This is the first instalment of a new series. It involves the physical abuse of young boys. If you do not enjoy such stories please do not read it. If you have any comments to make (preferably complimentary) please write to me. The only messages I will not reply to are those criticising the story because it describes the physical abuse of young boys. I would be particularly glad to hear from readers of my Roman stories - do they find the Victorian setting satisfactory. I will be completing Sejanus and the next instalment is in preparation. If in one part of the story I am thought to be preaching I would simply say that I am as bad as anyone at pushing umpleasant facts to the back of my mind.
The twenty fourth of December 1855; in the Crimea guns thundered against the defences of Sevastopol and soldiers British, French, Turkish and Russian, besiegers and defenders alike suffered and died in squalor from wounds and dysentery; in the China seas ships of the British Navy policed the waters so that fortunes could be made from the opium trade, in Africa, India, Canada, Australia, New Zealand the British flag flew and British trade prospered. It seemed to patriotic English people that they held the greater part of the globe in fee and their subject peoples paid tribute to them. It was a time for such people of pride and self congratulation, pride in the great empire they were creating and pride in the settled civilised society in the Mother country that that Empire served and sustained.
There was perhaps no place in the British Isles where the benefits of that settled society were more clearly displayed than in the little town of Ravenscraig nestling in it's hollow among the snow covered hills. Christmas eve and the townspeople were assembled in church for a service that bound together in one community the rich man in his castle and the poor man his hovel.
Arrangements in the Church reflected the workings of that providence that ensured that some prospered and some did not. That providence, that even at that moment, the Rector, the Reverend Joseph Dixon was instructing his flock it was sinful to question or resent. Certainly Sir Francis FitzHammond Bart JP DL dosing in the family pew, set to the left of the chancel enclosed with it's heavy mahogany railings and warmed with it's own stove that glowed red hot in the gloom, saw no reason to question it. Nor would his twin sons, Francis, the first to be delivered from his mothers womb that hot fatal summers day eight and a half years ago - the first born son had always been named Francis from the time in the fourteenth century that the first Sir Francis then a lad of twelve had secured the family fortune by performing certain services of a highly intimate nature for his sovereign King Edward the Second - and Edward his sibling, if they had been listening to the sermon. The two boys were not listening however, sturdy lads with the same curly fair hair and the delicate peaches and cream complexion and generous lips that had formed the foundation of the family's fortune, they were too busy whispering together speculating about the presents that the next day would bring them.
Whether little Sam Riggs huddled in his rags among the other work house children at the back of church, shivering in the cold draft from the great door, his bare feet blue with cold, snot dribbling down his chin ,was similarly reconciled to the workings of providence was another matter. Did he feel resentment when he compared his own miserable condition with the luxuries enjoyed by others or was he so numbed with hunger and cold to be beyond questioning the order that condemned him and his fellows to a life of suffering and labour? What anyway did it matter what he thought. The feelings, the wishes, the aspirations if indeed they can manage to have such things, of the weak and poor were and are not of any importance. Do you care for the spotty greasy haired homeless youth who sticks out his or her hand as you hurry past your face averted, or for the Indian child who on the other side of the world lies comatose on the ground as dysentery ravages his thin body and life ebbs? Perhaps you do for a second or a couple of minutes. Enough to put your hand in your pocket and give a few pennies to some charity until you reflect that such suffering is inevitable and part of the unavoidable costs of civilisation.
These thoughts at least did not concern Sam. He was cold and he was hungry and his chest ached. A fit of coughing racked his slight frame. The rector paused in his peroration his eyes fixed on the child who had the presumption to interrupt his eloquence. People turned and peered to try to identify the miscreant. Mr Ottley, the assistant overseer of the poor in charge of the male pauper children, had no problem in doing so. Raising his heavy cane he struck the boy savagely across the head. Then grasping him by the ear he hauled him from the church. For a moment from outside the church came the sound of a boy being beaten, the thud of the cain, the howls of pain. Then Mr Ottley returned slightly red in the face and out of breath slamming the church door closed and cutting short the whimperings of the boy he had so justly chastised.
