Bitter Eden (3 page)

The Swing men were gathered around a small, clan-

destine fire. Their large work-soiled hands, fingers protruding from ragged gloves, stretched outward seeking the elusive warmth of the tiny blaze. Peter dismounted and joined them.

In spite of his efforts to dress as a laborer, he stood out from the rest. His boots were sturdy and well made. Many of the Swing men had bound their feet in rags to keep the torn shreds of their boots together. Others wore parodies of shoes—mismatched, mismade concoctions of leather and rag. Their coats were worn and thin, coarse, homemade garments. Angry once more at Frank's blindness to these people's plight, Peter shouldered his way among the men until he stood at the front of the group. He wanted to be seen by these men. He was ashamed of what his brother was. He wanted every man present to know that a Berean was there with them willing to fight by their sides for as long as reform took.

Peter listened to the speaker. He didn't know the man's name, nor did he ask. Like many of the Swing men, the man wore a dark mask over his features in a futile attempt to conceal his identity. Peter pulled up the deep collar of his black sweater, covering the lower portion of his face, but he did it only out of respect for the others. He knew too well that it made no difference. When the magistrates decided to put an end to the Swing riots, identities of men such as these would have no meaning. The arrests would be wholesale, and no one would care who they were.

Peter brought his attention back to the speaker. They were to burn the ricks of Roger Baker tonight. Peter became alert. Roger Baker was the chief tenant farmer on the Foxe property. Not only was Albert Foxe the magistrate for the parish, but the Foxe family was the most influential and the most adamantly opposed to the labor movement

"Must it be Baker?" Peter asked.

The masked leader was silent. His cloth-covered face turned toward Peter. "If you'd rather not be with us tonight, Berean, we can see your reason. We'd not hold it against you. Foxe will be your brother-in-law. We ask no man to do harm to his own family."

"I care nothing for Albert Foxe. I was thinking of us—the movement—when I suggested another target. Thus far we've steered clear of the officials' homes. Baker's house is on the magistrate's home grounds. I am questioning the timing of the attack. Our movement has just begun to receive notice. We are slowly gaining momentum; other men are following. I am questioning the wisdom of antagonizing the magistrate now, when he is powerful enough to crush us."

"Roger Baker is one of the strongest supporters of the thresher," the leader answered. "For every threshing machine brought in, ten of us will be without work. Baker has a field of neatly stacked ricks of hay, all done by his bloody machines, and ain't the prick happy to show them off to anvone who'll look? The hop men hereabout see Baker's fields and hear him talk, and they listen. He tells them all to buy threshers. And they listen to him. We don't want the magistrate on us, but we can't let Baker speak so freely of the thresher. We'll put a bit of the fear of Swing in his belly, and see how much he talks then."

Several of the men around the fire murmured agreement. Peter merely nodded. Bevond suggestion, he never attempted to countermand the plans of the Swing men. Peter often questioned the wisdom of their decisions, for they were impatient and desperate for change to come quickly. But they spoke of children dying of fever, of children dying with cold, of children dying of hunger, and Peter could only listen and try to grasp with his mind what his experience

would not allow him to feel. As the months since he had joined the Swing men passed, Peter knew that even his sympathies for them could never teach him to feel their desperation, or know what it was like to have no authority over one's own destiny, to be starving while no one cared. He could not argue with these men because he had never suffered as they suffered. He rode with them, and he talked eloquently and forcefully, encouraging them to keep their movement free of bloodshed. His voice was raised only on this one issue, and so far no man had been harmed by the Swing rioters. Their target was property.

Peter mounted his horse with the others. The masked leader came over to him. "Berean, we've heard of the talks youVe made to the yeomanry on our behalf." The man seemed embarrassed. His voice was gruff. "You needn't worry about Gardenhill House. We wont touch it. Tell your pa that. We know our friends . . . and our enemies." He cleared his throat. "I just wanted you to know that We know our friends."

The man dug his heels into his horse, wheeling the animal around. Forming the semblance of a column, the Swing men followed him through the woods, heading for the Foxe property.

The lights of Roger Baker's house winked warmly from behind the black mound of a gentle hillock. The muted thud of the horses' hooves seemed out of place among the soft sounds of the night hunters. Strange, interrupted sounds of pelting wings, agonized shrieks; fluttering, beating sounds of life-and-death struggles among the night animals.

