SOMETHIN’ UNTOWARD IN ST AGNES

The dripping mourners shuffled through the doors of The Miners Arms, shaking droplets and shedding overcoats as they met the welcoming warmth of the fire. Glistening pints lined the bar on one end, and empties lined the other. Big Oppy Dyer was dead and buried, and tonight, his kin and community came together to celebrate his life.

‘He were never work shy, no, it’ll never be said he were work shy when he was stuck in a shaft, but he wasn’t shy being first in line at the pub neither,’ said one of the mourners.

Raucous laughter followed.

‘I member, afore he went to “find his fortune” to America, he says to me, how would I like a golden opportunity, too good to miss. I says Oppy, my ansom, not all that glitters is gold, not all that glitters is gold!’ said Morcs in his reedy alto voice.

More laughter filled the pub.

‘He musta been fed proper overseas. Nine pallbearers, and they was sweating like pigs in heat,’ said another well-wisher.

‘You know he was always a big lad, right from a boy? When we were but tackers, he was already the size of a full-grown man,’ said Morcs.

‘He was nought but a big fool,’ said Jago Kernick from a deep chair by the fireside. ‘A big bleddy fool with big ideas and foolish ideas, n’all. Gold rush, my britches.’

Those at the bar chatted away, but those gathered at the fireside fell quiet and turned their gaze to the weathered man, half-shadowed by the flickering fire. ‘He had a good heart, but he was a blunderer. An my sister was a bleddy fool to marry him.’

‘Come now, Jago, respect for the dead and all that, old boy,’ said Morcs.

‘I don’t mean no disrespect, ain’t no disrespect, only truth.’

‘Say what you mean, Jago, and says it plain.’

‘He come back in a box an he brought somethin’ along with him. Weird goings on, shakedowns, violence in town and strange folks from abroad.’ This last word Jago said with distaste. ‘Outside men askin’ around, pokin’ around. You all musta seen those men at the funeral. Skulkin at the tree line in their funny hats with bleddy brass badges pinned to their chests?’ Jago tapped a filthy finger to his breast.

A few of the men nodded.

‘I’ve seen other strangers in town, men with big calibres, hard men. I didn’t see them at the funeral, but they’ve been scaring folks,’ said a pasty-faced ginger no more than a kid. Jago couldn’t remember who he was, someone’s mother’s sister’s cousin’s kid.

‘So we agree. Somethin’ untoward is goin’ on in St Agnes,’ said Jago.

Murmurs of agreement swept the group.

‘Listen then, a spill. I got an idea that us local lads should get our heads together, an I think I knows where to start. When Oppy comes to me an says he is going to Cali-for-nia, he comes cap in hand, an he begs us £6 for his passage. I’ve been working the tin same as him an same as you all, but you knows Oppy, not two shillings to shine together. He says what I’ll get in return will come tenfold. I ain’t no bleddy fool, but family is family. When we gets word that he’s gone an died over there in some cave-in, well, I thought, there goes my £6. A’course, my sister is beside herself, poor maid. But what do I get in the post later that week? Well, you can guess. That’s when the first of those straight men came to my door. It was around six the clock Sunday morning, an the wife had got eggs going on the range when I gets a knock at the door.’

‘Standing afore me are two strangers. They looked like strangers, n’all. At first, I thought they was from up country, London most likely cus of the fancy hats an cologne they was wearin’; but they spoke funny, sort of a drawl, an they’s wearing a couple of those big brass badges pinned to their waistcoats. ‘PINKERTON DETECTIVE AGENCY - WE NEVER SLEEP’ they says, an how do you like that?’

‘What did they want?’ Morcs came in a little closer.

‘Well, they starts askin’ questions, don’t they? They wanna know all about Oppy an my sister an me an has we heard from him. I says unlikely as we just had word of his passing, dear of him. They want to know if we’ve had any packages come from America and I say’s no, but they’s pushy, see, an they start getting aggressive with me, right on me own doorstep. So I tells ’em, I got an old Baker rifle back here somewhere in the broom cupboard, an if they keep pushing me, well, I might just have to sweep house.’

