Page 4 of By Marsh and By Moor (Marsh and Moor #1)

Mrs Farley was a short, sturdy woman with iron-grey hair and a sharpness of eye that probably stood her in good stead when buying livestock. She lived in a neat and comfortable farmhouse, set in a yard that gave her every appearance of being a well-to-do tenant farmer.

“We heard you needed two men to clear a rhyne,” Jed said when she answered the door to them.

She looked him and Solomon up and down. They had brushed off the mud as best they could, but no doubt she still saw them for exactly what they were: two tired and hungry men who’d been tramping the neighbourhood all afternoon, and nary a job in sight.

Jed’s feet ached. He’d spent the past five years doing hard labour, but he was more used to walking the deck in bare feet than tramping for miles, and a particularly nasty blister on his left heel stung like blazes. At least it distracted him from the pangs of hunger in his belly.

Mrs Farley’s gaze lingered suspiciously on Jed. But if she guessed he was a seaman, she didn’t mention it. Instead, she said, “You know the press is out in these parts?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I gave the gangers six shillings yesterday not to press my men, then came home and found the two fools had run off anyway. Can’t blame them, I suppose. But in the meantime, my west field is water-logged.”

“You won’t find us wanting, ma’am,” Solomon said.

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “It will take you four or five days, I should think. I’ll give you bed and board as long as is needed, and six shillings apiece when you’re done, and”—she nodded at Jed—“a good pair of old boots. What say you?”

Relief flooded Jed. “That will suit us very well, ma’am.”

They shook hands with her on it. She called for another woman, a farm servant who showed them the hayloft where they would sleep, and brought them a bowl of hot broth apiece and a jug of small ale.

They ate in one of the outbuildings, among crates of apples and sacks of potatoes. Jed wolfed down the broth, happy to have something warm in his belly. He set the bowl aside.

Solomon had already finished eating and sat sprawled on the ground, propped against one of the crates. The room was dim, the last of the day’s sunshine filtering in through cracks between the wall’s rough wooden planks. Solomon was staring reflectively into space.

Jed tapped his shoulder, and Solomon jumped, startled. For all that he had been lounging, languid, against the crate, Jed thought he was wound tight as a spring on the inside.

Silently, Jed held out the jug. Solomon shook his head, so Jed drained the last of the ale.

“I’m going to turn in,” he said, getting to his feet.

Solomon looked up at him. His eyes were unreadable in the dim light. “I want to get back on the road as soon as may be.”

“You’ll get no argument from me on that head.”

He held out his hand, and Solomon grasped it, letting Jed pull him to his feet. They stood facing each other for a second, hands clasped, and then Jed dropped his hand, turning to leave the shed.

In the barn, they clambered up an old wooden ladder to a hayloft that looked to Jed like the most comfortable resting place he’d known in years: dry straw, a watertight roof, and plenty of blankets to spread on the hay.

You couldn’t beat a hammock for comfort, but it came with ever-present damp and mildew, and two hundred other men packed tight around it.

In the hammock on his left, for the past three years, there had slept Bobby Lewis, a short, scrappy Welshman with a ready grin.

On the right slept Little Dodd, who snored like a foghorn and who was always ready to lend a listening ear to his messmates’ troubles.

They must be a hundred miles off Land’s End by now, never to cross Jed’s path again.

Solomon had already stripped to his shirt and wrapped himself in a blanket, and Jed quickly followed suit.

It was now two bells in the first watch.

The officer of the watch would be on the quarterdeck, and Bobby, Little Dodd and the rest of Jed’s messmates would be at the capstan, ready to race aloft the instant an order came.

“This en’t half bad,” he said, with forced cheer. “And we won’t be woken by that old peddler’s snores.”

Solomon chuckled softly. “My heart bleeds for his poor son. How he ever gets a wink of sleep, I can’t imagine.”

Jed fell asleep as soon as he lay down. He woke a few hours later to the sound of the bosun’s pipe rousing all hands on deck. He tried to jump from his hammock, and found himself sprawled on the wooden boards of the hayloft, tangled in a blanket.

