The Other Robin Hood

The Other Robin Hood

by

Anthony Anglorus

First Published by Anthony Anglorus at Smashwords

Copyright Anthony Anglorus 2011

Cover artwork by James Bareham of Happicamp

Anthony Anglorus has asserted his right to be identified as the Author of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

For Tanya; my inspiration and my heart’s desire.

Preface

The tale which follows is based upon actual events. Many of the words used by characters in the book are the actual words spoken.

I first encountered George Davenport some years ago when I worked in Wigston. Later, I started researching him, and once I started, it was impossible to stop. Indeed, the more I learned, the more I felt that this was a story which must be told, and once I started writing, it was all I could do to control the torrent of words.

I have modernised the English to a degree, rather than attempting to use the English of the time – this is a wonderful, rollicking story, and to force the reader to plough through dialogue using the English of the period is to make the book a trial rather than a pleasure.

There is limited documented historical evidence available, but nothing in these pages contradicts anything which is known to be fact, save as noted. Whilst I have relied upon the writings of others for directions to look, I did my own research.

Writing and researching this tome, I am particularly indebted to the efforts of Mr Barry Lount of the Oadby Local History Group, Mr Mike Forryan of the Greater Wigston Historical Society, Miguel Salazar, David Burton Flint, Helen Osborne, Dave Kelly, my beloved wife Tanya, daughter Katya and Ken, all of whom contributed to the finished article, and to all of you – thank you.

It has all helped me to understand George Davenport better, and it is my fervent hope that were he alive today, he would approve of the document which follows.

Chapter 0: The Prologue

4th January, 1859

Tentatively, Charlotte turned the key in the lock and opened the door. A musty smell blew back into her face, but she didn’t recoil – this was a loved smell, a comfortable smell, a smell that she associated with her Grandmother.

And now Gran was gone. She brushed away a tear as she stepped smartly into the room before closing the door on the winter chill outside.

Not my job, she grumbled to herself as she removed her coat.

Walking over to the fireplace, she knelt and took the time to clean out the grate before laying the beginnings of a fire. Lighting it with the matches sitting neatly on the mantelpiece, she rocked back on her heels and stood up, enjoying the beginnings of warmth as the fire took hold.

Sighing, she moved across to Gran’s favourite chair and sat down.

She had come to begin sorting out Gran’s belongings before the landlord re-let the property; it wasn’t really her job, but her parents were themselves aged. Gran had died some weeks earlier, and Christmas had come and gone before she finally steeled herself to take over the job of sorting through Gran’s belongings.

The fire started to settle into gentle glowing heat, and she looked around.

Her eye was caught by a box at the side of the chair. Many times in her childhood she had tried to look inside this mysterious box, and each time Gran had stopped her gently before telling her that she would see what was inside when the time was right.

The time is right now, she said sadly and lifted the box onto her lap. Lifting the lid, she saw several bundles of papers, all written in a neat hand.

Now curious, she took the top bundle to the table and lit a candle. ‘George and Elizabeth to 1797’ announced the front page. She had never met her grandfather, who had died long before her birth, and all questions about him had always been gently brushed aside. Indeed, she knew virtually nothing of her grandparents’ earlier lives.

Opening the first page, she saw neat handwriting, so she riffled through the bundle, seeing more of the same. Pulling the chair from the table, she sat down and began to read.

Chapter One

OCTOBER 1777

We huddled in the trees and waited. It was cold sitting there, and I had brought no gloves. I sat and watched a spider spin his web, then broke it so that I could watch him start building again.

And still we waited.

We waited as groups of farmers took the path; we waited as carts travelled with their loads; we watched the stagecoach roar by with steam billowing from the horses’ nostrils.

Then, finally, we saw a lone man walking down the road, looking anxiously around him.

‘Here comes our mark,’ whispered John.

Nervously, I watched the man approach. I hoped some others would appear so that it wouldn’t have to happen, so we wouldn’t need to see our plan through. I felt cold sweat accumulate on my brow and trickle down past my temple. I flexed my hands, attempting to remove the stiffness from my fingers. I checked again, but not a single unsuspecting saviour came.

When the man was but five yards from us and after a final glance both ways along the road, we leapt from cover.