The service continued, the blessing was given, the Rector scuttled hastily into the vestry. Sir Francis rose more slowly from his seat, the bailiff hurried forward to open the pew door for him. Sir Francis followed by his two sons walked slowly down the knave of the church as the congregation stood and bowed or curtsied on either side of them as they passed. This deference was natural and proper. There was not a family in Ravenscraig who were not tenants of Sir Francis; not a man who did not work for him.
The Rector was in the porch berating Sam. When he saw Sir Francis he clipped the boy hard on the side of the head and sent him to stand in the driving snow in the church yard. Bowing and rubbing his hands he engaged Sir Francis in obsequious conversation. The congregation stood respectfully back as their betters talked. Francis and Edward warm in their thick boots and heavy coats glad to be free of the confines of the church slipped past the two men.
Francis caught sight of Sam crouched shivering and coughing against the pedestal on which the ancient church yard cross stood. He pointed him out to Edward and both boys began to laugh. Indeed Sam was a comical sight in his ill fitting rags with his shaven head and his scalp marred by the marks of ring worm. On top of this the blow from Mr Ottley's cane across his head had split the skin and blood trickled down his forehead to mingle with the mucous that flowed from his nostrils. The sight of him was more than enough to bring laughter to the lips of any high spirited lad.
Sam stood head bowed as the two well fed warmly dressed boys laughed and hooted. Soon though the fun paled. The boys were active lively children not content merely to laugh. They wanted to do something. Edward bent over scooped up a handful of snow and threw it at Sam. The snow ball broke against the side of the pauper boy's shaven head. Half melted snow soaked into his thread bare shirt. Sam turned to face his tormentor but did not move to defend himself. He knew what would happen to him if he dared to raise his hands against his betters.. Francis danced to one side and threw another snow ball. The two boys began to systematically pelt their victim.
Their father called their names. He had moved away from the Rector.
"Francis, Edward leave that now and come along. Tea will be ready now."
The two boys thinking of crumpets and toast and honey and hot muffins and warm milk turned to follow him. The doorway out of the church no longer being blocked by Sir Francis and the Rector the rest of the congregation began to file out into the church yard. The two boys turned as one to throw their final snow balls. One hit Sam square in the face. The second missed him and sailing on it's way knocked the new top hat, the pride of his life, his badge of office, that Mr Ottley had just placed proudly on his head. He turned to see who was responsible for this outrage. He saw the two boys laughing at him and forced a smile to his lips. Fortunately there was a boy to hand on whom he could safely take out his rage.
As Francis and Edward ran laughing after their father they could hear Mr Ottley's stick cracking down across Sam's thin shoulders and the boy's wails interspersed with bursts of harsh coughing as his beating proceeded.
Back at the manor house all was ready for Christmas. Fires blazed in all the rooms. In the vast hall a Christmas tree, following the Germanic custom newly introduced by Prince Albert, stood lighted candles stuck on holders fastened to the end of each branch. At it's base beside the buckets of water and sand placed there at the insistence of Sir Francis in case of fire were heaped parcels wrapped in brightly coloured paper.
The boys' Uncle Edward, their fathers younger brother, arrived together with his wife and their cousin, six year old Charles. A dark saturnine man, lacking the blond good looks that characterised the rest of the family, given to Sunday observance and teetotalism, he was not liked by the boys.
The day itself went well for them. The gifts showered on them were many and various. Sir Francis enjoyed himself too. He breakfasted on devilled kidneys and champagne, lunched on oysters, roast goose, boiled ham and Christmas pudding with more champagne followed by brandy and port, waking in the evening feeling somewhat hungry he had a supper of cold beef washed down with a bottle of claret.
The next day the hounds traditionally met at the hall. Sir Francis breakfasted, wearing his pink coat and hunting boots. Again he ate well starting with lamb cutlets and filling up with boiled eggs followed by cold salmon. His stomach felt a little unsettled from the previous day so as was his custom he poured a generous measure of curacao with his coffee.
Feeling better he stumped to the front door. Outside the hounds milled about on the lawn cursed at by the huntsmen and whippers-in while the mounted followers tried, with varying degrees of success, to keep their mounts moderately still while holding their riding crops gloves and the glasses of port served from silver trays by the footmen.
