About the Author

Les Marles began writing in his spare time while employed as a site engineer
in Nigeria in the eighties. He wrote childrens stories that his children loved.
Then after joining a creative writing group he moved on to adult fiction. He
is divorced and lives in Yorkshire.

Dedication
For Lee, my son, who I tragically lost in 2006.
He enjoyed reading my stories.
And Anne, my long suffering partner, who has urged me on.

Copyright Les Marles (2015)

The right of Les Marles to be identified as author of this work has
been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for
damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British
Library.

ISBN 978 1 78455 717 1 (paperback)

ISBN 978 1 78455 719 5 (hardback)

www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2015)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.
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E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain

THE CRIMEA 1854

The Russian guns had blasted red hot metal from over a hundred canons direct at
the advancing British cavalry. The 17th Lancers and the 11th Hussars were two of
the gallant units charging along a wide corridor between well positioned gun
batteries high above the valley plain. A lot of the Russian and Turkish canons
were handled by young inexperienced troops, but by sheer luck and chance,
shells from several of the artillery units exploded among the British cavalry.
Man and horse went down in bloody mutilated heaps as the canon fire exploded
mercilessly amongst the brave six hundred, who rode in the charge of the light
brigade. The bungling British Generals watched from a safe position, faces
dumbstruck.
Only a few riders made it to the end of the valley, polished razor sharp
sabres in hand and bravely taking the fight to the enemy. A few of the enemy
gunners were cut down by the remnants of the cavalry troops, but musket fire
soon ended the lives of the brave British soldiers. One by one they fell onto the
dusty hard ground of Balaclava, young bodies cut to shreds by the small arms
fire of the Turks and the Russians.
Out of respect, admiration and bewilderment, the surviving walking
wounded of the Light Brigade were allowed to gather themselves, collect dead
colleagues and return to where they had begun their futile charge just minutes
earlier. The Russians and Turks saluted the defeated British, hundreds of
watchful eyes from the hills above the valley, muskets lowered offering their
respect for brave men and boys. A white flag was carried into the valley of
death, by a lone rider and he was met by a Major of the Russian artillery. They
exchanged a few words and then the Briton, drew his sabre and made a few
circles in the cold air. From the far end of the valley, empty horse drawn carts
were trundled forward and sombre young troopers, four to a wagon, made their
way under the watchful eyes of the enemy gunners, to collect dead and injured
comrades who had fallen in the charge.
One of the injured cavalry men, a young Captain of the 17th Lancers sat in
one of the carts, with blood pouring from a head wound, his left arm and right
leg broken and bruises over his body. Guy Cheverton-Lamb had minutes earlier
put a bullet in his stricken war horse to end the animals life, its back broken

after canon fire had brought both down. He was silent, grief stricken and angry.
He like many of his comrades had doubted the order from some faceless
General, to take the heroic charge against the enemy guns. They knew a mistake
had been made, knew it was almost certain death, but nevertheless, they drew
their sabres and charged the enemy guns. The tall, injured young captain knew
his campaign was over. He would not ride against the enemy again.

WEST RIDING OF YORKSHIRE.

October 1854
Torrential rain cascaded across the bleak grey slag heaps of Ravensthorpe
Pit. Thirty eight labourers frantically clawed and dug with their bare hands at a
massive pile of stone and rubble, watched by three men, one much better
dressed than the other two.
Edgar Ravensfield, fifty years old, short and stocky with heavy facial hair,
well-groomed and well dressed, barked orders at the men a few yards away.
Put your bloody backs into it and get those damn rocks out of the way, he
called aggressively. A taller man at his side, younger and soaked through, his
clothes dirty, turned to the older man.
Father I could go to Cheverton-Lambs Bobbin Dyke for help. Get the
men there to come and help get our lads free.
Edwin Ravensfield looked pleadingly at his belligerent Father and waited
for a reply. The other man looked at Edgar Ravensfield as well. John Garside the
pit foreman had himself been digging at the rubble with his bare hands, which
were now sore and bleeding.
Bobbin Dyke mill get help from there? No! We have enough men
here to dig the buggers out, the older Ravensfield cursed.
Mister Ravensfield we need more men our lads are worn out and
drenched through. Let young Edwin go to Bobbin Dyke to get help.
I said no Garside and I mean no. You should have put more timbers in
place and this wouldnt have happened, Ravensfield growled contemptuously.
It wasnt my fault sir. The timbers you mention are useless. Most were
rotted through or the wrong type. We needed better timber. Garside replied.
Rubbish man. There was nothing wrong with the timbers. Your men
didnt do the job right. Ive worked in a pit myself, remember, I know the
difference between good and bad timber. Now get back over there and add your
weight to digging the men out. You as well Edwin, Ravensfield ordered.
Edwin looked at his Father and shook his head.
Sir please we need fresher men. Its been five hours now since the
roof collapsed. The men over there are worn out. I could be there and back in an
hour. Let me go, Father.
If we need more men, then go to Wild Ravens and bring the men we have
there, Ravensfield replied.
But, Father thats no more than four or five. We need at least thirty
men, Edwin pleaded.