For a long moment, he lay there panting, mind’s eye still blinded by confused memories of a storm at sea, a violent gale lashing the deck, the waves higher than the foremast, and that heart-stopping moment when he realised the man beside him on the yardarm had been swept overboard before his eyes—

The noise came again: not the whistle of the bosun’s pipe, but only the wind sneaking through some hole or crack in the barn below. Jed let out a long, shuddering breath.

The cadence of Solomon’s breathing showed that he too was awake. There came the rustle of blankets in the darkness as he sat up.

“Sorry,” Jed whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Can’t sleep?”

“It’s no surprise, I suppose. I en’t had a whole night’s sleep in five years. On watch, off watch, all hands on deck…”

Solomon made a sympathetic noise in his throat.

It was very calm and still in the hayloft, and something about the confessional atmosphere of the darkness prompted Jed to go on.

“I spent five years dreaming of escape. Vowing to escape. But my mind don’t seem able to accept that I’ve done it…” He broke off. “Sorry, you don’t want to hear about that.”

Solomon said quietly, “You won’t shake off five years in five minutes. No one could.”

Jed grunted. He was already regretting opening his mouth and making a fool of himself.

“I’ve always found that the mind does its own thing,” Solomon said. “And there’s no profit to be had in beating yourself up about it.”

There was something oddly comforting about the cool practicality in his voice.

“I’m going to try to go back to sleep,” Jed said.

He heard Solomon lie back down, and he did likewise, burrowing into the hay. Surprisingly quickly, he drifted off to sleep, accompanied by the comforting sound of Solomon’s quiet, regular breaths in the dark.

The following morning, Mrs Farley’s son, a sturdy lad of twelve or so, brought them across fields of cattle to the silted ditch, a small tributary gulley which led to the larger rhyne nearby.

Even today, after a week with only light rain, the ground around the ditch glistened with standing water.

The ditch was well and truly silted, there was no denying it, but Mrs Farley’s estimate of four or five days’ labour was a fair one.

Jed and Solomon worked in harmony, digging until they were up to their knees in water and stopping only for a short break to eat the pasties wrapped in wax paper that Mrs Farley had given them.

By the end of the day, they were both covered from head to foot in the loamy marshland soil. They were cold and muddy, but at least they could do something about one of those things. They dipped a bucket in the nearby rhyne, and doused each other with clear, cold water.

“Fuck,” Jed gasped, as the icy shower streamed down his neck, the shock making it feel colder than the water he had been standing in all day.

Solomon grinned at him, a full bucket in hand. “Again?”

“No, your turn.” He grabbed the bucket and upended it over Solomon’s head, grinning as Solomon laughed and spluttered.

Solomon’s wet shirt clung to his chest and shoulders, the long, lean lines of him outlined under the thin cloth.

He was the most vibrant thing in all the murky twilit marshland: alive and vital, brimming over with merriment.

Jed realised he had been staring a few moments too long; he turned his head away, scrubbing at his dripping face and hair.

“That’ll drain overnight, I reckon,” he said awkwardly, nodding at the pooled water in the trench they’d dug.

There was an odd silence. Jed’s back was to Solomon, and his skin prickled with the sensation of being watched.

“I reckon, yes,” Solomon said, after a few seconds.

In the fading light, a hush lay over the marsh, broken only by the rustle of wind in the rushes.

Jed swallowed. Into the silence, he said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. And bloody freezing.”

They ran back to the farm as fast as they could, shovels over their shoulders, the dusk turning to night around them.

Mrs Farley let them into her kitchen to dry off in front of the fire. “You’ll take a hot bowl of soup,” she said, plunging a ladle into the pot bubbling over the flames.

The kitchen was busy with comings and goings.

A male farm servant, stooped and grizzled, sat at the table polishing knives.

A cheery young dairymaid came in carrying a churn and cast a curious look at Jed and Solomon.

Jed bent his head over his soup, avoiding her gaze.

His landsman’s disguise was now complete: he wore a heavy linen smock Mrs Farley had given him, and a pair of old leather boots.

But he’d still rather not draw attention to himself.

