poor Law Board must look after them.

There was no national organisation of the Poor law, and government paid nothing from its taxes to help the localities. Every parish had a responsibility to its own, meeting the charge as it could and doing its best to pare expenditure to the very bone. The Thingdon estate paid more than its fair share of the local costs and Quillerson could see no reason why they should subsidise Nugent in his foolishness, and could find no way of avoiding the obligation to do so. Add to that, Nugent made no attempt to disguise his hostility to them, believing that the manor should have crushed the upstart chapels when they were first created instead of permitting them to challenge his monopoly of Nonconformity in the village.

One answer might be to create a Poor Law Union by Private Act of Parliament, the surrounding villages and Kettering all in one body and able to build a workhouse or arrange for some kind of public works, road-mending or some such, but that would demand Finedon and Burton to act together, an obvious impossibility, and Irthlingborough to the south was an industrial village, not agricultural at all, and neither of the other places had anything to do with its people, so that was out as well.

They needed a lead from the government, and would not get it while Westminster’s sole aim was to cut taxes and reduce all of its activities to ‘traditional’ levels, whatever they were supposed to be. Quillerson wondered if he should perhaps speak to Mr James about the problem so that he could raise the matter in the House. He decided not to after a little consideration of exactly what he would tell him and how.

It was a pity that it was the Methodists who were strong in the area, Quillerson thought. Had it been the Church then the bishop could have stepped in to enforce the rules of good behaviour on his errant priest, but there was no effective hierarchy among the chapels, all could go their own way, ignoring any protests made by their governing councils.

He supposed he should be thankful that there were no camp fire revivalists in the area, beating on their drums and whipping the mob into hysterical scenes of repentance and rediscovered virtue. That would be too embarrassing for the estate, would make them a laughing stock in the whole county. He had heard that there was a resurgence of Primitive Christianity in the North Country – they could keep it, the people of the Midlands were respectable.

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We really ought to go to Dorset, Thomas.

We should, I agree. Could we be called away, a sudden emergency perhaps? Do you think we might have to go to New York at a day’s notice?

They decided that it might seem a little unlikely. The civil would have to be done, they would have to tolerate a week at least of her brother and his worthy wife and boring offspring.

We could pay a call on Thomas Burley, my dear.

His wife might be a little puzzled still, Thomas.

Not to worry, I am sure that the intellectual exercise will be good for her.

She accepted that his mind was made up, and was not too concerned one way or the other.

Did you ever find out any more about his mother’s people, Thomas? He might be glad to know something of them.

They would probably be dead by now, almost must be. Which means, of course, that they cannot be embarrassed at discovering his existence. A word to Michael, I suspect.

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Michael was aging, Tom suddenly realised. He had the little pot-belly of an old man, sat thankfully when Tom had taken a chair.

There was a younger lawyer in the room, one of the juniors he had seen in the office over the years. He was at least forty.

I intend to retire to potter in my garden, Lord Andrews, next month, I have planned. Down on the Sussex coast, not so far from Arundel, where I have had a small house built. I shall join my wife and dwell in idleness for a few years.

Tom had not known that Michael was married. He had been no more than a figure in an office, a pleasant gentleman but a discreet cipher rather than a character.

My son becomes Mr Michael in my stead.

The younger man bobbed his head, still silent.

I shall have to get used to the change of face, gentlemen. It goes without saying, I trust, that my business remains in the hands of the firm of Michael.

They murmured their thanks.

I would like, if it be possible, to garner some small amount of information about a gentleman from Birmingham by name of Amberley. He was...

Tom stopped as the elder Michael raised a hand.

I believe I came across a little about this particular person when arranging the affairs of Captain Thomas Burley and his mother, my lord. 

He turned to the bookcase behind him, removed a leather-bound folder from a lower shelf and placed it neatly on the desk in front of him.

Dealings with Mrs Mary Burley, my lord. Let me see now, towards the front, I believe...

The folder contained several hundreds of quarto sheets, almost all in Michael’s hand, some fully covered, most with only a few lines.

Ah, yes, here we are. A few details about the gentleman, Mrs Burley’s father, one understands. Church of England, a churchwarden in his later years, a man of some standing in his parish. A merchant, a supplier of, I quote, ‘high-class provisions to the gentry’. In effect a shopkeeper in a good way of business, purchasing foodstuffs at farms across Warwickshire and selling to the more comfortably circumstanced denizens of Birmingham. The owner of eight shops around the town, all in the better-off areas, by the time of his death, and clearing at least a thousand a year, quite possibly more. The business to his son, naturally, and still profitable at the date of Mrs Burley’s demise, when last I added information on the matter. Three daughters, one of whom we know, of course; one remaining unwed, the support to her mother; the third married to an apothecary, himself in a good line of business with, unusually in the trade, three separate stores in Warwick, Leamington Priors and Coventry. Ah, yes, a purveyor of his own patented nostrum, ‘Doctor Wilson’s Tonic for Ladies’ – very profitable, such pick-me-ups.

