The idea was not to leave the water to evaporate in a single pan.
‘Evaporation takes time, Jonathan,’ his father had told him long ago, ‘and we need a continuous supply.’
So the method was to move the water up a line of pans, so that it gradually evaporated and achieved a higher salt concentration as it went. To keep it moving along the pans, they used wind pumps.
They were very simple; they had probably been used on the marshes below the New Forest in Saxon times and were hardly different from those known in the Middle East two thousand years before. They were about ten feet high, with a simple cross carrying four little sails like a windmill. As the sails went round they drove a cam, which operated a rudimentary water pump below. From shallow pan to shallow pan the water was pumped along, until it reached the final part of the process at the boiling house.
Totton’s reason for going out today was to make a thorough inspection so that any repairs needed after the winter could be made in good time. He and Jonathan went over it together.
‘The channel to the feeder pond needs dredging,’ remarked the boy.
‘Yes.’ Henry nodded. Several of the mud walls in the salt pans needed mending, too.
Here Jonathan made himself particularly useful, walking lightly over every one of the narrow barriers, marking each crack he found with a splash of whitewash. ‘Don’t we have to clean out all the bottoms, too?’ he asked.
‘We do,’ his father said.
The final process was the actual salt-making. By the time the evaporated sea water reached the last salt pan it was a highly concentrated brine. Now the salt-maker would place a lead-weighted ball into the pan. When it floated, he would know the brine was thick enough. Opening a sluice, he would allow the brine to flow down into the boiling house.
This was just a shed, with strengthened walls. In here was the boiling pan, a huge vat over eight feet across, under which there was a furnace, usually heated by charcoal or wood. Here the vat gradually boiled away all the water, leaving a great piecrust of salt.
The boiling was almost continuous during the salt-making season. Each boiling, or turn, took eight hours. Starting on Sunday night and ending on Saturday morning, this allowed sixteen turns a week. At this rate Henry Totton’s boiling pan was able to produce almost three tons of salt each week. It was crusty and not very pure, but it was pure enough.
‘We burn nineteen bushels for each ton of salt produced,’ Totton remarked. ‘So,’ he started to calculate for the boy, ‘if the cost of fuel per bushel is …’
It was only moments before Jonathan’s concentration had started to wander. He didn’t enjoy the boiling house as much as the rest. When the boiling was going on, the clouds of steam, impregnated with salt, were blinding. His throat would feel on fire after a while. The area all round the boiling house would grow hot and cloudy. He would run away whenever he could to the fresh sea breeze, the curlews and seagulls along the shore by the feeder pond.
His father had just finished explaining how to calculate the total profit achievable if the weather held good for the full sixteen-week season when he noticed that Jonathan was looking at him thoughtfully.
‘Father, can I ask you something?’
‘Of course, Jonathan.’
‘Only’ – he hesitated – ‘it’s about secrets.’
Totton stared. Secrets? It was nothing to do with salt, then. Nothing to do with anything he had been trying to teach the boy in the last half-hour. Had Jonathan taken in anything he’d said? The all too familiar wave of disappointment and irritation started to sweep over him. He fought to control himself, not to let it appear in his face. He wished he could bring himself to smile, but he couldn’t. ‘What sort of secrets, Jonathan?’
‘Well … It’s like this. If someone tells you something important, but they make you promise not to tell anyone, because it’s a secret; and if you wanted to tell someone, because it might be important; should you keep it a secret?’
‘Did you promise to keep a secret?’
‘Yes.’
‘And is the secret something bad? Something criminal?’
‘Well.’ Jonathan had to consider. Was the secret that his friend Willie Seagull had told him so bad?
It concerned Alan Seagull and his boat. The secret was that it could run faster than Totton thought. And the reason for that was that Seagull was in the habit of making some very swift and illicit voyages indeed.