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Get yourself to Wild Ravens Edwin. Im not asking the Cheverton-Lambs

for help. Never! Bring your brother if you have to, but thats my final word.
OK, Father but what about the site near Ludden? I could bring men
from there just as easy. Edwin looked at his father and waited.
Bring men from the rail workings? Are you bloody mad, Edwin. I cant
afford to get the Irish over here; Im already behind on the job. Get gone to Wild
Ravens and be quick. Ravensfield waved a hand at his son to dismiss him.
Edwin hitched his coat collar up and dejectedly walked towards his horse
tethered to a rail. John Garside smiled and walked back to Edgar Ravensfield.
Edwin is going to Bobbin Dyke then, mister Ravensfield? Garside asked
with a jaded smile.
No Garside, hes going to Wild Ravens to bring the men from there.
Theyll be here soon.
But mister Ravensfield we need many more men the lads over there
are on their last legs. John Garside hitched his coat collar up as he spoke. The
rain was ceaseless and the ground was almost a foot deep quagmire of thick
mud.
Edwin will bring the men back from Wild Ravens; you get back and help
your men, Ravensfield ordered.
Garside returned to the pack of exhausted men a few yards away and one of
the men pulled him by his jacket sleeve. Sam Blunt a heavy set man in his early
thirties, face ashen and weary, hands blistered and torn from the digging, looked
at his friend.
Young Ravensfield is away to the mill then, John, to fetch help? Blunt
asked gruffly. John Garside frowned and shook his head.
No Sam hes been told to go to Wild Ravens and fetch the men from
there.
Sam Blunt hurled a rock he had in his hands to the ground and turned to
walk towards Edgar Ravensfield. John Garside grabbed his shirt and tried to pull
him back. Blunt scowled and then laughed loudly in despair.
Wild Ravens! Wild Ravens a bloody butler, a young skivvy, a gardener
and a couple of stable hands. Five buggers who have never got their hands
dirty youre kidding, John. Blunt growled. There are seventeen of our lads
trapped in that bloody hell hole and we need strong fit men to dig them out. The
lads here are knackered. He pulled away from John Garside and stormed across
the muddy ground to where Edgar Ravensfield was standing. Ravensfield was
pointing towards the rest of the men, his face a mask of anger.
Get back to work Blunt I heard your remarks. Ravensfield hissed.
Sam Blunt stood before his employer, a fist clenched in anger.
We need at least thirty more men Ravensfield, not four or five bloody
useless twats who ponce around your bloody big house. Its five hours since the
roof caved in and it was your bloody fault in the first place: Rotten timbers and
even then not enough of them. If your son isnt going to Bobbin Dyke mill to
fetch more men, then Im bloody well going.
Sam Blunt stomped away and in the driving rain headed for a coal cart with
two horses harnessed in. He clambered up into the seat and grasped the reins. No
sooner had he flexed the leathers than Edgar Ravensfield grabbed him and
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pulled him back. Blunt kicked out and pushed the shorter man backwards,
dumping him onto the muddy ground. John Garside had run forward and pulled
Ravensfield up, then turned to his friend, who was coaxing the two horses
around in the heavy cart.
Get that bastard off the cart, Garside, and throw him off my land.
Ravensfield shouted.
Sam Blunt had managed to get the coal cart around and he flicked the reins
to spur the two horses forward. Both Ravensfield and John Garside rushed after
the cart, the latter swinging onto the runner board. Sam Blunt saw his friend and
tried to push him away, but Garside had swung upright and tried to grab the
reins. Blunt was in no mood to give in and swung a punch at Garside, the blow
knocking the man backwards and then tragically from the front of the seat. John
Garside tried to stop his fall, but lost balance and toppled from the cart and
under the body timbers.
The heavy cart trundled forward and over the flailing arms and legs of the
stricken man, then the crunch as the steel rimmed wheels crushed his head. Sam
Blunt yanked the reins backwards to stop the cart and the two Cleveland Bays
immediately halted. Blunt jumped down and ran back the few feet to where his
close friend was lying face down in the mud. He pulled Garsides head out of
the mud and turned him over, but saw the thick crimson blood oozing from a
terrible deep gash on the mans head.
Other men had run forward including Edgar Ravensfield and the small
group stared in horror at the crumpled figure of their foreman, lying motionless
in the arms of Sam Blunt. The burly pitman was crying and rocking back and
forth, cradling his friends upper body. Nobody spoke for a couple of minutes,
the rain still heaving down on the desolate muddy site, the men too shocked to
speak.
Gingerly, one of the men reached down and calmly tapped Sam Blunt on
his head.
Hes gone, Sam. Johns dead. the small rain soaked man declared. Sam
Blunt put his head back and his cry echoed through the miserable soddened air.
He knew John Garside was dead, he had known that when the cart wheel had
run over his friends head.
Edgar Ravensfield took a black topper from his head and shook rain water
from it to the ground. He stepped away from the other men and walked back to
where he had tethered his own horse. Clambering into the saddle, he pulled the
horse around and slowly trotted the gelding away. There was nothing more he
could do at the pit. His foreman had been killed, killed by one of the labourers
and he had to report the killing to the constables in Ludden.
A week before Christmas, a small group of people were standing in the
freezing cold outside Leeds prison, waiting for a heavy metal studded door to
open. It was a few minutes after eight in the morning and among the group was
a young man, his battered old cloth cap clutched in trembling hands. Tom Blunt
the younger brother of Sam, scuffed tears from his ruddy face. He had been
outside the prison since six that morning, having walked most of the previous
day from Elland twenty miles away, to get there. An older woman, who had