‘Good one, Jagers, and what did they say to that?’ asked Morcs.

‘They picked up an left, jus like that.’

The men who had been leaning ever closer in anticipation, their shoulders now slumped, and they leaned back in disappointment.

‘But that wasn’t the end of it, I reckon, because next day, I comes up from shift, achin’ an hungry, an I come home an find me front door is open, isn’t it?’ said Jago, squinting one eye in a half wink.

‘What did you find?’

‘Ransacked. Turned upside down it was.’

‘And you think it was those Pinkerton fellers?’

‘I knows it was.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘That fancy cologne was still on the air.’ He tapped his nose with a callused finger. The whole group nodded in unison. A glass shattered, and a cheer went up around the pub.

‘I heard of them Pinkertons in the paper. They bust train robbers and outlaws the like,’ said the pale boy.

Jago laughed. ‘Train robbers. Don’t believe all you hear on the wind. Tall tales more’n likely; to sell papers.’

A tray of fresh pints swept them, and they took them gladly. They passed about bread and cheese, and the men chewed, chasing each mouthful with swallows of rough cider.

‘So are these the same hard cases that rode into town last week, strapped up with those big calibres?’ asked Morcs, his wavering voice raising in pitch on mentioning big calibres.

‘No, I seen the Pinkertons at the funeral, and I seen those boys ride in, and they ain’t the same, not one bit,’ said the pale boy.

He had seen them ride into town, their horses laden for travel and armed with shooting irons. His father had a shotgun, and supposedly, his grandad had a rusted Enfield rifle stashed under the boards of the outhouse, but he had never seen guns like these. The rifles had long steel barrels which glinted in the sun; their polished wooden bodies rippled like coiled muscles; and the six-shooters… He leaned against the wheelhouse as they cantered by, steam rising up from their horses in the cool morning. Their eyes met, and they looked down at him like hawks to a rabbit in the wheat.

‘Not at all,’ said a cold voice from behind them, making the pale boy jump. ‘Those boys are a different breed. We ought to string ’em up!’

Jago looked warily around the room to ensure the hard cases weren’t hiding among the mourners, listening in on their conversation.

‘Christ Bill, keep it down, would you? These boys is wild dogs, an they’ll gut you soon as look at you, so watch your mouth when it’s runnin’ on.’

‘I ain’t scared of the likes of them. It’s them who’d better watch out for I.’

Jago closed his eyes tight and let out a staggered sigh.

‘What happened, Bill?’ asked Morcs.

‘They… they took my Nonna, and they shot poor Blackie, dead as a doorknob he is. Poor mutt never seen it comin’.’ Bill sniffed and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, spilling sloshes of his pint down his front and onto the floor.

‘Alright, pard, alright, come on now.’ Jago gave him a rough pat on the shoulder with one meaty paw.

‘To tell truth, she wanted to go with ‘em. I tried to stop her, but off she went. She said she didn’t want to be a bal maiden no more, that she was tired of the mining life. I told her once she got married to a nice local lad, she wouldn’t have to break rocks no more, but she just laughed in my face. I suppose I shoulda seen it comin’. She’s always been wild, that one. I followed her out the cottage, and he was standing there, proud as a peacock. The leader of their little gang of ingrates goes by Elroy Simmons. She says Elroy is going to look after me now, and I just lost my rag. I set poor Blackie on him, and before I know it, he’s belly up, and Elroy is stood there with his six-shooter smoking, just smiling, that gold tooth flashin’ at me.’

‘Tell ’em the best part, Bill, tell ’em what you says to me,’ said Jago.

‘They says that they come to town in search of Oppy Dyer and Jago Kernick and anyone else related to Oppy Dyer.’

