Posted on Wednesday, 20 March 2002
A Particularly Violent Tale.
Author's note: This story contains comic violence, and is in one deserving person's case fatal. I hope that I have not really overstepped any boundaries of good taste, however...
Wickham cackled. Certainly, he was in Newcastle, surrounded by coal miners and other various Geordies. However, word of his deeds had not reached here yet, and he was able to charm the men into letting him acquire huge debts, and the women into having affairs with him. This of course, is behaviour that any good novelist must strongly discourage, and in the manner of all cautionary tales, this one makes it completely clear that if you should do such things as these, you will be killed in a particularly nasty and fitting way. For, the people of Newcastle, despite rumours you may have heard, are not stupid. Although some women were tempted by him, other women were greatly shocked by his advances - for he was a married man! The doom began to fall upon Colonel Geordie Wickham (as the locals called him, Geordie being the local form of George) when he tried to seduce Frank Harris' wife, Aemilia.
Aemilia was a virtuous woman, and greatly in love with her husband. However, Wickham's pleasing manners soon made her consider him a friend. Until he began to try to take liberties with her. After he tried to kiss her, and was slapped - but persisted in trying, she fled, and told her husband what had happened.
Frank was not happy, as you might expect. He assured her he would go out immediately and organise something. Aemilia smiled, and went over to her knitting, and started making yet another very small woolly hat. Her husband would surely notice soon enough, and it had only been two months....
Frank was not exactly the cleverest of people. Thus, in time of need or difficulty, his natural inclination was to turn his clogs in the direction of the pub. He attempted to brush off a spot of coal dust that had carried from his overalls onto his white shirt - it would be the white shirt: his vest, hat, trousers and shoes were all black - merely succeeded in making a bigger mark, gave up, and walked in.
Geordie, Mike, and William were there. He walked over to them, was convinced to order a round of drinks, returned with the drinks after they had quickly drunk up the ones they had hid when they saw him enter, and began asking them for advice. At first, they were prepared to be amused - as I said, Frank was not exactly the cleverest of people - but as he went on, sudden realisation struck them.
"Wa-hait a moment, lad - That Geordie Wickham owes me six shillings thruppence on his meat bill - and I've seen him talking to my wife!" said Mike.
William's bushy eyebrows lowered into a scowl. "And he's always saying that he paid my wife for the coal..."
"And my daughter has a crush on him! Come on lads, let's get him! I'll fetch some tar from the shipyard!" cried Geordie.
Mike grinned. "And I've been plucking chickens for my shop today...."
By this time, most of the pub had heard their conversation, and began piping in ideas and suggestions. Then Wickham himself walked in. The numerous beady eyes turned on him should have warned him, but so assured of his charming manner was he - and so desirous of getting someone else to buy him a pint, that he didn't flee until Geordie and William had grabbed hold of him, at which point Harold coshed him on the head with a giant leek his wife had asked him to bring home for use in supper. Giant leeks are very popular in Newcastle, you see. No one knows why.
Lots were drawn, and it was Frank who had to strip him before he was tarred and feathered. He wasn't very happy as you might imagine. But soon enough the deed was done, he was lashed to a rail kindly provided by a sturdy farmer with six daughters, a barrel of tar was poured over him, the feathers followed, and the publican grew slightly upset at the puddle of feathery tar in his front garden, but then thought of his sister and let it pass. Frank, Geordie, Mike, and William hoicked up the rail, and set off into town.
The town's women were shocked at their behaviour towards Wickham - until they heard his cursing and attempts to torment the men with an exaggerated account of what they did. They briefly began throwing vegetables at that point, but a tomato hit Frank - on the white shirt, of course - and he looked so disappointed that they had pity and stopped. (Mrs. Appleby would later send around a clean shirt to apologise to Frank.) Wickham cackled, and began cursing them once more, and was promptly knocked out by Aemilia's rolling pin - which gave her great satisfaction indeed. They reached the moor, carefully cut the ropes - as they didn't want to get the tar on themselves - and left him there. Frank headed home, found Aemilia had filled their sitting room with a display of very tiny clothing, thought for a few minutes, then moved to hug his wife. She moved away and pointed at the rotten tomato on the front of his shirt, he grinned, took off his vest and shirt, and moved towards her again, with extremely more satisfying results.
Wickham did not consider himself a fool. He was, but he did not consider himself one. He presumed he could not easily go back to Newcastle anymore - well, let Lydia make do for herself! He'd survive! He always did! Ah, a manor! He would tell the tale of how cruelly he was misjudged.....
The manor was owned by Mr. Harold Peters, the town's local eccentric. He was extremely nearsighted, but was very much of the opinion that he was a great hunter. He sometimes wondered at the lack of visitors, but he was a pleasant man otherwise, and got enough invitations whenever he visited town to make up for it. Anyway, the villagers had taken steps to render him harmless.
However, in the case of the large, white bird he saw coming towards him, the target was just too large - and unlucky - for him to miss.
Wickham of course did not die. The townsfolk had got at all Harold's musket balls and replaced them with ones made of baked flour painted with shoe polish. They still hurt like buggery when he shot at you - which he did rather often - and hit - which he did much less often - but they would not kill you. They did manage to knock Wickham out, though, as it hit him in the head. Unfortunately, this time when Harold got close, the vision did not suddenly change to some unfortunate fellow, but remained feathery and surely edible....
Once the spit had been shoved up his backside, and the fire was lit, the pain brought Wickham back to consciousness. Just in time for the tar to catch on fire. Harold cursed at his roast burning, but was still reasonably happy at having finally successfully shot something.
Part of Wickham's regimental uniform was eventually discovered washed downstream. As the people of Newcastle had decided never to speak of the events again, it was presumed he was drowned. Lydia had grown quite remorseful over her years of being married to Wickham, and was accepted back into the family, although three years later, on a visit to Mrs. Forster - who was a much better friend to her than what happened at Brighton might imply - she met Thomas Feldham, a miner, fell in love, and was eventually married to him. He was rather embarrassed when he realised how rich her family was, but he loved Lydia, and they were happy.