His cargo on these occasions was wool. Despite the increasing cloth trade, it was still wool that was the backbone of England’s export trade and her wealth. In order to ensure his treasury profited from it, the king insisted, as his predecessors had done, that the entire trade was funnelled through the great entrepôt, known as the Staple, of Calais. On all Staple wool duty was paid. When the monks of Beaulieu sent their vast clip abroad – mostly through Southampton, a little through Lymington – or when Totton bought wool from Sarum merchants, it all went through the Staple and was duly taxed.
When Alan Seagull made his illicit runs for other, less honourable exporters, he did so at night, slipping across from coast to coast, paying neither duty nor heed, for which he was well paid. Others did the same all along the coast. It was known as owling. It was illegal but every child in every harbour knew that such things took place.
‘It could get someone in trouble,’ Jonathan said carefully. ‘But I don’t think it’s very bad.’
‘Like poaching,’ his father guessed.
‘Like that.’
‘If you gave your word, you should keep it,’ said Totton. ‘No one will ever trust you if you don’t.’
‘Only …’ Still Jonathan was uncertain. ‘What if you wanted to tell someone to help them?’
‘How help them?’
‘If you had a friend and it would save them money.’
‘To break your word and betray a confidence? Certainly not, Jonathan.’
‘Oh.’
‘Does that answer your question?’
‘Yes. I think so.’ Although Jonathan still frowned a little. He wished there were some way of warning his father that he was going to lose his bet.
There were times during the next two weeks when Alan Seagull found it hard not to laugh.
The whole of Lymington was placing bets. Most were small, a few pence usually; but several merchants had a mark or even more on the race. Why were they betting? Often, the mariner guessed, it was just because they didn’t want to be left out. Some reckoned Seagull’s small craft would outsail the bigger ship because of the shortness of the crossing; others made elaborate calculations based on the likely weather. Others again put their trust in the soundness of Totton’s judgement and followed him.
‘The more they talk the less they know,’ Seagull pointed out to his son. ‘And none of ’em really knows anything.’
Then there were the bribes. Hardly a day passed without someone coming to the mariner with an offer. ‘I’ve got half a mark on your boat, Alan. There’ll be a shilling in it for you if you win.’ More interesting were the people who offered him money to lose. ‘I don’t know the Southampton men,’ one merchant told him frankly. ‘And besides, the only way to be sure of the result is if you promise to lose.’
‘It’s funny,’ Seagull remarked to Willie. ‘All these people come at you like waves and you can just sail across them. The way things are now, if I win I get paid and if I lose I get paid.’ He grinned. ‘Makes no difference, see? You remember that, son,’ he added seriously. ‘Let them do the betting. You just say nothing and take the money.’
More impressive was Burrard. At the end of the first week he told Alan: ‘A mark to you if you win.’ At the end of the second: ‘I’m in deeper now. Two marks.’
‘Is he stupid?’ Willie asked.
‘No, son. He ain’t stupid. Just rich.’
Totton, meanwhile, remained as calm and quiet as usual. This Seagull respected. ‘I don’t like him, son,’ he confessed. ‘But he knows when to keep his mouth shut.?
??
‘So are you going to win, Dad?’ Willie asked. But to this, infuriatingly, his father would only reply by humming a little sea ditty to himself.
Willie did better, however, when he asked his father if he could go with him for the race, for after a pause, and looking at him with amusement, his father, to Willie’s great surprise agreed.
This was a great prize. He shared it with his friends, who were duly envious. Jonathan’s eyes opened wide and every day asked Willie again: ‘Is it really true you’re sailing? I know’, he would add confidentially, ‘that you’re going to win.’ It was heaven.
But was his father going to win? Willie had boasted to Jonathan that he would, that night out at Bisterne, and he certainly wasn’t going to take it back. But he wished he knew what his father was really up to.
The truth of the matter was that Alan Seagull didn’t know himself. Certainly, he hadn’t the least intention of publicly disclosing his vessel’s speed. If that were needed to win, he would cheerfully lose. But you never knew with the sea. Something might happen to the other boat. The sea itself would decide, and chance, and his own free will. He hadn’t a care in the world. Until one evening, three days before the race.