12

never seen Tom Blunt before, put an arm around his broad shoulders. The young
man lowered his head to her shoulders and wept freely.
Do you know the poor sod? she asked.
Yeah my brother. Theyre murdering my brother in there. Tom Blunt
sobbed.
You poor soul. Where are you from, lad? the woman asked.
Halifax way, missus; my brother has three little bairns and his wife
expecting a fourth.
Lord have mercy on him then, even though it was bad what he did. she
remarked stiffly. Tom Blunt pulled away from her and pointed angrily at the
studded door.
He tried to save seventeen men from dying in a bloody stinking black
hole: Thirteen men and four boys. He was stopped from trying by a bastard
called Ravensfield. It should be that evil bastard to be hung today, not my
brother. Tom Blunt reached down and scooped a stone from the ground and
hurled it at the oak door. A couple of minutes later and the door opened and a
prison guard stepped outside, a notepaper in his hands. He pinned it to a notice
board, turned around and walked back into the prison.
Those who could read quickly shuffled forward and read the note. Others
who could not read waited to be told what it said.
At eight oclock prompt in the morning of December eighteenth this year
1854, convicted killer Samual James Blunt of Elland in Yorkshire was hanged
for the murder of one John Alfred Garside. God have mercy on his soul
Tom Blunt wiped more tears from his face and looked at the note. He could
not read but he did not need telling what it said. After the other people had left,
Tom Blunt grabbed the note and pulled it from the board, folding it and shoving
it in his jacket pocket. He looked up into the grey forbidding sky and nodded.
Ill get the bastard, our Sam. Dont worry brother Ill get him. Tom Blunt
turned, hitched his jacket collar up against the cold biting wind and set off to
walk the twenty miles to his home.

13

A GENTLEMANS CLUB, LONDON.

