A Mutual Accord

Chapter 40

CHAPTER 40

O ne afternoon at the Quartermaster General’s Headquarters, Colonel Sanford entered the office of his superior, Brigadier General Spaulding, saluted, and then delivered an unmarked letter.

“Was it the usual messenger?” Spaulding asked.

“Yes sir,” answered Colonel Sanford.

“Nothing unusual about the delivery?”

“Nothing, sir,” assured the lower ranking officer.

Spaulding dismissed the man and waited for him to close the door before opening the message. He reviewed it briefly, then fed it to the fireplace. This was the second request for assistance that their agent had sent in as many weeks. The agent was very good, Spaulding would give him that. Another fortnight, and he would have the entire plot put together by himself, for all the good it would do him. Spaulding had been waiting for a moment like this for years, and had picked this particular agent especially for this task. The plot would harm the people, there was no doubt about that. Lives would be lost. The militia would lose much to overcome the devastation that was coming to Eastbourne, though Spaulding did not truly believe in his heart that the plot would prevail. The plot did not need to prevail. It was not about the plot. This was about revenge.

Spaulding had spent years seeking revenge, and had taken it already several times over. There was only one man left now that must lose everything, as Spaulding had lost everything. As long as the agent was killed, and the necessary evidence to implicate him in the plot was left with him, then Spaulding would consider the endeavour worthwhile.

There were two other loose ends to tie up. The target’s other two brats. The target himself had been attacked, but Spaulding was glad the attempt had failed. He wanted his target to live long enough to see his family tree come crashing down about him. He only had to wait until the other two targets were in place, and he would make his move.

Every day after meeting Tom Tyler in the street, Georgiana and one or two of the other young ladies, often Elizabeth or Mary, visited the Tyler shack. Mrs Tyler was incredibly weak, and was unable to protest. Though they knew that if Mr Tyler returned home, anything they gave the little family would be taken away, they still brought gowns and blankets for the babe, linens for his nappies, and whatever else they could think of. They brought soft bread, cheese, and cold chicken or ham each day for the children, and Elizabeth helped young Tom find two spaces, one inside the shack, and one outside, where they could hide small items from his father if there was time to do so, when he came home.

Job Tyler did come home, and thankfully Tom had seen him entering the pub with some men before he returned to Stepney Lane. Tom sped to their little shack with all haste, took the blankets and nicer clothes from the children, and ran down the lane to hide them in Mrs Blott’s shack. The elderly lady had benefited from a small bowl of the family’s hot pot every day, and was all too willing to hide the items from Job Tyler. Tom’s mother Bella was completely cowed by her husband, and did not approve of her son’s sneaking about and deception, but she kept silent.

Tom also arranged to suspend the hot pots until his father left the area. Job was never home for more than a couple of weeks, but he did not like to starve, and so he would likely provide something towards the family’s meals while he was there, even if it was not much. Tom felt that the goat's milk for the baby was most important, and his father was less likely to object to such a small thing earned by something as insignificant as milking a goat and a cow. If he were to bring the hot pot home every day, his father would get angry, for he would never provide something so generous for his family daily, and often felt on such occasions that Tom was getting too big for his britches, and trying to show his father up. He had been turned out for three whole weeks the last time his father had lost his temper, and had slept in the hedgerows until Job left the area again. If his father did allow the pots into the house, he would most likely eat most of them, and leave little for Bella and the children. Perhaps his father would buy them little enough to eat while he was present, but either way, it made no sense to waste the hot pots when Job Tyler was in residence.

The day his father arrived was Tom’s twelfth birthday, and there was a package on the table wrapped in dingy, wrinkled brown paper when Tom returned from sending his sister Mary to Bourne House to warn the ladies not to visit until his father had gone away again.

“Happy Birthday, my boy!” his father shouted as he entered. Tom cringed a bit at the unexpected volume of his mother and siblings cheering. Tom hadn’t even realised it was his birthday. The Tylers rarely acknowledged such events. Tom had actually forgotten the date of his birth.

“Thank you, Da!” Tom exclaimed, hugging his father. He loved his father, but Job Tyler must be managed carefully. Tom must maintain the correct gratitude, respect, and deference that his father expected, or it would all go downhill. And once his father was angry, he would drink and grumble for weeks before he up and left again. It was better to keep him in a very good mood for as long as possible.

Tom could only hope that his mother would not be expecting again when his father went away. He was old enough to understand how such things happened, and he was here more often than his father to see how constant pregnancy and childbirth weakened Bella Tyler without sufficient food. Her last delivery had nearly finished her off. Perhaps this time would be different. His mother was still pale, wan, and weak; she barely left her bed. The baby still relied upon the goat’s milk, for Bella could not produce much. Now with his father home, it would take even longer for her to recover, for she would get far less to eat.

Inside the parcel was a pair of boots. They were used, but not terribly so, and they were too large, but what was important was that they were real leather boots, not the kind with flimsy soles that wore out quickly. “I won ‘em off a feller in a card game. You’ll fill them out in a year, boy, I promise you!” his father had told him. They felt cumbersome, he would have to learn to walk in them without looking like a fool, but he was actually grateful to his father for the first time in his life. A pair of real boots made him a young man. He could go out in search of proper work. The working men in the fields did not even have boots of this quality.

“You’ve done well, while I’ve been gone, son,” his father said over his pipe. “Twas clever of you to arrange the milk for the baby. Milking the cow for Mrs Forrester, are you? How’d you get the feeder?”

Tom panicked for a moment. He hadn’t hidden the infant feeder. “I carried and stacked some firewood for Miss Pole,” he said. “The feeder was used, she had a visitor left one behind when it warn’t needed no more. Sometimes if she needs firewood carried, she gives a few eggs fer the little’uns.” It would not do not to admit that he had industriously done his best, his father was not an idiot. Only stupidly proud and mean.

“Sharp lad; next year, you’ll ‘ave grown near a foot, I expect. You’ll be big eno’ to go out on the road wi’ me,” his father said companionably.

Tom was confused. “I thought I’d go find work on the farms,” he said.

“There ain’t no future in that, boy,” his father said, shaking his head. “That how you wanna spend your life? Nine shillings a week, until you’re too old to enjoy what’s left of it? You’ll come out wi’ me an’ the lads. See a bit o’ the world.”

“Who’ll help mum?” Tom objected.

His father’s face turned hard. “Never you mind. My wife, my concern, boy.”