He knew something was up the moment he saw young Willie, and the sheepish way he was approaching; but even so, he was completely taken aback by the boy’s question.
‘Dad, for the race, can Jonathan come in the boat too?’
Jonathan? Jonathan Totton? When his father was betting on the other boat? The mariner stared in amazement.
‘If his father says yes, that is,’ Willie added.
Which he certainly won’t, thought Alan.
‘I said I thought you might let him. He isn’t heavy,’ Willie explained.
‘Let him go in the other boat, then.’
‘He doesn’t want to. He wants to come with me. And anyway …’
‘Anyway what?’
Willie hesitated, then said quietly: ‘Dad, the Southampton boat’s going to lose isn’t it?’
‘So you say, my son.’ Alan started to smile, but then a thought hit him. ‘Willie?’ He looked at his son carefully. ‘You think I’m going to win?’
‘’Course I do, Dad.’
‘Is that why he wants to come with us, then? Because you told him we’d win?’
‘I don’t know, Dad.’ Willie looked awkward. ‘Maybe.’
‘Did you tell him about our business?’
‘No, Dad. I mean, not really.’ There was a pause. ‘I may have said something.’ He looked down, then raised his eyes hopefully to his father again. ‘He won’t tell, Dad. I swear.’
Alan Seagull said nothing. He was thinking.
There were quite a few people in Lymington who knew Alan Seagull’s business. His crew for a start. One or two merchants also – for the obvious reason that they gave him the illicit wool to carry. But Totton wasn’t one of them and never would be. And the rule in the business was very simple: you didn’t talk to people like Totton. For sooner or later, if people like him knew, things would get out; boats would be stopped, men fined, business disrupted and, strangely intangible but perhaps most important of all, freedom would be limited.
Did Totton know? Perhaps not yet. What he really needed, Seagull thought, was some time alone with Jonathan. He’d be able to tell, he guessed, if the boy had told his father. If he had, there was nothing to be done. If not … he mused. If the boy were out at sea, some men in his situation would quietly tip him overboard. He shrugged to himself. There was no chance of Totton allowing him to come anyway. ‘Don’t say any more about our business. Just keep your mouth shut,’ he ordered his son, and waved him away. He needed to think some more.
Jonathan found his father sitting in an upright chair in the hall, under the gallery. Totton was asleep.
The gallery passage that ran from the front to the back of the bigger Lymington houses was quite an impressive feature, but it was not handsome. Although two storeys high, the central hall was quite narrow, so that the gallery seemed to overlook a rather cramped covered area. Since the death of his wife, instead of going at the end of his workday to the pleasant parlour at the back of the house, which looked over the garden, and where his wife had liked to sit, Totton had taken to sitting in a chair in the rather awkward space of the hall. There he would remain until it was time to eat dinner, which he punctiliously did with his son. Sometimes he just sat staring quietly ahead; sometimes he dozed a little. He was dozing when Jonathan approached him.
Jonathan, after standing in front of him for several moments, touched his wrist and gently asked: ‘Father?’
Totton woke with a perceptible start and stared at the boy. He had not been sleeping deeply but it took him a moment to focus his mind. Jonathan had that slightly doubtful look on his face, which suggests a child is hoping for a permission he expects to be refused.
‘Yes, Jonathan.’
‘Can I ask you something?’
Totton prepared himself. He was fully awake now. He sat up straight and tried to smile. Perhaps, if the request were not too foolish, he would surprise the boy and grant it. He would like to please him. ‘You may.’
‘Well. The thing is …’ Jonathan took a deep breath. ‘You know the race between your ship from Southampton and Seagull’s boat?’
‘I do indeed.’
‘Well. I don’t think he’ll say yes anyway, but I was wondering: if Alan Seagull said I could, do you think it would be all right if I sailed with him?’
‘In Seagull’s boat?’ Totton gazed at him. It was a few moments before he could quite take it in. ‘For the race?’
