Life is Precarious
Life is precarious, and our hold on it uncertain. That’s always been true, but it seems that people have forgotten it. We have medication that keeps people alive with conditions that, only a few years ago, would have killed them. It’s easy to believe that threats to life have been overcome; those in their teens today may even believe that they’ll live for ever. They won’t.
Life in the eighteenth century was a lot less certain
A lot of research went into my James Blakiston series, some of it to do with the ages at which people died and what it was that carried them off. Illnesses that we now know as TB and flu were rife. Here is a passage from the first book in the series, A Just and Upright Man:
On the fourth of February in a winter that was taking no prisoners, Blakiston might have expected to find everyone clustered around the fire – and that is exactly where the aged Benjamin was, being fussed over by his wife who was twenty years younger than he was. His two sons, however, were hard at work in the biting cold. Blakiston watched them, struck by the single-minded intensity with which both young men worked. Then he returned to the farm house to take a dish of tea by the fire with the old man and discuss how they would manage the change from a three crop to a four crop rotation.
As he prepared to leave, Blakiston said, ‘You have two good sons.’
‘Aye, Master. They’re good lads, both of them.’
‘It is a pity that both cannot inherit the tenancy. The younger boy…Tom, is it?’
‘Aye, Master. Tom is the second born.’
‘From what I have seen he would make a better farmer than many who are already tenants. But it cannot be. This farm is not large enough to divide. We need bigger farms, not smaller.’
‘Well, Master, God’s will is God’s will.’
‘Do you say so? Tell me, Benjamin Laws, have you any other children beyond those two?’
‘A daughter, Master. Henrietta. We call her Hetty. She is a scullery maid at the Castle.’
‘And how comes it that a man of advanced years has sons so young?’
‘Twas the influenza, Master.’
‘Ah. I am sorry.’
‘Aye, Master. I had a wife and five bairns before what you see me with today. And then the influenza came, in 1735 I think it was, and in three weeks all were gone but me.’
‘A sad story.’
‘It was the same for many.’
‘And that, too, was God’s will?’
Blakiston saw the startled expression in the old man’s eyes and realised he had better take this no further. ‘Well, Uncle, I shall keep you from sleep no longer.’
That was how life was, and the people knew it. Cholera and typhoid were other killers and it was not so many years before that that plague halved the population of England. And these killers did not respect rank – a king or a bishop had almost as much chance of dying as some farm labourer in a hovel.
Those 18th-century killers are still at work
That isn’t the case now, and it could be that the reason that Covid-19 is getting so much attention when tuberculosis (and, if it comes to that, measles) kills far more is that most of the people dying from TB are not white and not middle-class and have very little buying power and are therefore of little interest to our western media. If the virus serves no other purpose, perhaps it might be useful in bringing home to all of us a lesson that, once, did not need to be taught: that life is precarious and our hold on it tenuous.
Passing the time in self-isolation
If you are observing self-isolation, you may find that this is a very good time to spend with a good book. You’ll find the first in the James Blakiston series here and the second here. If historical fiction is not your bag, and you’d like to take a look at the way people live now, try this one or this one.
How do I find the third book in this series
It’s with beta readers at the moment, and scheduled for publication in the autumn. The title is The First Greeners in America. It goes back to the point in Book 1 when Tom agrees to pay for Joe and Miles to escape to the American colonies after Joe is falsely accused of murder. It starts like this:
Sheep droving is slow work at any time of the year, and especially in November when no drover would expect to be doing it. That these sheep had to make the journey at all was caused by the Navy Board’s chronic inability to make timely provision for its wants. Jemmy’s brother had been paid in full at the outset or he would never have begun the journey. He had laughed to scorn the offer of the navy’s scrip. Many a small farmer had been bankrupted that way, while Navy Board officials grew rich beyond anything their salaries could explain.
It took Joe and Miles two full days to reach Brampton, where the sheep were to turn off to the south. They slept that night in the inn with the genuine drovers and took their leave next morning with relief. By early afternoon, they were in Carlisle.
They walked around the town in increasing puzzlement for an hour or more. At last they sat down in the market square and Joe gave voice to the mystery that was troubling both of them.
Miles shook his head. He had been happy to leave things to his older half-brother. If Joe was worried, he must worry, too. Without Joe he doubted he could even get himself home. “Have we been duped?”
“If we have, it is by Tom’s cousin Jemmy. What motive could he have?”
“What shall we do?”
“We were told to present ourselves at the Cross Keys and give our name as Armstrong. It might be best I go alone, till I see which way the land lies. If I don’t return, you must get on the road for Ryton.”
“Could we not walk to Bristol?”
“We’d never get there in time.”
“Well, I would rather stay with you.”
Joe looked at the boy, feeling for the first time regret that he had embroiled him in this adventure. “Very well. We shall go to the Cross Keys and eat, but we will say nothing of this matter till I have judged the landlord.”
They had passed the inn twice as they walked around the town. Finding it again took only minutes. They entered the low-ceilinged front room and set their small bundles against the wooden settle. The only other man present looked them over with frank curiosity. “James!” he shouted. “You have customers.”