The maid they had seen on the first night offered them a hunk of fresh bread each. “I’ve not seen you here before,” she said with curiosity. “You’re not from these parts, are you?”

Jed’s hand jerked, splashing soup onto his knees. Some press gangs gave rewards for information leading to an impressment.

“We’re passing through,” Solomon said easily. “How about you? Have you been at this farm long?”

The two of them fell into conversation. Solomon talked readily—though Jed couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t reveal very much about himself. Soon the girl was telling him all about her sweetheart in the nearby village.

“… wish we could move there together … His uncle has a shop there, you see, but he won’t take Rob on until he’s served out his indentures … Oh, ‘tis kind in you to say so …”

Jed ate in silence, content only to listen and watch.

Solomon sat with his head bent courteously towards the girl, his cap on his knee and his legs tucked under the narrow bench he shared with Jed by the fire.

His long-fingered hands were wrapped around the wooden soup bowl, tapping absently against it.

The flames crackled gently. Jed’s clothes had dried, and now he was comfortably warm. The maid was called away by Mrs Farley, and Solomon settled back on the bench. He broke the last piece of bread, handing half of it to Jed. Their fingers brushed.

Jed had had men’s eyes on him before, and liked it. And men’s hands and mouths. He wasn’t pretty—quite the opposite—but he’d never lacked interest, when he wanted it.

But he also knew that sometimes a friendly smile was just a smile.

The new ditch had drained overnight. Jed cast an assessing eye over the surrounding land. Was it somewhat dryer, or was that wishful thinking? In any case, they still had several days’ work ahead of them.

Then it was dig and delve, squelch and splash, until the pale, wintry sun was high in the sky, and they took a break to eat.

Jed leaned on his shovel, wiping a hand across his forehead. The chilly air was unpleasant on his sweat-slick skin, but the sun soon warmed him as they climbed a hillock to find some drier ground to sit on.

Today, the marsh was luminous under a clear, blue sky. Placid cows flicked their tails in the fields, and a frog croaked contentedly from his nearby hiding place. After Jed had finished eating, he lay back in the grass, whistling under his breath.

Solomon nudged him with an elbow. “Go on, you may as well sing the words.”

Laughing, Jed complied.

“Oh the cook is in the galley

Making duff so handy,

Way, haul away, we'll haul away Joe!

And the captain's in his cabin

Drinkin' wine and brandy...”

He had a strong voice, which had been much in demand on the forecastle, and he let it ring out across the marsh.

Solomon watched him, foot tapping in pleasure.

“You’ve an uncommon fine voice,” he said when Jed had brought the song to a rousing end.

It was spoken warmly, and Jed regarded him in surprise.

Unexpectedly, Solomon coloured. But the next thing he said was in his more usual dry tone, with a hint of teasing. “That the only song you know, I suppose?”

“Course not,” Jed said, more than willing to rise to the bait. He launched immediately into another song that had been a great favourite among his messmates.

“Our ship she lies in harbour,

Just ready to set sail,

May heaven guard my lovely maid,

Till I return one day...”

There were many verses, some sweet and some ribald. The final one ended with:

“...And she sits in her bower

A-waiting there for me,

A-waiting for her own true love

Returning home from sea.”

“And have you?” Solomon asked when the song was over.

“What?”

“A sweetheart waiting for you. Or a wife and childer, maybe?”

“Oh! No.”

“Good. I mean”—his lip quirked—“not that I wish you a life of loneliness, but that they weren’t left alone without you when you were pressed.”

“No, no, nothing like that.”

Not that Jed had lived the life of a monk. There were places in Exeter he had liked to go, known to men such as himself. But none of the men by the Exeter docks or in far-flung foreign ports knew his name, never mind cared enough to notice that he had vanished.

He raised an eyebrow at Solomon. “Have you?”

“A wife?” He shook his head. “No.”

Jed waited to see if he would say anything else, but he didn’t.

The frog let out another enthusiastic croak. Water splashed in the rhyne as a water-hen disappeared under the surface.

Jed climbed to his feet. “Come on, let’s get back to work.”