Quincunx

  The appeals from the rest of us made no impression, however.

  Then Quigg cried to us: “Come and fight for ’em if you want any.”

  Despite my attempts to urge them to hold back, the boys who had been left with Richard and Stephen and me ran forward and began fighting their former comrades while the Quiggs roared with laughter. Richard and I continued to exhort them not to, but at last Richard himself — with a shame-faced grimace towards Stephen and me — joined in the mêlée.

  I knew that the cause of Equity was lost. And so it turned out for the next evening the boys fought for the food exactly as they had before my initiative, and now, to the immense satisfaction of the Quiggs, I was forced to do so myself. So Richard and I fought in alliance against the smaller boys and managed to gather just enough for ourselves and Stephen.

  Although it was the end of July, during the next days the sky was low and grey and at intervals a drizzling rain fell. I foresaw with dread a procession of days like this following one another until I was numbed and starved into submission. I had to escape. And yet I could not imagine how Richard and Stephen, the one crippled and the other weakened by illness and hunger, could make the attempt.

  The next week or two dragged past during which I was either burn-braking or stone-picking — which was exhausting because we had to use a rake to get the stones up and load them into the box to carry to where a wall was to be built. Because of the long daylight hours we carried our dew-bit to the fields for our breakfast to save time. I could not grow accustomed to the diet of hog-peas, oatmeal, buttermilk, “turmot-tops”, oaten cakes that were often thick with mould, and occasionally pieces of bacon. And always the black rye-bread. I knew I would get weaker on this regimen and I learned from the others how much worse things would be later in the year when winter came and we would be put to flailing corn and making hurdles in the freezing barn.

  The composition of the gangs was different each day but I noticed that Stephen was always put into Roger’s. I soon discovered that Hal was the least brutal of the three Quiggs and always rejoiced when he was my tasker. When, for example, we were working far from the farm-house, and our midday “piece” was brought by the little maid-servant — bent over as she bore a bucket of potatoes or a basket of bread — Hal always allocated the food reasonably fairly himself, whereas his father and brother always made us fight for it.

  Now it was that I had a nightmare which has often come back to me since then. I dreamed that a dark hunched shape was approaching me and though I tried to flee, it bore down on me relentlessly and loomed over me. Just as I realized with horror that it was a huge spider, it spoke to me in a soft, frightened voice that I recognised: “Help me. Help me, Johnnie.” I started back and tried to run but my limbs would not move. Shuddering, I stared at those waving legs and tentacles not wanting to recognise the face I feared to find in the midst of them. Then in heart-breaking tones she said: “I don’t want to be like this.”

  I started out of my sleep in a sweat to find my companions sleeping peacefully around me. All my doubts and fears were renewed, and so the following evening I brought up the subject of escaping again.

  “It’s impossible,” Richard said. “You must have seen as you came that the farm is surrounded by wild moorland for miles and miles in every direction. There are no villages and only a few scattered sheep-farms.”

  “So even if you managed to get off the farm,” Little Thom went on, “you could not seek shelter from anyone in the neighbourhood for they all know of the rewards the Quiggs offer for returning one of us. And if you could not seek shelter you would need to get off the moors very quickly or the Quiggs would catch you. You see, there is only one road and they would use the dogs to scent the way you had taken, and then they would overtake you on horseback.”

  “Then,” I said, “could I not simply strike out across the moors ignoring the road, so that the Quiggs would lose the advantage of their horses?”

  “Yes,” said Richard, “but it would be slow going and difficult to keep a straight course, and the dogs would catch you quickly.”

  “Unless it were raining,” I said, “so that the scent could not be followed.”

  “It would be too dangerous to attempt if the weather were not fine,” Stephen objected.

  “But all this is foolish,” Richard protested, “it is impossible to get out of the farm itself. We are guarded during the day by the Quiggs, and at night we are locked in here and the dogs are let loose.”

  “Then,” I asked, “has no-one ever escaped?”

  Nobody seemed to want to answer.

