“We can do without this one,” I said to Flannigan.
“You can’t do without Shoni,” replied the stranger. “Not now you lack a leader, and if you want the proof of me I will take any three men here.” The smile left his face. “Informers, is it? And what are you doing about it – nothing. You’ve lost Rhayader, and you’re leaving him to rot. I say find the informer and slit his throat, march on St Clears and release Rhayader. Does the burning of the gates bring you respect – prancing round the countryside in turbans and petticoats? Where’s the belly of the county, men? By God, you should come to Monmouthshire if you want rebellion – look at the Chartists!”
“Aye, look at them,” I shouted back.
“At least they had the guts to fight it out. To arms, I say – take shot to your powder-guns, forge your pikes, build your cannon and blow the military off the face of the earth!”
“I am out for one,” I said, shifting.
“Who follows little Shoni?” yelled Sgubor Fawr.
“Get out,” said a man. “We work it Flannigan’s way.”
“And my way is Tom Rhayader’s way,” shouted Flannigan. “Which do you want?”
The men waved a forest of hands. “Flannigan, Flannigan!”
“Out,” said Flannigan, and jerked his thumb at Shoni, “You will find ten Rebeccas between here and Pembroke and I wish you luck, you are not needed here.”
“And your informer?” yelled Shoni.
“Yours if you can find him,” replied Flannigan, laughing, and turned as Toby Maudlin ran in.
“Been searching for young Joey,” gasped Toby. “High and low I have searched – no sign.”
“You tried the lime kilns?” I asked, and could have bitten of my tongue.
“Why the kilns?” asked one.
“Just wondered,” I said.
“Then wonder again,” answered Flannigan.
“Starts sleeping there in spring, Abel,” called Evan ap Rees. “Could be he’s just started. Worth trying.”
“You and young Joey were pretty thick one time, remember?” mumbled Justin.
All I felt was eyes.
“Years back,” I swung to him. “And if Joey talks I go under same as you,” I said.
“Go there tonight,” said Flannigan. “Any likely place must be searched, and if we find him he gets a fair trial.”
“Like the other two hundred here,” I said.
“You try the kilns and do less talking.”
“What about the notice?” asked Justin, holding up a paper.
“O, aye, the notice,” said Flannigan. “Now listen all! It was George Martin who pulled in Tom Rhayader, for he is behind the military, every move. We owe him one back and by God he’ll get it. We are taking his gates next, but first he’ll have notice – much more difficult to explain London. You with me?”
Good humour, now, with the men nudging and loving every minute.
“So hearken,” shouted Flannigan. “Justin by here is good at writing, so Justin turned this out,” which put the men into stitches for Justin was no scholar. “We will post this up tonight,” and he read from the paper:
“‘Take Notice. I wish to give especial notice to those who have sworn to be constable in order to grasp ’Becca and her children, but I can assure you it will be too hard a matter for Bullin to finish the job that he began. …’”
His voice boomed on, telling of the gates that were soon to come down, and ended:
“‘As for the constables and the policemen Rebecca and her children heeds no more of them than the grasshoppers that fly in the summer, for the gates will be burned to the ground. Faithful to death with the county, Rebecca and her daughters.’”
Muffled cheers at this, especially for the poetic bits about grasshoppers and summer, and Flannigan shouted. “George Martin will lose some sleep now that Justin’s started writing him love letters. Matthew Luke John – have this pinned up in the town before dawn light,” and the boy I had met on my first burning sprang up to take it. “Next meeting Wednesday,” said Flannigan. “Come armed and disguised, and we will burn every gate to do honour to Tom Rhayader, our old Rebecca. Right, meeting closed. Jethro!”
I went to him.
“You will search the kilns for Joey Scarlet?”
“Yes, Abel,” I said, sickened.
The men crept out of the quarry and over the mountain to their homes.
I took the path home through Waldo’s preserves again. A wet bitch of a night now for spring with the wind owl-screeching like a lost soul, right old music when searching for informers. Black and spooky was the wood now with the branches rattling for skeletons as I skidded down to the limekiln humps. I walked much slower as I came in sight of the kilns, for if Joey had blabbed about Rhayader his mood would now be murderous with conscience and fear. So I came on tiptoe the last few yards, going on all fours in the peat at the first tang of the kiln fires, wiped rain from my eyes and peered.
Joey was lying face down on the slaking-rim with a shroud of canvas pulled up to his ears, his body black against the glow of the fires.
“Joey!” Behind the bole of a tree, kneeling, I called.
This brought him upright.
“Who’s there?”
“Mortymer,” I shouted back.
“What you want with me, Mortymer?”
“Didn’t see you at the meeting tonight,” I shouted.
“To hell with the meeting and to hell with Rebecca.”
“And Tom Rhayader in particular, Joey? You heard about Tom?”
This brought him to his feet, standing on the rim, white as a ghost in his dusting of lime. Hair plastered, rags fluttering, he peered for me, but I had already seen the gleam of his powder-gun and kept under cover.
“You alone?” he called.
“Aye.”
“Then why don’t you come out, man?”
“Not likely,” I shouted. “Not considering what you did to Tom Rhayader.”
Stiff he stood, then his