"WillyI" the leader called in a hoarse whisper.

A small thin man rode up to him.

"When you see the ricks in flame, and we're clear,

poke this into Baker's door. Careful . . . don't be seen." Willy looked at the scrap of paper:

Bewar of the fatel dager! Swing.

He grinned as he stared at the note. He couldn't read a word, but he, like the others, knew the message it carried. He held the paper with pride, flattered beyond speech that he should be chosen to affix it to Roger Bakers door with his dagger.

The rest of the men went to the stable yard and broke into two groups. Dismounting, the first group went into the fields where the hay was stacked in ricks, the other into the outbuildings to remove Baker's tools and release his horses, acts calculated to wreak havoc on the operation of his farm. Systematically they spread out in the darkened barn. Peter, with the others, felt his way cautiously in the pitch-black building, searching for the location of the tools. In spite of all their efforts to move silently, tools fell to the floor, making what seemed a shattering din. Softly muttered curses cut the quiet air. Shadows of men hurried in blackness to and from the barn, carrying out farm implements and scattering them over the field, throwing them onto the fires or into the bordering woods. In the barn others continued rooting out Roger Baker's possessions. They covered the interior, climbing up into the loft, into the unused and empty stalls. They all stopped breathing as a pain-filled shriek cut through the night.

"Christ! Shut the bastard up! Who is it?"

"Kilmer ... he fell from the loft," another voice said.

The Swing men crowded around the fallen Kilmer.

A grimy hand covered Kilmer's mouth, shutting off his cries. Another tried to straighten his leg, crumpled beneath him.

"Get him out of here! Quick, take him to his horse. Jude, you take him. Hurry!"

Two men lifted Kilmer and carried him to the door of the barn. Chaos broke out behind them. Tools clattered to the floor; men bumped into each other as they tried to regain control.

"Get out of here!" someone shouted hoarsely. "Bakers got a whole bloody army in the house. Run! He's comin'!"

"All the fires ain't set!"

"You set them!"

Hesitating, then running, their masked leader lit a dry branch and threw it into the nearest unfired rick. The dry hay sparked, snapping and smoking; then a yellow flame shot up. Incautiously the leader grabbed a handful of burning hav and tossed it onto the next rick. He was joined bv Peter and two other men. Racing against time and Roger Baker, they ran through the field, throwing the burning hav.

The field lit up, glowing gold in the cold misty night, as Roger Baker and the three men who had been his dinner guests ran from the house. Baker, a rotund little barrel of a man, brandished a saber nearly as long as he was tall. The other men were better armed, two with swords and the third with a pistol.

With the leader Peter ran for the horses tethered near the woods. He nearly fell over Kilmer lying on the ground several feet from the horses. Willv knelt by the injured man's side. Peter looked behind him. Baker and the three men, momentarily distracted by the movement of the fire leaping from one rick to another, had assumed the Swing men were still setting

the fires, and had run into the field. Quicklv they saw their mistake and turned back. Thev began to run toward Peter and the horses. One man stopped, took aim, and fired the pistol. A cloud of flame burst forth. The sound was deafening. The ball thudded into the tree trunk behind the horses. The animals, their eves bulging, strained at their tethers, pawing the ground and rearing dangerously close to Kilmer.

"Help me get him up, Willv," Peter said. Kilmer, unconscious now, lolled across Peter's arms. The two men staggered under his weight. With Willv straining to help, Peter heaved Kilmer over the saddle. "Mount up, Will! Get him out of here. Hurry up, man! Don't look back now."

"What about you?" Willy asked, close to tears.

Peter removed his belt and strapped Kilmer's arms to the saddle. "Watch him, he's liable to spill," Peter said. "Go now!" He struck the rump of Kilmer's horse, making the animal jerk forward then run pell-mell into the fence, snorting and rearing. "Damn it, Willy! Take this lead and get out of here!"