‘I will take your cash, good sir, if you please,’ announced my companion loudly.

The man started and moved to run. I acted without thinking, grasping his collar and holding him tight.

‘I do suggest, Sir, that it is better for your well-being to accommodate my friend,’ I told him.

‘But… But I have nothing!’ the man exclaimed.

‘You do, Sir, for I can see it tucked inside your coat,’ I told him, for indeed I could see a leather pouch from my vantage point several inches higher than he.

He paused. Then, feeling my hand tighten on his collar, he reluctantly extracted his purse and handed it over.

Taking it, John turned away.

‘No, my friend,’ I told him, ‘we take the excess. Do not leave the poor man completely penniless. Leave him a shilling, for I feel we can afford to be generous having so recently come into money.’

John looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses. But I stood steadfast, and so he rummaged in the pouch, extracted a shilling, and returned it to the victim.

With that, I pushed the man away from me, and John and I sprinted across the road, through the gate and into the field, where we ran, laughing like the very devil, until the road was no longer in sight.

We avoided the usual paths and roadways on the way back to our village, not wanting to be seen and identified as coming from Oadby. As Wigston came into sight, we paused and divided the spoils. There was more than four weeks’ wages in the pouch, and I was delighted by the outcome. Then we split up, not wanting to be seen returning to the village together.

My route took me past Tommy Ross’s cottage. I felt strangely exhilarated, and wanted Tommy to join me for a drink, and so I rapped on the door.

His mother appeared and waved me inside.

I had never been into Tommy’s house, and being from a fairly prosperous family myself, I was shocked by what I found inside. Although clean, the place was so meagrely furnished that I was forced to stand—or as best I could, for the ceiling was very low.

Tommy sheepishly rose to greet me. ‘George!’ he exclaimed. ‘What brings you here on a cold night like this?’

‘Tommy. I, er… well, I wondered if you would like to join me for a drink this evening.’

‘Georgie, I have no money left,’ he told me, embarrassment reddening his cheeks, ‘nor will I have until I am paid this coming Friday, as you well know.’

‘I have some money.’ I looked at the remains of the clearly frugal meal I had interrupted. ‘I never knew, Tommy. I didn’t realise.’

‘Never realised what?’ asked Tommy, bristling.

‘I never realised how p… I mean, how difficult life is for you.’

‘Well, as you see, it is,’ he muttered defensively. ‘Father died some years ago, and the only money we have is the pittance I earn. I do try to keep up with you all, and Mother insists that I must socialise, but it is difficult, I admit it.’

And then I did what I would always remember as a key moment in my working life: I rummaged in my pocket and extracted a shiny crown, before turning to his mother.

‘Mrs Ross, madam, I assure you, I had no idea life was so difficult for you. No idea whatsoever. I cannot stand by whilst my friend’s family has such difficulties. I have here a crown, which I can easily spare. Please, tomorrow, buy good food and drink, for the family of a friend of mine is my family also, and my family cannot be allowed to continue in penury like this. I shall make sure of it.’

Mrs Ross stared at the shiny crown, drawn, yet unwilling to accept charity.

‘I assure you, madam, this is not charity. This is a friend helping out another friend in the sure knowledge that, were the situation reversed, I could expect exactly the same assistance.’

Reluctantly, she took the proffered money, and then kissed my hand. ‘Thank you, dear Georgie. We shall not forget.’

I took her hand and kissed it back. ‘I am counting on it,’ I said, little realising how prophetic that statement was.

How did I come to this? How did I become a thief when I had been born to a reasonably well-off family? Well, I had lived only nineteen summers, a mere stripling but nevertheless big for my age. When I was not working, I was normally to be found in one of the local hostelries with a tankard in my hand—usually singing or dancing, or both. We were a merry bunch of lads, but perhaps somewhat more boisterous for the tastes of other patrons.

One of my drinking companions was John Green, a local villain who kept himself in beer by robbing travellers along the main road to the East near Oadby. But he was great fun with a belly full of ale, and as I was by far stronger and bigger than him I felt secure that he would not try to rob me. He was, however, several years older, so had a wealth of experience in the ways of the world that far exceeded my own—and thus he knew how to get his own way with a callow youth such as I.