Michael closed the folder, tying its ribbon neatly and tidily. He saw the blank expression on Tom’s face.

Ah, tonics, my lord. A basis of about a quarter of the bottle of distilled spirits, my lord, the alcohol disguised by the careful admixture of a strong flavouring matter, garlic much used - such a healthy taste, of course - diluted with clean, boiled water, and then not less than twenty parts by volume of opium. Laudanum in disguise, my lord, nepenthe, one might say. An excellent tonic for a good night’s sleep. Every night, of course.

Habit forming and therefore a source of an income for life. A foreshortened life, perhaps, but a much more comfortable, happy one, with such pleasant dreams.

Not hugely expensive, my lord. Ten pence or perhaps a shilling for a week’s supply, the glass bottle refilled discreetly at the apothecary’s so that there is no evidence to be seen on the rubbish heap, one container lasting for years. A housewife in her forties and starting to discover certain discomforts will enjoy a far easier existence courtesy of her medicinal compound.

Is it as much a commonplace as you imply, Mr Michael?

I suspect that every woman of an age in the country who can find an extra shilling in the housekeeping puts it to medicinal use, my lord.

Indian opium?

Of course, my lord. Every East Indiaman making port in London will have some chests aboard. Although I must add that I believe some of the Levanters also bring supplies from Persia, though certainly not in such quantities as John Company sends. We must console ourselves with the thought that it is probably less harmful than gin, though not so cheap.

Tom shrugged, it was not his problem, he had no duty to save women from their own foolishness; if they wished to become opium-eaters then the choice, and the penalty, was theirs.

Is the widow Amberley still alive, do you know?

I think not, my lord. She was in poor health when last I had word of her.

So... Two aunts and an uncle and that is all. They might well wish to become acquainted with a land-owning nephew, his late mother having been so fortunate as to wed Mr Burley, of course. One must ask, even so, whether they would do him any credit. His wife’s people might well look askance at mere shopkeepers.

Michael agreed, better to leave those dogs asleep, he felt.

I am off to Dorset with Lady Andrews, Mr Michael, so I suspect this is where we say farewell. You have done very well by me over the years, Mr Michael, and I owe you thanks. Will you remain in contact with Mr Smith, by the way?

My son will do so, my lord. All is in hand there.

The connection was very useful, it was always as well to keep in with some of the government’s less visible servants.

Lord Star’s son was very pleased to have been released from the entanglement he had so unfortunately entered into. He has come to realise that he had acted carelessly and I am very sure he will never be so thoughtless again. He knows now that he is to an extent a public man and he must organise his private life appropriately.

Michael smiled benignly – an unalloyed success, one he was proud of.

He has a shining career in front of him, my lord. There is a need to increase the strength of the bench, my lord, in numbers, primarily so as to reduce the delays in criminal matters. Government has noticed, finally, that felons may be taken up with much acclaim but then wait on remand for two or even three years so that they have been forgotten by the great mass of people when eventually they are brought to book for their crimes. There is little deterrent effect in hanging a nonentity, which is what they will have become, locked away out of sight and mind. Mr Star will be invited to become a puisne judge later this year, one understands.

Very young!

Indeed, my lord. One is given to understand that government is not unaware of Mr Star’s background and wishes to, shall we say, please his familial connections.

Plural, Tom noted. Not just his father. That must mean a desire to keep Thomas Star sweet. The young man did not wish to leave the provinces, to become a member of the government and spend most of the year in London as even a junior Minister of the Crown must, so it was difficult to reward him directly. Joe Star had mentioned that Thomas was becoming active locally, and government must have noted and approved of his doings.

Government favour could be quite useful in a year or two.  Charlie would like to be Lady Star, so a baronetcy for Matthew would be a worthwhile aim. ‘Distinguished naval service’ together with his work in the biggest of new steam shipyards, they should be helpful. What else? A bit of philanthropy would come in handy – what had he been saying the last time they had met?

Tom cast his mind back a few weeks – the problems of seamen officers and engineer officers, that was it, the new ships needing new ways of working at sea. Unspoken, but clearly in Matthew’s mind, was the concern that engineer, steam hold, officers would commonly not be gentlemen, while deck officers certainly would continue to be. It would be difficult to persuade the middle order of people to send their sons into the grime and vulgarity of a coal-fired career, so Matthew thought. He was probably right.

Such being the case, the steam ships should recruit their engineer officers from a new source. The orphanages could be persuaded, very easily, to give of their brightest and best boys to become steam apprentices. Their keep and clothing and education paid for them in a dockside school