Sir Francis mounted his great black hunter Gaveston and glanced about to see that his groom was there with his second horse. Suddenly he cried out and clapped his hand to the left side of his chest. His horse reared. His face turned purple and he crashed to the ground. It was never certain whether the stroke had killed him before the fall broke his neck.
There was pandemonium. Men shouted, horses reared and neighed in excitement. The huntsman after a moments hesitation snapped an order to his whips and with a single blast on his horn he led the hounds down the drive away from the house. Sir Francis was carried into the hall on a door wrenched hastily from it's hinges. The local doctor in top coat and riding boots, for he too rode to hounds pronounced him dead. Francis and Edward were hurried upstairs by their old nurse who now referred to the older boy as Sir Francis.
It was eight days later. The church bell tolled sombrely in the distance it's regular muffled chimes sounding faintly through the mist shrouded trees. The shuttered windows of the manor looked blankly out on the gravel drive now swept clear of snow. A hearse drawn by a team of six black horses, black plumes nodding stood waiting. Ten man from the estate carried Sir Francis's coffin from the house followed by the two boys and their Uncle Edward all dressed in black, the boys carrying their black caps, the man his black top hat. The coffin was slid into the body of the hearse. The two boys and the man mounted a closed black carriage behind it. The two vehicles moved slowly down the drive. The main street of Ravenscraig was lined with men standing bare headed as the body of their late landlord and employer passed. At the church yard gate the hearse halted. Ten more labourers shouldered the coffin and followed by the dark clad boys and their equally sombrely clothed uncle, bore it up the path to the FitzHammond crypt. No one noticed or paid attention to the hump of freshly turned soil close to the West church yard wall where they buried the paupers in unmarked graves. There little Sam Riggs lay, the consumption having brought him freedom at last from suffering and deprivation. There were no mourners or prayers when his thin body had been tumbled into the common grave. In contrast no pomposity of the funeral service was omitted when Sir Francis's body, bloated by years of good living and self indulgence, was interred.
The boys rode back in the coach to the manor with their Uncle. They were red-eyed and sniffed occasionally. They had loved their father though he was a selfish arrogant and unfeeling man. Very few people are without someone to cry for them when they leave this world. Even Sam would have been mourned by his big sister had she known of his death but she had been sent with ten other twelve year old pauper children to work in the Lancashire cotton mills three months before, a transaction that netted the rate payers of Ravenscraig fifteen guineas, and no one had thought to tell her. Uncle Edward sat in the coach stiff unbending and silent offering no words of comfort to his young nephews.
Mr Maitland the senior partner of Maitland, Maitland, Maitland and Maitland, Solicitors of Lincoln Inn Fields met them in the library. A Maitland had been the FitzHammond's family lawyer since the fifteenth century. He greeted Francis with a smile that neatly combined sorrow at the death of his father with benevolence and a hint even of subdued congratulation at the boy's own good fortune. When the Butler had served sherry to the adults and footmen had brought fruit cake and hot milk for the children he cleared his throat and began to speak.
"Sir Francis, Mrs FitzHammond, Mr FitzHammond, children," as he mentioned each individual he bowed slightly to them, "as solicitor to the FitzHammond family it falls to me to explain the position following the death of the eighteenth baronet and the succession of the nineteenth." Here he gave another tiny smile and small bow to Francis who was sitting on a stool by the fire hugging his knees.
"In many cases involving a considerable estate and taking into account the testamentary dispositions of the deceased the task before me would be a lengthy and arduous one. However in the case of the FitzHammond estate the family entails and supporting deeds although in themselves complex enough are in their effect of exemplary simplicity." There was a tinge of regret in his voice as he said this.
"In brief, and it is impossible in the circumstances to be otherwise than brief, there are no assets other than assets of the estate and these all form the inheritance of the current Sir Francis. There is an expectation supported by custom that Sir Francis will provide in an appropriate style for the widows and legitimate children of the previous holders of the title providing maintenance dowries and so on. Until Sir Francis attains the age of twenty one Mr Edward FitzHammond will act as his guardian. That is all."