One evening, there were only the two of us drinking together, so we were just sitting quietly by the door.

‘George, are you interested in making some more bits?’ he asked me with a furtive look around to make sure no-one was listening.

‘Always,’ I laughed. ‘You know I run out of funds by Tuesday every week!’

‘Leicester Market is tomorrow, and the farmers return home in the evening with full purses. With someone of your strength beside me, I could take more of them, and we could share the proceeds. At the moment, I can only take those of a small build.’

I pondered on this. The idea of having enough money to continue carousing through the week was very appealing, but I was nervous about his proposition.

‘What if we get caught?’

‘We run,’ he said casually. ‘I can usually outstrip most men, and I know you have at least a yard on me.’

‘Will they not report it to the peace officers?’

‘Of course they will. But unless they know us, how will they be able to identify us? We will be sitting down to a frothing pint of ale here in the village before they can get to a peace officer. It’s not as if we’re talking about robbing anyone here in the village.’

I thought about this and, with that pondering, I realised that all he was saying was true—but it didn’t feel right. I did, however, want to be able to afford to enjoy myself every day and I could feel the temptation gradually winning.

‘But most farmers are as poor as church mice!’

‘Not true,’ he argued simply. ‘Some are, I grant you, but have you seen the price of bread of late? Most make plenty from their crops and so are very wealthy. But they are unwilling to spend the money on buying themselves a rich lifestyle; it’s just a few more guineas to add to the trunkful they already have.’

I thought for a moment. John was so persuasive. It didn’t seem right, but…

‘Very well, I will do it. Just the once to start with, then I shall see how I feel.’

‘Excellent!’

‘But,’ I cautioned, ‘we rob no poor men. Only the rich ones!’

‘Of course!’ He clapped me on the back. ‘We’ll make a great team, you and I.’

I was less sure, but even so, I smiled back at him. And thus, the deal was made.

Of course, I didn’t go out thieving every night, but just a few times each month. I earned a modest wage as a frame knitter and had convinced myself that my little robberies were simply to top up my wage so that I could go out every night. I don’t think I even thought of these bonuses as wrong, as criminal; it was as if I were simply collecting what was due to me.

But as I passed around the village, minding my own business, I kept seeing people, people I had grown up with, people I had known since I was but a babe. And in almost every case, their poverty was now clear to me. I had been brought up in a prosperous home, and it had never occurred to me that not everyone was as fortunate. My visit to Tommy had changed all that, stripped the protective gauze from my face, enabling me to see it all around me—clearly. Dirt, poverty, misery, good people doing their best to crawl their way through the gutter in which life had placed them.

And I wanted to help.

I remembered how embarrassed Tommy’s mother had been when I offered her the crown, so now I became more circumspect. I would drop a florin into a shopping basket, a crown into an open and unattended pocket, a penny into the baccy tin of an old man at the inn who had gone to water the daisies. This helped me to feel better about the robberies, but of course it meant that I ran out of money far faster than I intended, meaning that John and I had to make more and more frequent forays into the world of crime.

Leadership of the thieving trips gradually passed to me, as I was by far the stronger, quicker and cleverer of the two of us. John didn’t mind as long as he was kept financed—and we were becoming far more successful under my leadership than he had ever been alone.

I recall one especially fruitful day in late summer. It had been a hot and sticky few weeks, and all the roads were dry and dusty. Forsooth, all our throats were dry and dusty too, ‘twas so hot! John and I had recruited a few of the local lads, and we were determined to line our pockets well. Collecting a spade and some strong ropes, we made our way across the fields to the main road to London. It was a Saturday, and so the main markets in Leicester had been in full flow, and the farmers would all begin to wend their way home as the markets wound down.

I had previously reconnoitred the road, working a little further south than usual in a stretch unencumbered by settlements, meaning that our customers had a long ride to seek help. I had found a spot just around a sharp bend in the road, with another sharp bend just south of us. Upon arriving—and after making sure that there was nobody watching us—I posted two men at the most northern bend.