‘An that little maid of yours has been singin’ sweet as a songbird, ain’t she? Those hard boys have been on me like flies on shit. I been sleeping down at the mine with one eye open. Only so long I can keep on ducking ‘em. Be sure they’ll find me dreckly an string us up.’ Jago began picking bits of bread and throwing them into the fire, forlorn.

‘So what’s any of this got to do with Oppy? I just can’t make no sense of it,’ said Morcs

‘I can’t say. Only I got a feeling his big scheming head has got himself killed an whatever debts he might have picked up over there has been passed onto his next of kin!’

By now, the group by the fire had thinned to a sombre and serious few. All that remained were the men who carried Oppy Dyer to his grave, and they each had similar stories to tell—ominous visits in the night, intense questionings and ransacked homes. The pale-faced boy was regaling them with a tale of how the hard men had lifted him clean off the ground by his ears like a milk jug when The Miners Arms doors blew inward with rain and howling wind.

A stranger staggered into the pub; his mackintosh pulled tight and high around his swollen face. He stood at the bar, water and blood pooling around his feet, and helped himself to a pint, followed by another. He turned to the now silent, staring room; his third pint stopped just before his ruddy lips.

‘What are you lot looking at?’

‘Mary, mother of Christ, your face, boy,’ squeaked Morcs. ‘What happened to you?’

The man in the rain-mac turned and spat blood onto the sawdust-strewn flagstones.‘Jumped on my way into town. I’m a courier down from Bristol on a delivery. They beat me some, but once they’d gone through my letters, they made off. Big bastards; foreign.’

‘You’re lucky, son. If them who done it is who I think they are, you got off lightly. Rest some. You’re in good company,’ said Bill.

‘Didn’t mean to intrude; I’ll just stop to wet the whistle on my way through,’ the courier said solemnly.

‘What was you carrying anyhow?’ asked Morcs.

‘Just this measly letter for a Mr. Jago Kernick.’

Jago, now full of cheese, bread and cider, was almost dozing when he heard his name and snapped awake with a start.

‘They’ve found me! They’ve bleddy found me, at long last they’ve found me, and I don’t know nothin I swear to Christ!’ He rose from his chair by the fire like a hare but went sprawling over the table, knocking glasses and bowls to the ground with a clatter. ‘I don’t know nothin!’

‘Slow down, squire. I’m not looking for anything from you but your name; sign here.’
His fellow miners helped Jago back onto his feet and clapped his back to reassure him that the danger had passed. Jago took the letter from the courier and propped himself against the bar.

‘It’s already open?’ asked Jago.

The courier shrugged as if to say, hey, not my problem. ‘Look, squire, I’m not losing my life fighting some deranged outlaws over an open letter. You’re lucky I still have it at all.’

Jago laid the letter out flat in a pool of beer on the bar. The mourning miners gathered around him, and those who could read did so.

Jago

I ran into some trubble over to America and I got in some bad bisness regarding a train I never should have gotten rapped up in. The good news is I STRUCK GOLD . Trubble was it wasnt exactly mine to take so I will have to disappear for a bit. Dont worry though this is likely the first and last youll hear of it.
You been a good old boy to me and mine though your as teasy as an adder and youll agree I owe you one. As I said id pay you back and tenfold to boot and thats what I indent to do. Yous a good man in your heart and I know you will make sure the family is good and cared for proper seeing as I wont be back.

Ill be sending my coffin back to St Agnes to be buried in the family plot just as ma wanted. DO NOT BURY IT. That box has enuff gold to keep the whole town going until the tin runs dry.

Godspeed
Oppy

From outside the thick sandstone walls of the pub, rifle shots fill the night air, cutting through the dull patter of the rain. A woman screamed a howl of mourning up at the rising moon. The tin miners looked at one another and scrambled to leave the cosy warmth of The Miners Arms out into the cold and wet. They grabbed their coats and ran home for their shovels and picks; Jago grabbed his old Baker from the broom cupboard. The old miners would have to rush; tonight’s dig had begun without them.