These arrangement were well known and understood by the adults present and the two boys had had them explained to them in simple terms by their father while he was alive. There was therefore none of the shock and recriminations that commonly occur on such occasions. Mr Maitland lingered for a few moments of polite conversation and then made his farewells. The next day Mrs Edward FitzHammond and Robin departed followed a few day later by the boys' uncle once he had completed arrangements for their care and the appointment of a tutor.
Winter turned to spring. The snow melted, the days lengthened, snowdrops flecked the woods and hedgerows with white. Edward and Francis lived quietly at the Manor looked after by their tutor. Then everything changed.
Edward woke first. He saw the clock on the bedroom mantelpiece stood at 9 o'clock, half an hour later than the usual time for the maid to appear with the jug of warm water for his morning wash, and that the fire was unlit. He was not averse to a lie in and certainly was not going to get out of bed until the fire had taken the chill from the air. He therefore wriggled down in the bed clothes and dosed quietly for a further half hour. By that time Francis was awake and both boys were feeling they could do with breakfast. They bickered for a moment or two as to which of them should get out of bed to ring the bell for the maid though both agreed that the unfortunate girl should be reported to the house keeper for her laziness.
Francis in the end was prevailed on to leave the warmth of his bed. He padded on bare feet to the fireplace and pulled hard on the bell rope. Nothing happened. He pulled again and still nothing happened. Angrily he stomped across the room to the door. It was locked. He rattled it's, kicked it and shouted. No one came.
The two boys consulted together. They could not agree on what might be the cause of their neglect. Francis suggested that an outbreak of the black plague might have carried of their tutor and all the domestic staff. Edward argued that the last recorded outbreak of the plague was long ago, how long ago he was not quite clear, but very long ago. He thought it more likely that the Russians had landed and massacred the whole household apart from themselves. They agreed though that they had better get dressed. Hours passed, the boys got colder and hungrier. They became frightened. They pulled the blankets round their shoulders and huddled together for warmth and comfort.
Eventually there were foot steps outside the door, a key scraped in the lock and it was thrown open. Standing in the door way was the butler and two footmen.
"Baxter," Francis demanded shrilly, "where's our breakfasts? Why hasn't the fire been lit? I want....."
Baxter stepped into the room and slapped the boy hard across his face with the back of his hand knocking his head back and splitting his lip.
"That's enough of that," the Butler growled, "you shut up and come along with me."
"Don't hit my brother," screamed Edward throwing himself kicking and scratching at the man in fury.
One of the footmen caught him by the shoulders and rammed his head hard against the wall to quieten him.
"Thanks James," Baxter grunted. "Now keep a firm hold of that little spitfire and we'll take the pair of them down to the study so the Master can decide what to do with them."
The two boys were frog marched along the corridor, down the great staircase, across the hall into the study. Francis was amazed to see Uncle Edward sitting in his father's chair behind his father's desk. He didn't notice, his Aunt sitting slightly to one side in an easy chair, Mr Maitland the solicitor sitting beside her looking very uncomfortable, Mr Rattler the Land Agent standing in front of the desk looking angry and flustered, Mr Ottley, the assistant overseer of the poor with particular responsibility for pauper boys standing quietly in the corner of the room.
"Uncle," he shouted, "tell then to let me go immediately and get out of that chair it's my father's chair you have no......"
"Mr Ottley," his Uncle spoke sharply.
Mr Ottley stepped out of the shadows. He grinned ferociously and raising his stick above his shoulders brought it cracking down across Francis head. The boy staggered and then began to cry.
"Be quiet," Mr Ottley ordered. "Speak when your spoken to boy and show proper respect for your betters."
"Mr Rattler," his Uncle said ignoring the sobbing boy and the exclamation of protest from Mr Maitland, "I have been reviewing my rent rolls. I am distressed to see that their are no less than nine Public Houses in the parish of Ravenscraig selling spirituous beverages to the tenants and workers of the estate. Drink is a great evil and the tenancies of these establishments are to be terminated immediately."
"But Sir Edward," Mr Rattler protested, "those houses represent the livelihood of the families living in them. Close them and you will throw nine families on the rates."
"It's not his rent roll," Francis screamed anger banishing for the moment pain and fear, "and he's not Sir Edward I'm Sir..."
Mr Ottley did not need to be ordered into action this time. He stepped forward and swung his stick hard across the front of the boy's shins. Francis's protest broke off into a scream of pain.