Roger Baker and his men were onlv steps awav. Peter flung himself onto his saddle. The tallest of the four men lunged at him, grabbing the tail of his coat. Caught off balance, with the horse in a frenzied dance, Peter slid from the saddle. Desperatelv he clawed at the saddle, then the horse's mane. He grabbed hold and managed to grasp the saddle horn with his left hand. The horse danced sideways. Then, at the prick of Baker's unwieldy saber, the animal shrieked, rearing and thrashing. Quivering and bucking, the roan danced into the sword, then renewed its haphazard efforts to rid itself of Peter's weight dragging its head down. Peter kicked at the men who pulled at his clothing, and maintained his death grip on the horse's mane. The animal shook his head fu-

riously, kicking behind him. Roger Baker sprawled on the ground. The others battered at Peter with fist and sword. The man with the pistol tried awkwardly to reload in the dark.

Hemmed in by the fence and the men beating at Peter, the horse was crazed, rearing, his front legs slashing the air. Peter struggled to get one leg over the saddle. He screamed commands at the horse. The roan leaped forward, wrenching Peter against the fence. The men shouted obscenities and clawed at him. A heavy blow knifed along his arm, and then Peter was free, the roan running wildly. Unable to stop the horse, Peter was dragged across the hills and through Roger Baker's neat rows of winter turnips. His arms and shoulders were a fiery agony. Still running wildly, the horse headed into the woods that formed the boundary between the Berean property and that of the Foxes. His teeth clenched against the pain, Peter tried vainly to soothe the animal with his voice. Its head pulled to one side by Peter's weight, the roan swerved, skimming a tree. Peter hit the ground and lay motionless. Free of its burden, the animal slowed to a walk, its course now steady toward home.

James Berean had never left his post by the windows. He heard the roan enter the stable yard before he could see anything. He stuck his head out the front door. "Peter!" he called in a low whisper. Receiving no answer, James called again, then went out into the yard. Peter's horse stood, head down, exhausted. James touched the horse, felt the lathered sweat and the torn flesh of the animal's flank. He led the roan into the stable. With trembling hands he lit the Ian-

tern. There was a ragged wound on the left hindquarters. James's throat tightened as he thought of Peter. He methodically bathed the horse's wound and thought about his son. Should he go out to find Peter, or should he wait? He hadn't the slightest idea of Peter's destination, nor what direction he had taken. All he knew was that the animal had run a considerable distance at great speed. James had never felt so helpless nor so negligent as he did now, standing in the stable bathing a wounded horse while his son might lay injured God knew where. James paced the stable, then went out into the dark yard. He walked the perimeter of the yard, softly calling Peter's name.

Hours passed, and James continued his vigil, always tempted to go in search of Peter, and knowing he was more likely to miss him than to find him. The stiff frosted grass bent and broke beneath his feet. False dawn played in the eastern sky, and still there was no sign of Peter. James had walked every inch of his fields. He moved along the edge of the woods, trying to peer into their dense darkness. His voice, hoarse now and quivering with cold, sounded eerie as it floated across the moist, frosty air. "Peter!" he cried, no longer expecting a reply. "Peter!"

James stopped suddenly. He stood listening, his heart pounding so hard he wasn't sure if he had heard anything or not. Then there was a crackling of underbrush too heavy for the light tread of an animal, and he heard his name. James plunged bull-like into the tangle of growth at the edge of the woods. Confused, and now hearing nothing, he stopped again, calling Peter's name. He charged deeper into the woods, not knowing where he was going, but merely following intuition.

Peter wasn't sure it was his father's voice he heard, and he knew there was some reason he should be careful. He remembered he should make no sound at all, but he couldn't think why. He clung to one tree trunk, then released it, staggering, blindly reaching out for the next. Vaguely he tried to move toward the voice calling his name.

A sound of thanksgiving and fear was wrenched from James when he saw Peter, but he said nothing. With tears of relief running down his face in icy rivulets, he embraced Peter. He put his son's arm over his shoulder. "Put your weight on me. ... I can manage with you," he said as Peter swayed then jerked forward as he tried to straighten up and take the weight from his father.

"I'm all right," Peter slurred. "The horse ... a tree . . ."

"Hush, boy. You're home and that's enough. But we've got work to do. Albert will be here any time now .... We can't count on more than a couple of hours. There'll be no fooling him this time. You must listen to me, Peter, and do as I say. Can you listen? Are you able, son?"