A stocky man with thick hams for arms and a smiling, open face emerged from a corridor leading from this to other rooms. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said. “What can I serve you?”
“Ale, please, landlord,” said Joe. “And we would like something to eat.”
“There is mutton newly boiled.”
“That would do well. And cheese, if you have it?”
“Of course.” He disappeared through the door by which he had entered.
“Lovely cheese they have here,” said the man who had called James through into the bar. “And good bread baked by James’s wife. Have you traveled far?”
“Some distance,” said Joe.
“From Newcastle way?”
“No. No, not from that direction.”
“From the north, then?”
“Aye. From the north.”
The landlord returned and placed two pewter plates and a dish of steaming mutton on the table before them.
“And you are on foot?” said the man.
“We are.”
“We heard there was trouble in Gretna. Did you see anything of that?”
“Gretna?” said Joe. “No. We passed through there yesterday and saw no trouble.”
“Did you now? Walked here from Gretna since yesterday? You must have run all night.”
Joe cursed inwardly as he realized his mistake.
“Nay, Zeb,” said the landlord as he brought two tankards of ale. “We treat strangers with courtesy in this house. If the man doesn’t want to tell you his business you must respect his wishes.”
Zeb laughed. “Gretna to Carlisle in a day. That’d be some walk on those roads.” He stood and placed on his head a battered woolen hat. “Time I went.” He nodded to Joe and Miles. “I shall see you again tomorrow, perhaps.”
Joe watched him go with trepidation. Was he off to speak to the militia?
The landlord sat down close to them. “Don’t worry about Zeb. He has no love for the government. He’s gone home to have supper with his missus.”
“What did he mean by seeing us tomorrow?”
The landlord smiled. “You’ll be wanting a bed for the night?”
“Mebbes.”
“Maybe? You will or you won’t. The charge for you both would be a shilling. I could put you up for nothing if you would mend the axle on my cart. I have the tools but I’m no blacksmith.”
“You know who I am?”
“You’re a smith from Winlaton who wants to get to America. Unless that story’s as false as your name, Mr. Armstrong.” He smiled broadly.
The wild beating of Joe’s heart steadied as he realized he had but the one course of action. “I see I must trust you.”
“Why would you not?”
“I was told we could get to Bristol from here by boat. I’m a blacksmith and I don’t know much about boats. But I do know one thing and that is that they can’t sail without water. And there is no water here. So how are we to take ship to Bristol?”
The landlord threw back his head and roared with laughter. “If my cart is mended, I shall take you to the Firth in it. Otherwise you will have to walk. Which would not please Zeb.”
“The Firth?”
“The Solway Firth. The inlet between England and Scotland. With Ireland a few short sea miles away. A handy location for a man of Zeb’s calling. Are you enjoying that mutton, boy?”
Miles lifted his head from his plate. He had not realized how hungry he was till the food was placed in front of him. “Yes, thank you, sir.”
“I wasn’t told about the boy?” said the landlord.
“My brother. He’s going with me.”
“Lucky fellow. There’s no future here for the young.”
“Zeb?”
“Came to look you over before he would agree to carry you. People hereabouts can be suspicious, Mr. Armstrong.”
“Call me Joe.”
“Thank you, Joe. I’m James. We’re close to the edge of England here, and near the start of Scotland. The government has never trusted us. There’s a lot of Catholics, and some Jacobites, though we hear little enough of them since forty-five. And sea-faring men. This is smuggling country. Then there’s the press gangs. Though they haven’t troubled us since the end of the war with France. The navy’s paying sailors off, not pressing more. We have an army barracks, and government spies who sometimes have to be taught to mind their own business. It can be useful to be able to get over the sea in a hurry. Or hide. A troop of redcoats could search a Cumberland valley for a year and not find what they sought.”
“But Zeb?” Joe insisted.
“He has some…things…he wants to get to Bristol.”
“Things from where?”
“Ah, now, Joe, there are questions you have to learn not to ask. But he will carry a strong man for only two shilling, just so long as you’re ready to help out if the excise men take an interest.” He stood up. “I’ll bring your bread and cheese. And when you’ve finished that, if you want to take a look at my cart?”
“I’ll be pleased to.”
It proved to be the first inn on the journey with no fleas in the beds, for which Joe and Miles were grateful. The landlord woke them at five and they breakfasted on eggs and slices of ham with great doorsteps of heavy brown bread set thick with golden butter. “You’ll need a hearty breakfast inside you,” said the landlord, “For you never know when you will eat again.”
They were ready to go when Zeb arrived an hour later. He and James disappeared into the cellar and came back with two bundles which they loaded into the back of the cart. “You and the boy sit on those,” said James. “Guard them as though they were worth more than your lives. For they are.”
He and Zeb climbed up in front and, by a quarter past six, the cart was moving through the dark deserted streets.