"Drink is a great evil Mr Rattler," Francis's Aunt too ignored the boy's presence. "The purveyor's of spirituous liquors steal their customers healthy and worldly wealth. You surely would not argue that a burglar should be allowed to continue to burgle because if he is stopped his wife and family will become paupers?"
"Ending their tenancies will represent a serious loss of revenue for the estate Sir Edward," Mr Rattler said trying another tack.
"I am aware of that. I am bound to try to oppose the forces of evil wherever I detect them but nothing requires me to suffer unnecessary financial loss to the detriment of my family and dependants. Fortunately there is an obvious solution to this difficulty. Rents will be immediately increased by two shillings in the pound while wages and piece work rates will be cut by a proportionate amount. This I calculate will more than make up the loss to the estate and the tenants will easily manage to pay the additional rents as they will no longer be wasting their money on drink and the labourers will make up any shortfall because they will be able to work longer hours and produce more."
"But... "
"Mr Rattler, this is not a matter for discussion. If you feel unable to put my orders into effect then please say so and I have no doubt that I will find little difficulty in finding some one to replace you."
The Land Agent was about to say something and then thinking better of it marched quickly from the room.
"Now let me see what's next? Ah yes. Baxter bring the boys forward."
Francis and Edward were hustled forward to stand before their Uncle. It occurred to Edward that he had seen boys caught in some misdemeanour about the estate, stealing fruit, poaching and so on, hauled before their own father in a similar way. Such boys were always subjected to a tongue lashing followed by a flogging, held down over the desk by Baxter as his father laid into their bare backsides with the strap, Francis and he watching and giggling in excitement at the howls and writhings of the young criminals. He swallowed painfully. He hoped that things would not develop in this way on this occasion.
"A fine pair of villains. Nasty cunning dishonest cheating little brutes," the man raged. "I suppose you thought you could rob me and my family of the estate by your dirty little schemes."
"It's not your estate. It's mine," protested Francis.
"No don't hit the brat now Mr Ottley. You'll have plenty of time in the future to do that. I want the pleasure of explaining to him that his scheme has failed."
"It's not your estate boy. You're not the Nineteenth Baronet. You're just the bastard child of my brother by a cheap whore with whom he chose to live."
"Sir Edward," Mr Maitland protested, "you go too far. Think of the effect of what you are saying on the child. This much is true of what your Uncle has said Francis. Research undertaken by him has conclusively shown that your mother was already married and her husband was still alive when she purported to marry your father. It follows therefore that you have no claim on the estate."
"I go too far.. this much of what I have said is true.... think of the effect on the child," Sir Edward exploded, "you don't think of the effect on me and my family if this plot had succeeded. You side with a whore's sons against the legitimate inheritor of the estate and the holder of an ancient barony."
"Sir Edward," protested the solicitor weakly, "calm yourself please. Think, the boys even if they are not legitimate are the children of your own brother. Surely you will give them some support. The convention is...."
"To support the legitimate issue of previous holders of the title - not brats spawned in sin and lust," stormed Sir Edward. "They will not have a penny from me. The sins of the parents shall be visited upon the children. I would be encouraging vice if I gave a penny of money to these harlot's brats. If I had my way I would turn them out now to starve in the fields as a warning to all. However the government of this country has decreed that even such as these shall be kept in near luxury, fed and housed at the public expense."
"Mr Ottley remove these boys from my presence. You have room for them in the juvenile ward of the work house?"
"Indeed we have Sir Edward. The winter cleared out a number of the weaker ones as it always does. We've hardly any sleeping more than three to a bed at the moment. Though they prefer it often that way - warmer for the little brutes."
"Surely dear you are not going to let them leave this house wearing those clothes," Lady Edward protested. "They are much too good for pauper brats. They could be put to one side for our dear little Robin when he reaches their age. I am sure Mr Ottley has some rags in the work house more appropriate to such as they."
"And dearest, to let them go with out punishing them for their wickedness would be quite wrong. It would be an encouragement to criminality and would give the impression that we are an easy target for any thief and vagabond in the area. They should be whipped well both for their own sakes and as a warning to others."