“Flannigan brought Joey in, not me.”
Morfydd sighed. Sweat was lying on her face and she wiped it into her hair.
“I am disgusted with Flannigan,” she whispered. “He is begging for Botany Bay. Listen, Jethro. Find Joey Scarlet or you will not last the night.”
“You seem damned sure it is him,” I said.
“Lay my life on it,” said she. “Find Joey Scarlet, quick.”
“And Mrs Rhayader? You will go down?”
“I … I will wink at Mari and get Mam steered early to bed. Leave it to me.” At the door she turned. “O, you fools,” she said.
Dark was the night with a hint of sleet in him from rolling black clouds running before the bloom of spring. With Morfydd down with Mrs Rhayader I set out early for the mountain meeting in the disused quarry, but took the path through Waldo’s preserves. Nothing stirred in the woods and beyond the Reach Squire’s mansion stood gaunt and lonely, shuttered and barred. No gentry carriages came there now. Empty it stood save for Lloyd Parry and old Ben since Tessa died. Nothing stirred as I went past it to the lime kilns where the cauldron burned the builders’ lime, and the bee-hive kilns were as camels’ humps against a crescent moon. Beside the slaking-pit now I looked around. Here was Joey’s bed of straw; a half eaten crust nearby, the peat scarred here by the thrust of a boot. No sound save the cry of a distant bird and the bubbling of the pit where steam wisped up. I stood alone, listening, then turned and ran down the bank to the trees that reared as hunchback skeletons, stripped bare by the Atlantic gales. Leaping the peaty places, handspringing boulders I got to the foothills of the mountain and began the climb. Far below me I saw a light in Rhayader’s cottage and imagined Morfydd there with Mrs Rhayader. Strange it would be without Tom tonight. Flannigan was standing at the entrance to the quarry, a dog’s leg entrance that obliterated light.
“You seen Toby?” he asked. Vicious looked Flannigan.
“Bringing in the men,” I said.
“Don’t be too sure, Mortymer, you can’t trust your neighbour.”
“Joey Scarlet here yet?” I asked.
“Get inside, we can all talk there.”
Must have sworn a few in since I came last. Nigh two hundred there that night; squatting shoulder to shoulder, leaning against the rocks, and they were as statues, making no sound, their faces shadowed and intense in the moonlight, and they grumbled like cattle as Flannigan followed me in.
“Two missing,” said Flannigan. “Maudlin and Scarlet. Now listen, all of you know that Rhayader’s been taken. Somebody’s played Judas and we reckon to find him. Who saw Joey Scarlet last?”
“Up in Carmarthen market this forenoon, Flannigan,” said a man at the back.
“You are sure?”
“Saw him plain as my face.”
“Who’s that speaking?”
“Evan ap Rees. Saw him right enough.”
“What doing?”
“Begging.”
“Sober?”
“More sober’n me, then some,” and the men laughed.
“What time did you see him?”
“Close on midday – walking round the horses, he was – telling the tale, hat in his hand – you know Joey.”
“Do I?” asked Flannigan.
“Don’t jump, don’t jump, man,” said someone at the front. “Just a kid he is and too bloody frightened to turn informer – what about losing his tongue to Justin – you there, Justin boy?”
“Right here with the knife,” said Justin, and I saw him for the first time since our fight, his face humped and bruised like mine, but grinning.
“Somebody’s been slaughtering you for a change, is it?” and men guffawed.
“And he got his share,” said Justin, “eh, Jethro man?”
I grinned back. One thing about fighting; you do it with men, but I still did not trust him.
“You heard about the reward St Clears has put up?” asked Flannigan.
This put them quiet. Pipes came out and they shouldered and muttered.
“Fifty pounds a time for Rebeccas. A little bit more than they paid for the Lord. You heard they picked up four Rebeccas between here and Carmarthen at fifty pounds a time, Tom included?”
“A fortune to Joey, fifty pounds,” said one.
“Could have been any one of us.”
“Some queer old boys been coming in lately, remember.”
“You think Rhayader will talk – he can hook the lot of us.”
“Shut your mouth,” I said.
“Or I will shut it,” said Flannigan.
We sat then, uncertain, lacking a leader. Flannigan wavered. I watched him walking about, thumping his hands, and I longed for Rhayader.
“Where have they got Tom?” asked one.
“St Clears.”
“What about fetching him out of it, then?”
“Talk sense,” said Flannigan.
“Do we leave him to rot? He’ll get transportation next assizes for sure.”
“And him with a wife and little ones.”
“It was the chance he took,” said Flannigan.
“Wouldn’t take a lot to winkle him out of it, you thought?”
“We are not having bloodshed,” said Flannigan.
“Half past two for Sunday School, prompt, mind. What is this, an outing?”
“Just a little buckshot and a few little knives.”
“Where’s your stomach, man?”
“We are not going after Rhayader,” shouted Flannigan. “That’s final.”
“Since when were you Rebecca, then?”
“Not even elected. I say Rhayader comes out.”
And Flannigan wavered, walking about. This is the time when the new man is born, the leader to be clutched at, revered. Up he got. He was a stranger to me, and never have I seen the like of him for size and power.
“And you sit down, Shoni,” said Flannigan, eyeing him.
“You try and sit me,” said Shoni Sgubor Fawr, and he came to the front.
I drew my breath at the sight of his face. It was ravaged, with the flattened features of the mountain fighter. Bull-necked, mop-haired, grinning, this one, and his clothes were ragged, his shirt open to the waist despite the frosty night and his feet and legs were bare, his ragged gentry riding breeches tied at the knees. Shoni Sgubor Fawr. This was the trash that was hanging a stink on the name of Rebecca, the