‘Yes. It’s only to the Isle of Wight,’ Jonathan added helpfully. ‘I mean, we don’t go out to sea, do we?’
Totton did not answer. He couldn’t. He stared away from Jonathan, towards the door of the parlour where his wife used to sit. ‘Do you not know’, he enquired at last, ‘that my bet is against Seagull’s boat? You want to sail with my opponents? With a man I had asked you to avoid?’
Jonathan was silent. He was really only thinking that he wanted to sail with Willie; but he wasn’t sure if he should say so.
‘How will that look to people, do you suppose?’ Totton quietly asked him.
‘I don’t know.’ Jonathan felt crestfallen. He had not thought about what other people might think. He did not know.
Henry Totton continued to stare away. He felt a sense of mortification and of rage. He could hardly bring himself to look at his only son, but finally he did. ‘I am sorry, Jonathan,’ he said softly, ‘that you do not feel any sense of loyalty to me, or to your family.’ Which, God help me, he thought, is only me now, anyway.
And suddenly Jonathan understood that he had hurt his father. And he was sorry for him. But he did not know what to do.
Then Henry Totton, overcome with the uselessness, the utter hopelessness of achieving love between himself and his son, shrugged his shoulders in despair and exclaimed: ‘Do what you like, Jonathan. Sail with whom you wish.’
And then there was a struggle inside the boy, between his love and his desire. He knew he should say he would not go, or at least offer to sail in the other ship. This was the only way to tell his father he loved him; although he was not sure, even then, that the cold merchant would believe it. But his desire was to go with Willie and the carefree mariner, and to sail the sea in their little craft with its secret speed. And as he was only ten, desire won. ‘Oh, thank you, Father,’ he said and kissed him, and ran out to tell Willie.
Willie appeared the next morning. ‘My dad says you can come,’ he reported gleefully. Henry Totton was out, so he did not hear these good tidings.
There had been a brief April shower, but now the sun was shining. The news was far too exciting to contemplate indoors, so it was not long before the two boys set off together to find amusement. Their first plan was to walk a couple of miles northwards and play in the woods at Boldre; but they had not gone a mile when, as the lane dipped down a gentle incli
ne, their attention was caught by something on the lip of higher ground just ahead.
‘Let’s go into the rings,’ said Jonathan.
The place that had attracted them was a curious feature of the Lymington landscape; it was a small earthwork inclosure set on a low knoll from which it overlooked the nearby river. Buckland Rings it was known as – although its low, grassy walls formed a rectangle rather than a circle. Dating from Celtic times, before the Romans came, it might have been a fort to guard the river, or a cattle pen, or both; but while the borough of Lymington might well contain descendants of the folk who built it, even the memory of this earlier settlement had probably been forgotten over a thousand years before. Animals grazed on the sweet grass within and children played on its banks.
It was a good place to play. The earlier rain had made the grassy banks slippery and Jonathan had just defended the fortress from assault by Willie for the third time when they saw a handsome figure riding down the lane who, when he caught sight of them, gave a cheerful wave, dismounted and strode towards them.
‘So,’ he said genially, ‘today you battle by land and soon your fathers will battle by sea.’
Richard Albion was a very pleasant gentleman. His ancestors had been called Alban, but somehow, over the last two centuries, like some forest stream that gradually alters its course, the pronunciation of the name had shifted from Alban to the more comfortable Albion within whose banks, so to speak, it had been flowing very easily for several generations. As foresters, they had maintained a position among the gentry of the area and married accordingly. Albion’s own wife was one of the Button family who held estates near Lymington. In late middle-age now, with his grey hair and bright-blue eyes, Richard Albion bore a striking resemblance to his ancestor Cola the Huntsman of four centuries before. A naturally generous man, he would often stop to give some child a farthing; he was familiar with most of the inhabitants of Lymington by sight; and so he knew at once who the two boys playing on Buckland Rings must be. He chatted to them very amiably, therefore, and discussed the coming race.