January 1855

The roaring coal fired crackled and spluttered in the grate as a steward prodded
the fuel with a steel poker, placed more lumps of black coal on the fire, then left
the room. Three men had waited until the steward had departed, then returned to
within a few feet of the blazing fire. Two of the men held large brandy glasses
and one was smoking a cigar.
Sir Charles Cheverton-Lamb took a seat in an oxblood leather chair and
settled back to enjoy the warmth of the fire. Standing by the fire, but careful not
to be burnt by the intense heat, Laurence Rothsbury swallowed a large mouthful
of his brandy, then took a long drag on his cigar. The third man, Gerald
Godfrey, took his brandy glass and settled in another oxblood leather chair, next
to Sir Charles.
Laurence Rothsbury swallowed more brandy and looked at the older of the
two seated men. His obese body, bounced up and down in his expensive silk
clothes, which gave Sir Charles a glint of amusement at the sight of his
overweight colleague. Sir Charles, tall, slim, well dressed, but not to the extent
of the fat man, had refused another brandy, having already taken two measures.
I hear that there is a bit of trouble between you and Edgar Ravensfield,
Charlie. Rothsbury grinned as he took another drag on his cigar. I hear even
Vicky herself is troubled about the rift.
Then you know more than me, Laurence. Sir Charles replied calmly.
Im not aware that the Queen has thoughts on the matter, but then she hasnt
ever asked me.
I have it on good measure, Charlie boy. Not just her but Palmerston as
well. The prime minister was asking questions last week in the house. Pity
youre not a member of parliament, otherwise you would have got it first hand
like me and Godfrey. That right, Gerald? Rothsbury looked at the other man
and smiled. Gerald Godfrey shrugged and took a sip from his brandy.
It was mentioned I admit, but not taken further. Godfrey said, looking
slightly embarrassed.
Twenty odd men killed in a black hole in some god forsaken part of
Yorkshire, somebody was to blame and there are those down here who want

14

answers. Rothsbury drank more brandy, and then poured himself a refill. He
offered the decanter to Godfrey but the man refused, with a shake of his head.
It was seventeen dead, not twenty odd. Your information is incorrect,
Laurence. Sir Charles replied.
OK, seventeen, but Im told a few of the dead were just kids, two of them
girls. Evidently these young lasses were pulled out and were naked to the waist,
Rothsbury added, smugly.
I am a textile mill owner, not a mine owner, so I cant comment on that,
but I dont think females are employed below ground these days. They were up
to a dozen years ago, but not now. But anyway whats your point,
Laurence? Sir Charles asked, his voice becoming angry.
My point, Charlie boy is that, Ravensfield refused to send for help from
you, because there is bad blood between you both. These poor sods lost their
miserable lives because the fact of the matter is, you would not have sent any of
your people.
Sir Charles rose from his chair and stood before the shorter man, his eyes
glaring angrily.
That is simply not true. If I had been asked I would have sent any amount
of my people to the pit. I suggest you get better and more reliable information.
Ravensfield, I agree, is no friend of mine, but if the man had asked for help, I
would have given it. I was saddened to hear of the poor souls who lost their
lives, but then I could say there is some question about the quality of the support
timbers he uses at the pits he runs. I also understand the man who was hanged,
Samuel Blunt, had complained about the timber that was used at the pits. This I
believe led to the tragic accident that left a pit manager dead. I cannot see how I
or any of my people could be blamed for any of the deaths at Ravensthorpe Pit. I
respectfully suggest, Rothsbury, that you mind your own business your
whore houses, huh!
Well fingers are being pointed, Charlie. Lets not forget that
Ravensfield is contracted to build a railway up north and he also sends money to
help the cause over in the Crimea. How much have you sent for the cause?
Rothsbury asked gleefully.
You know the answer to that Laurence and you also know that I dont
have anybody backing me up with handouts from London. Unlike your pal
Ravensfield. He gets paid from down here; I get paid when I sell my products,
which is why I have to come down to London. I suggest you mind your own
business and leave the tittle tattle to the women in your whore houses. Sir
Charles replied, brusquely.
Laurence Rothsbury blew cigar smoke out and his face reddened at Sir
Charless cutting remark. The latter had turned to leave the room, but a hand
from Rothsbury pulled at his jacket sleeve.
What do you mean by that remark? Rothsbury growled, as Sir Charles
pulled away.
You know what I mean, Laurence. Half of London knows you run certain
Hedonistic establishments.

15