Free Damn His Blood by Peter Moore Page A

technique that moderate writers shied away from, and for the century and a half which followed many authors avoided the word altogether and others sidestepped what was increasingly considered offensive by resorting to euphemisms such as ‘jiggered’ or ‘drat’, in itself a shortened version of another religious curse ‘God rot your bones’ or ‘God rot.’ In newspaper reports ‘damn’ was rare, and when it did surface it was almost universally linked to the criminal and malicious sectors of society. Dickens reserved it for exceptional moments, such as the rooftop scene at the end of Oliver Twist which marked Bill Sykes’ grisly end. ‘“Damn you!” cried the desperate ruffian. “Do your worst! I’ll cheat you yet!”’
    In Oddingley the word was used openly. The farmers damned Parker at the Easter dinner and in the Pigeon House; Barnett damned him at the Raven; and Captain Evans, boldest of them all, damned him in daylight in the lanes. After being chased to her house Sarah Lloyd was damned by Banks and Mr Davis, and John Perkins was damned for his disloyal and shameful friendship with Parker. The farmers were not just wishing Parker away to hell, they were wishing the same fate on anyone who stood alongside him. The prevalence of the word in the court documents and newspaper reports of the case is striking and somewhat unusual. There is every reason to believe it arrived in the parish with the Captain, a man who would have been exposed to violent or fractious language during his time in the army, his cry to the labourers in Church Lane – ‘which ship he belonged to’ yet another subtle reminder of his military days.
    These angry moments suggest a primitive edge to Oddingley. While the industrial towns all around buzzed excitedly with the ideals of the Enlightenment, driven onwards by the pursuit of science and reason, in the countryside farmers were still offering up toasts to supernatural powers, inviting them to inflict harm or evil on their clergyman. These toasts reflect a lingering belief in word magic – that a person could be blighted or harmed by the force of a ban or a curse. The left-handed toasts, like those offered at the Plough or in the Pigeon House, added yet a further twist to the ritual. They were laced with imagery, addressed directly to the Devil.
    Swearing was an evil that the respectable classes recoiled from and railed against, and punishments for those found guilty could be severe. For day-labourers, sailors, common soldiers or seamen there was a fine of one shilling for a first conviction. For farmers, merchants and any other person beneath the rank of gentleman the rate was increased to two shillings, and for gentlemen and those of higher status the fine was five shillings. The amounts were doubled for a second offence and tripled for a third. Furthermore a raft of legislation had been passed by the Pitt government during the 1790s to counter the increasing number of sedtious meetings in the country – which, it was held, was teetering on the brink of revolution. Particularly stiff punishments were meted out to those convicted of taking or administering oaths that bound individuals to mutinous or seditious causes. Hard evidence about the farmers’ meeting in the Pigeon House might be difficult to bring before a magistrate, but it was clear the men were acting on the very edge of the law.
    Parker did not react to the farmers’ curses; instead he brushed them off as best he could. But they were an affront to his reputation he could barely ignore. In 1806 Georgians were still consumed by questions of personal honour, and offended parties would often retaliate to perceived affronts to their dignity by challenging the offenders to fist fights or duels. Such encounters occurred at all levels of society, and even Pitt, the prime minister, had become entangled in an argument that ended in a duel on Putney Heath just a few years earlier. In the Midlands there were many further