Sussex Gorse: The Story of a Fight

by Sheila Kaye-Smith

"Reckon that lot had just about crunched me up. I feel all stove in."

"And you'll feel stove in furder when the Crier's done wud you."

It was part of the Rye Town Crier's duties to flog the unruly youth of the district. Reuben made a face—not that he minded being flogged, but he felt badly bruised already. He fell back on the straw, and buried his head in it. They were on the Playden road, near Bannister's Town, and he would have time for a sleep before they came to Rye. Sleep helped things wonderfully.

But the strange thing was that he could not sleep, and stranger still, it was not the ache of his body that kept him awake, but the ache of his heart. Reuben was used to curling up and going to sleep like a little dog; only once had he lain awake at night, and that was with the toothache. Now he had scarcely any pain; indeed, the dull bruised feeling made him only more drowsy, but in his heart was something that made him tumble and toss, just as the aching tooth had done, made him want to snarl and bite. He rolled over and over in the straw, and was wide awake when they came to Rye. Neither did he sleep at all in the room where he and some other boys were locked for the night. The Battery gaol was full of adult rioters, so the youthful element—only some half-dozen captured—was shut up in the constable's house, where it played marbles and twisted arms till daylight.

The other boys were much younger than Reuben, who thumped their heads to let off some of his uncomfortable feelings. Indeed, there was talk of putting him with the grown-up prisoners, till the magistrate realised that juveniles were more easily disposed of. The scene at the court-house was so hurried that he scarcely knew he had been tried till the constable took him by the collar and threw him out of the dock. Then came some dreary moments of waiting in a little stuffy, whitewashed room, while the Town Crier dealt with the victims separately.

Reuben did not in the least mind being flogged—it was all in the day's work—and showed scant sympathy for those fellow-criminals who cried for their mothers. Most of the cramp and stiffness had worn off, and his only anxiety was to have the thing over quickly, so that he could be home in time for supper.

At one o'clock he was given some bread and cheese, which he devoured ravenously; then he spent an hour in thinking of the sausages they always had for supper at Odiam on Fridays. At two the constable fetched him to his doom; he was grumbling and muttering to himself, and on arriving at the execution chamber it turned out that he had had words with the Town Crier, because the latter thought he had only six boys to flog, so had put on his coat and was going off to the new sluice at Scott's Float, meaning to get back comfortably in time for an oyster and beer supper at the London Trader. Having seven boys to flog made all the difference—he would be late, both at the sluice and the supper.

He took off his coat again, growling, and for the first time Reuben felt shame. It was such a different matter, this, from being beaten by somebody who was angry with one and with whom one was angry. He saw now that a beating was one of the many things which are all right as long as they are hot, but damnable when they are cold. He hunched his shoulders, and felt his ears burn, and just the slightest stickiness on his forehead.

One thing he had made up his mind to—he would not struggle or cry. Up till now he had not cared much what he did in that way; if yelling had relieved his feelings he had yelled, and never felt ashamed of it; but to-day he realised that if he yelled he would be ashamed. So he drove his teeth into his lower lip and fought through the next few minutes in silence.