  At last Little Thom said in an undertone: “Only two fellows have ever tried. One of them died on the moors and he’s buried near Davy. But Thom nearly got away.” Seeing my surprise he added: “He wasn’t simple then. They beat him, you see, and after that he was stupid.”

  “Why was he caught?” I asked.

  There was a silence and it seemed that the three were avoiding each other’s eye. “Someone ’peached on him,” Little Thom said eventually. “We never found out who.”

  “So whoever it was might do it again if I tried?” I asked.

  None of the three looked at me.

  “Then if I were to try, would any of you come with me?”

  Little Thorn shook his head: “See what happened to Thom.”

  “How could I?” asked Richard, touching his leg.

  “What about you, Stephen?”

  He looked at me sadly: “I have no-one to go to.”

  He said it so flatly that, though we had learned a little of each other’s story, later that night as we lay down to sleep I asked him to tell me the rest.

  “I am an orphan,” he said. “For my Papa died when I was a baby and my Mamma a few years later. I have only two relatives in the world. One is my half-brother, Henry. You see, my Mamma was married before she became my Papa’s wife, only Henry’s Papa died. He’s quite a lot older than I and I don’t know him well. He is studying law in London. I know he has very little money, for his Papa and my Mamma were very poor. My own Papa left a little money in trust for me.”

  “Money?” I repeated. “Then there’s your chance.”

  He shook his head: “It is administered by my aunt, who is my only other relative. She is my guardian, but she took no interest in me after my Mamma died, and so I stayed on at the school in Canterbury that I was boarding at. I wish she had left me there for I was quite happy, but at Christmas last year she suddenly came to visit me. She asked if I would like to go to a different school. I did not want to and told her so. But she was very kind and brought me a soldier. (A Prussian with a real sword. You should have seen it, Johnnie!) She said I should do nothing I did not choose to do, and that she would leave me to think it over. A week or two later Henry came to see me. He was very kind, too, and advised me to do as my aunt wished. So because of that I agreed to be sent here.”

  “Why should your aunt wish you ill?”

  “I don’t know. Except that if I died she would inherit the money held in trust for me. But it is very little — only a few hundred pounds — and she has lots of money for her husband was rich.”

  “That is strange,” I said. “But perhaps she does not know how you are treated.”

  “No, perhaps not. But she has not written to me or visited me and I have not been allowed to write to her.”

  “Has Mr Steplight not visited you on her behalf?”

  “No. That time when he brought you was the first occasion I have met him or heard his name.”

  “What of your half-brother?”

  “Henry would be very distressed to know what is being done to me. But he could do nothing.”

  We lay without speaking in the darkness and after a time I heard his breathing become slow and rhythmical. Perhaps it would not be possible to help him to get away, it occurred to me, and in that case I should think only of myself.

  The next day was the last of July, but it was pouring with rain so heavily that even with
our pieces of sack over our shoulders, we could not work in the fields. I was put into Roger’s gang with Stephen and three of the other boys, and we were led to one of the “laithes” — or barns — and put to work topping turnips while Roger walked round us carrying his whip under his arm and losing no opportunity to bring it into play. It was exhausting labour for I had to bend over to hold the turnip steady, then swing the cleaver hard to separate the top from the rest at peril of severing a finger if I made a small mistake. I spurred myself on by imagining that each turnip was the head of one of the Quigg family and I executed Roger many times more frequently than either his parent or his brother.

  Stephen was working in front of me and I watched him anxiously, aware of how much weaker even than me he would be after what he had endured. Roger was behind me at one moment when I noticed Stephen glance round, then put something in his mouth.

  At that instant Roger shouted from behind us: “I seen tha, Mealy-Plant!”

  As he spoke he strode towards him and Stephen tried to swallow what he had in his mouth but it was too large, and he choked. When Roger reached him he forced his mouth open and made him spit it out.

  He held up the piece of turnip and said gleefully: “Aren’t tha going to ketch it now! I should say so!”

  He did not raise his whip to Stephen, but ordered us back to work and strutted up and down grinning broadly.

  “What will happen?” I asked one of the boys.

  “A roasting,” he answered.