‘Now lads,’ I told them, ‘tie the rope to yonder tree,’ I pointed to a sturdy oak on the inside edge of the bend. ‘Set it about chest height so a horse cannot step over it. Whenever a mark passes by heading south, I’ll be relying on you to let me know if any others are in sight. If I get no signal from you, we shall stop the rider just down there.’ I pointed at a stand of trees straddling the road some twenty yards further down. ‘You must raise your rope and tie it to the elm tree across there, then stand across the road behind the rope. Keep watching up the road in case anyone approaches. Are we understood, men?’

They both nodded.

‘Good.’ With that, I walked down the road to the next bend, taking two more men with me.

‘Same here as the other lads. Tie the rope to that tree inside the bend, and be ready to do the same if we get a mark heading north. Let any heading south pass without seeing you, but I’ll be counting on you to let me know if anyone is coming from this direction. All clear?’

‘Yes, George. You want us to warn you if anyone approaches, and block off behind anyone travelling north.’

‘Only if we step out to take them,’ I warned. ‘Any we let pass unmolested should not even see us—very important: we don’t want them riding on to the next village and raising the alarm.’

‘Understood.’

With that, I walked back to the centre of our operation. ‘Dig out a channel across the road here,’ I instructed, ‘about a hand’s depth. Tie one end of the rope to the elm there and then bury it in the channel. We can hide in that undergrowth there. Pull up the other end in front of the horse and then tie off to the sapling over there.’

‘Is it strong enough?’ asked John.

‘No, but the horse won’t know that, and the rider will be too busy dealing with us to notice.’

‘As you say,’ said John doubtfully, but dutifully did as he was told.

Once all was in place, we retired to the bushes and sat down. John tried to light his pipe, but I interceded.

‘They might see the smoke as they approach.’

He duly put his pipe away, and we sat dully staring round, waiting for the first traveller to pass.

We didn’t have long to wait, but it was the afternoon coach to Kettering, running a little late. Whilst doubtless full of rich pickings, any coachman worth his salt would simply drive his team through our flimsy roadblock without a pause, stopping only to warn the next village of our presence. We remained hidden as it thundered past, scant inches from where I sat. The dust cloud billowed behind it, choking us.

John looked at me, and we both burst out laughing at the sight of us: two rogues covered in dust. After checking to make sure no-one was coming, I led the way to a stream which ran parallel with the road but a few yards back, and we splashed the dirt from our faces, patting our clothes to remove the worst of the dust, then we made our way back to our hideaway.

‘Next coach isn’t due for a couple of hours. I hope we’ll be long gone before then,’ I observed. ‘That one’s running late, which is probably why he was in such a hurry.’

The rope was now visible where the wheels had torn up the road as it raced past. I wandered across, reburying the rope with the toe of my boot.

I looked up at a call from the northern lookout

‘Lone horseman coming!’

I scrambled back to the hideout and awaited his arrival. Sure enough, only moments after I had regained my cover, a horse trotted around the corner ahead. The lookout by the tree double-checked up the road and then nodded at me. A quick glance to the southern lookout reassured me that we were not about to be interrupted from that direction, and John and I took hold of the rope end curled up beside us as if asleep. As the horse approached, we hauled on the rope, pulling it tight across the road.

The horse pulled up short and reared slightly. John tied the rope to the sapling whilst I moved quickly forward and took hold of the horse’s halter as he settled. I looked up at the rider glaring down at me.

‘I think the term is stand and deliver, Sir,’ I said mildly.

‘What? How dare you! I’m not—’

I pulled him from the saddle, interrupting his response. Once he had recovered his feet, I reached for his pocket. He grabbed my arm automatically, as if to stop me, but at that point, John appeared and took hold of his arms. He let go and, instead, stood glowering as I pulled out his pocket book.

I had no interest in the pocket book itself, merely the contents, and so I extracted the notes from within and returned it to his pocket. Checking his other pockets, I extracted a further handful of coins, then returned one shilling.

I nodded at John, who let go of his arms and strolled back to untie the rope from the sapling.

‘You may proceed along your way, Sir,’ I said, standing back.

He took one good look at me, then remounted his horse and spurred it on its way.

I turned to John. ‘A good haul, I think. It will take him at least ten minutes to reach the next village, then at least fifteen for them to gather a party together, then ten to get back here. So we have