It took only an hour to reach the inlet where Zeb’s small boat was beached. A soft rain began to fall as Joe helped the two men get the bundles aboard and cover them with sacking. Then he, Miles and Zeb got into the boat. The landlord passed them two stone bottles and a small parcel. “There’s beer in one and rum in t’other,” he said. “And here’s bread and cheese to keep you fed. Go safely.” Then he untied the rope and pushed the boat out into deeper water with his foot. When Miles looked back to shore a few moments later, the landlord and his cart were gone.
Zeb used oars to get the boat far enough from land to pick up a breeze, at which point he hoisted a sail and sat down to light his clay pipe. Although he looked calm enough, Joe saw that his eyes never stopped scanning the horizon and the shore. “Are you expecting trouble?”
“We haven’t been bothered lately,” Zeb said. “But there’s no end of bays where the excise hides. I have to tell you, boys, I have no intention of being taken alive.”
“I gather James is a partner in this enterprise of yours,” said Joe.
“He said you were a man to ask questions.”
“But you’re not a man to give answers.”
Zeb smiled. They sailed on in silence, getting slowly wetter, until they came into the choppier waters of the Irish Sea. The boat immediately became a much livelier thing and Joe and Miles both clutched the edge, feeling the water splash over their hands and up their sleeves while spray dashed into their faces.
“Don’t worry,” said Zeb. “I’ve sailed this boat through the Channel and across the Bay of Biscay to Coruna. She’s more than good enough for a paddle to Bristol. And the weather will keep the excise men in harbor. You’ll see far worse before you get to America at this time of year.”
“What was it like?” asked Miles.
Zeb smiled. “Don’t let it get hold of you, lad. The romance goes out of the sea before you finish your first trip. I should know. I sailed with Admiral Pocock when we drove the French out of the Indian Ocean. They’d never get me on another man-o’-war, I tell you that.”
“But the Bay of Biscay. What was it like?” repeated Miles, his eyes shining.
“You’ll see for yourself before too long. Dolphins, you’ll see, while you’re hanging over the rail sending your breakfast to the mermaids. Whales. Skuas and shearwaters. Hello, what’s that?”
It took Joe and Miles some minutes to see what Zeb’s narrowed sailor’s eyes had spotted. By the time they had picked out the skiff racing toward them out of the drizzling mist to shoreward, Zeb had visibly relaxed. “It’s no excise man,” he said. “Not in that craft.” He half lowered his sail, losing way to allow the visitor to come up with them. As it drew closer, Joe admired the approaching sailor’s nonchalance as he allowed himself to be tossed by the waves, for Joe would sooner have trusted himself to one of the shallow barges the Newcastle keelmen used to ferry coal from riverside staithes to the colliers that would carry it to London than risk his life to such a vessel in these seas.
“Hello, Tom Hanna,” cried Zeb.
“Our Dad said it was you,” said the newcomer. “He saw you with his glass from the cliff top.”
“You have a message for me?”
“I do.” The young man looked inquiringly at Tom and Miles.
“Do they look like government men to you?”, asked Zeb.
Hanna smiled. “Our Dad has five casks of good brandy waiting for him at Honfleur. He has fell and broke his leg and cannot make the trip. I would go but I am to be wed on Wednesday next. The girl is up the spout and our child would be dropped afore I returned. She will not have it.”
“You mean her mother will not. Why do you Hannas leave all till the last minute?”
“He will split fifty fifty if you will bring the casks to Ellenport.”
“Aye, will I. Tell him I have business first in Bristol. I will sail from there direct.”
“Thank ye, Zebediah. The vintner on St Etienne’s Quay is your man.” He touched a finger to his forehead and turned his skiff nimbly back toward land.
“The French wars have played the devil with business,” said Zeb as he returned to full sail. “It is good to be back in the trade again.”
The weather worsened throughout the day. Joe began to fear that he and Miles would perish before ever leaving British waters. Reassured a little by Zeb’s lack of concern, he did not finally relax until, late on the second day, they turned into the welcoming arms of the Severn and began the voyage upstream in the dark toward Bristol. After three miles, Zeb lowered the sail and began to row. Another three, at which point they were in a steep gorge, and he pulled in to the side and tied up to an iron ring at the bottom of a flight of steps cut into the rock.
“Is this Bristol?” asked Miles.
“Almost. This is Hotwells. The Broad Quay, which you want, is a mile further on. I will take you there, but first I have business to transact.”
They sat in silence for a while and Joe wondered why Zeb appeared to have given no signal of his presence. Then he heard feet descending the steps. There was more than one person, and whoever these people were they moved confidently in the dark. Zeb stood up.
Three men stood by the boat. They looked at Zeb, but no words were exchanged. Zeb lifted the sacking and two men came on board, opened the bundles and peered into them. They nodded to the third man who took money from his pocket and passed it to Zeb. So quickly did the men move that they were already ascending the steps, bundles over their shoulders, before Zeb had the money safely tucked away.
“And now,” said Zeb. “The Broad Quay and an early breakfast.”
Two days later, Joe and Miles carried their small bundles up the steep gangway and onto the Delaware and settled into the cramped accommodation for paying passengers. For the first time in weeks, a feeling of peace descended on Joe.