  When, an hour or two later, we were marched to the barn for dinner, I saw Roger standing in conference with his father and noticed that he glanced towards us as he spoke.

  Before the food was given out Quigg bellowed: “Nothing for you, Mealy-Plant! You’ve had your dinner.” Then he clapped his hands for our attention and called out: “Listen, young genel’men. You’re to assemble in the school-room after dinner.”

  A shudder ran through the boys and they glanced at Stephen.

  While I was eating I whispered to Paul: “What’s a roasting?”

  “Quigg will flog him until he passes out,” he answered.

  “Can we not stop him?”

  “How can we?”

  “But for something so trivial?”

  “They’ve taken every occasion to beat him,” he replied. “They don’t need a good reason.”

  After dinner Roger and Hal rounded us up and led us into the house-place — for that was the “school-room” referred to by Quigg, though this was its sole scholastic function, as far as I ever learned. We assembled at one end and the three Quiggs faced us at the other. Mrs Quigg temporarily abandoned her persecution of the little maid and emerged from her kitchen, and she looked a worthy mate for her husband — big with a broad, staring face and angry eyes. Now it was evident to me how absurd any idea of resistance was: we were eleven near-starving, sick boys against three grown men with whips and sticks, as well as a large and muscular woman.

  Stephen was gripped by Hal and made to double over across the table while Roger pulled up his shirt. I saw that his back, pitifully thin, was already ridged with welts. Meanwhile Quigg who was carrying a thick leather strap, strode forward and began a speech:

  “A boy from Quigg ’Cademy may not be as book-larned as other scholards. He may not be able to speak Ancient Greek well enow to pass t’ time o’ day with a Ancient Greek. Similarly with Latin and a Ancient Latin. We ain’t ashamed o’ that. But one thing a Quigg boy will be is honest. I know a boy is always hungry however much he gets fed. I know he’ll tak’ what he can if he ain’t watched. But if there is one thing I will not abide in this ’cademy it is thieving. When we ketches a thief we makes an example of him.”

  As he pronounced these last words he removed his coat and unfastened the top and bottom buttons of his waistcoat. Then he took a couple of paces back and raised his arm. I saw the belt flying through the air but I winced just before I heard the sharp crack followed by a cry from Stephen.

  The boys murmured and Roger shouted: “Quiet! T’ same for any boy as cries out another time.”

  As if in a nightmare I saw the arm go back again, and again saw the strap arching downwards, and heard Stephen cry out again. A third time the arm was raised and the strap descended. There was a crack but this time no sound came from Stephen. When I opened my eyes I saw Quigg panting heavily and undoing another button. I forced myself to look: there was a spreading mass of blood on the white skin of Stephen’s back. He lay quite still.

  Quigg began to raise his arm again. All I remember of the next few seconds is a reddish haze before my eyes for I have no recollection of crossing the intervening space. Then I recall Quigg’s face staring down at me.

  “Hit him again and I swear I’ll kill you!” I cried.

  I remember the expression of surprise — almost of wounded indignation — that appeared on the brutal red face. I remember being seized from behind by Roger and Hal and I recall Quigg’s words: “Tha munna be in such a hurry, Cloth-Ear. Tha turn will cwome.”

  I remember seeing Quigg aim his fist at me. I recall the first blow on my chest, and I have a memory of the second to my head. But after that I remember nothing except misty blotches swimming around me and far-away voices calling me.

  When I came round my head was aching and I opened my eyes with difficulty. I found I was lying on a layer of straw and there was a guttering light nearby. I had no recollection of who or where I was. Then I recognised Richard’s face looking down at me and I remembered everything.

  “How is he?” I asked.

  For answer Richard glanced to one side of me and when I turned my throbbing head I saw that Stephen was only a foot or two from me, lying on his stomach as if asleep. His back was heaped with rags which were soaked with blood. The act of raising my head had brought on a thudding ache and I laid it on the straw again. There was no sound inside the barn. I closed my eyes.

  I don’t know how long I slept. When I opened my eyes again both Stephen and Richard were exactly as they had been.

  “Will he be all right?” I asked.

  Richard said nothing.

  “Is it the same day?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Is it late?”

  “About midnight.”

  I drifted back to sleep and dozed and awoke a number of times. Each time I did so I found Richard watching Stephen and me, and once I saw him raising the injured boy’s head to help him to swallow a little water. Stephen was muttering to himself but I could not make out the words. Somewhat reassured by this, I slipped back into unconsciousness.

  When I woke again I heard birds singing and realized that it was near dawn though it was still dark in here and the other boys were sleeping. I turned my head and to my delight found Stephen’s gaze upon me. He was now lying on his back with his shoulders slightly raised on an old bale of straw. Though his face was very white he appeared well for he smiled at me. I smiled back at him with relief and looked at Richard, who averted his eyes.

  “Hoping you … wake soon,” Stephen whispered.

  “How are you?” I asked, leaning forward to catch his words.

  “Don’t try to speak, Stephen,” said Richard, looking at me indignantly.

  “Pain much less,” he replied.

  “I had to turn him over,” Richard explained to me. “But he said his back was no longer hurting.”

  I could see that the straw beneath him was red.

  “Are you sure, Stephen?” I asked.

  “Yes. Pain less. But no time,” Stephen whispered. He broke off and began to gasp for breath but all the while his eyes stayed fixed on my face and glittered at me.

  “Don’t speak,” Richard cried.

  Stephen began to breathe more regularly but his whisper was even lower now: “John. Must escape. Soon. You next … after me. Quigg.”

  I shook my head: “How can I escape? How could I get off the moors?”

  “Money.… My shoe. Hid. Before arrived.”

  Looking at me in surpris
e, Richard moved a little distance away and picked up Stephen’s shoes.

  Stephen’s eyes were half-closed and I had to lean forward to catch his words: “Half-brother. Go. Tell him ’bout me.”

  “But I could not escape without the other fellows knowing. And one of them would ’peach on me! The one who ’peached on Big Thom.”

  “No,” he gasped. “Not be ’peached. Sure.”

  I looked at him wonderingly, for how could he be so certain? Surely only by one means! He was struggling to speak again and although I dreaded to hear more I could not stop him.

  Richard had been pulling up the inside of one of the shoes and now he said: “I’ve found something. It’s wrapped in a piece of paper.”

  “Give … John,” Stephen managed to whisper, then he shut his eyes.

  Richard passed it to me and when I unwrapped it I found a shining half-sovereign. I smoothed out the paper and glanced at what was written on it: “Henry Bellringer, Esq., second bell-handle on the right-hand door-post, No. 6, Fig-tree-court, Barnards-inn. Half-brother of Stephen Maliphant.”

  I knew that latter name. I had read it recently. Indeed, I had written it myself. Then it came to me: one of the beneficiaries mentioned in the codicil I had copied out only a few weeks before at our lodgings in Orchard-street had that name!

  “Is that your name?” I asked. “Maliphant? Is that why Quigg calls you that ugly word?”

  “Don’t speak to him!” Richard cried. He studied his face and then placed his hand upon his chest.

  Stephen’s eyes remained closed and he didn’t answer.

  “Stephen!” I whispered.

  I reached out my hand to touch his shoulder, but Richard gently took it and held it between his, and we remained like that until the light of day crept into the barn through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the other boys awoke to learn of the awful visiter who had come among us while they slept.

  CHAPTER 45

  From that moment onwards I dedicated myself to escaping. It seemed the only way to avenge Stephen and I felt it my bounden duty to tell his half-brother his story in the hope that he would be able to do something against the Quiggs. I concealed the half-sovereign, still wrapped in its mysterious piece of paper, in my own shoe. What little energy left to me after the day’s work I could spare from thinking about my escape, I devoted to puzzling over the question of why I had been sent to this place and the related enigma of why Stephen had the same surname — and a very uncommon one — as one of the beneficiaries of my great-great-grandfather’s codicil made forty years before either of us was born. Confirmation that there was some kind of connexion between him and myself lay in the fact that Mr Steplight had an interest in both of us. Beyond this point I could not advance, but I found it difficult to accept that these links between us were merely coincidental.