by Roz Southey
I turned and gestured wildly at Heron and Esther to run. We watched in near despair as they stumbled away down the track. “They’ll never get away!” Hugh said.
I turned my attention back to the road. Esther and Heron needed us to delay the villains as long as possible. I could hear voices – further along the road by the coppice. “They’ve met up,” I whispered.
I gestured to Hugh to stay where he was and sprinted up the track to the road. A flourishing rowan tree grew on the corner; I crouched and peered through its branches.
Our assailants were at the far end of the ruined tavern, roughly at the point where I’d been shot at. The horseman was leaning down to the other fellow. They were both wrapped up; even though the horseman had pulled down his mask to talk, the shadow of his hat still hid his face. I glanced back over my shoulder, saw a flash of amber far down the track. Then it was gone and there was no more hint of Esther and Heron.
By the time I looked back to the road, the horseman was turning his mount, the other fellow was climbing the fence back into the coppice.
They were going to attack us from both sides.
Hugh was peering round the corner of the cottage. I gesticulated wildly, trying to warn him he would be attacked from behind. He seemed to take my meaning, and pulled back round the corner of the cottage.
There was only one thing to do. I shifted into the open, stood, lined up my pistol on the advancing horseman. The pistol felt horribly awkward in my hand. The villain saw me – he pulled back on his horse’s reins, came almost to a halt. I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was waiting, daring me to shoot him.
I took careful aim. I had one shot and I had to make it count. I fired.
Ridiculously, I hit the fellow. I saw him jerk back and topple from the horse’s back on to the road. It was only a slight wound, plainly; his hand flew to his arm and he struggled up at once. But it had two desirable side effects – the horse reared and bolted, and the second conspirator reappeared at the fence, screaming alarm.
I ran back down the track towards the yard.
Hugh was nowhere to be seen. Where the devil was he! I pulled open the cottage door. Empty. I started across to the barn. Empty. I retreated, uncertain what to do. I couldn’t leave Hugh but –
The two attackers were standing at the junction of track and road. The taller one had bent his left arm against his body; I saw blood dripping from his fingers to the ground, drop by drop. The shorter one had a swagger, an arrogant tilt of the head. Under those masks, I thought, they were grinning.
They both had pistols. Mine was empty and they knew it.
The taller one lifted his weapon and took aim.
38
There is much attractive woodland here, enough to make hundreds of warships.
[Letter from Retif de Vincennes, to his brother, Georges, 10 August 1736]
No sound, no movement. Just the pistol pointing at me, the round muzzle and the shot lurking deep within it. One of the thugs shifted – I heard the rustle of clothing as if it had been a thunderclap.
A horse shrieked. The men swung round. The thunder of hooves on beaten earth. Then the runaway horse crashed into them. The slighter figure went down, rolled, scrambled to get out of the way of flailing hooves; the taller figure grabbed for the flapping reins, caught them, dropped them again as the horse pulled away.
Someone was yelling at me. Hugh – racing across the yard. “Run. Run!”
I fled, sprinting ahead of him down the track towards the river. Hugh caught me up, panting hard. “Hit the brute hard. Panicked it.”
We ran, gasping for breath. Behind us, the horse was still neighing but seemed to be calming down. The track ran straight for a hundred yards, then took a sharp turn to the right, cut across the corner of a field and wound into an oak wood, a narrow strip that ran between river and fields. I stumbled over protruding roots, slid in muddy patches. At one point, Hugh grabbed me to prevent me pitching down a steep slope. Suddenly there was a gorge alongside the track, restricting the river and making it flow fast, white with froth over hidden rocks.
Ahead, a pale blur showed us where Esther and Heron were waiting, under a large oak tree. Heron looked pallid and haggard. Esther’s hair had pulled free of its pins; strands hung about her neck, tangling with the lappets of her cap.
Hugh doubled over, gasping for breath. “What now? Stand and defend?”
“We have only one sword and three pistols,” Heron said. “Not enough.”
“And I’ve fired mine,” I said.
Hugh straightened. “I’m a tolerable shot – I’ll undertake to take at least one of them out.”
“Surely we’d hear if they were following.” Esther scanned the wood over my shoulder. “Will they risk coming after us?”
“They have to,” I said. “They can’t know which way we’ll go in this wood. There might even be a ford, or stepping stones across the river.”
“One thing’s for certain,” Heron said. “We cannot go out into the fields. They would see us straightaway.”
“But damn it!” Hugh said. “We have to do something! It’ll be dark soon and if we’re still trying to tramp through this wood, we’ll break our necks.”
“All the more reason to get moving then,” I said, and pushed between Esther and Heron.
The path was difficult to see. It was merely a thin line of beaten-down earth and grass, probably made by sheep; in the encroaching gloom it soon became indistinguishable. I kept on, trying to find the easiest route, winding round trees, pushing through tangles of shrubs, using tree roots as ‘steps’ to climb up or down slopes. Behind me, Heron was breathing raggedly, Esther cursing.
Hugh called out. I turned to find Esther’s skirt caught on some thorns. Heron was leaning against a tree as Hugh crouched to pull at the trailing material. He was trying to disentangle the gown without damaging the material; I said, “Tear it.” Esther glanced up at me. Without a word, Hugh tugged. We heard cloth rip.
We went on. I nodded to Hugh to go first. Heron stumbled as he pushed himself away from the tree. I knew better than to offer to help. I went back a few yards to see if I could spot our attackers.
No sign of them. But they were wearing dark clothing and would be difficult to spot. And Esther’s pale gown would be a ghostly blur even in the dark, giving away our position. We needed to take the initiative – send our pursuers off on the wrong track, perhaps, or trap them as they’d tried to trap us. But how?
When I went back, a tiny square of amber fabric still hung on the thorns. I bent to pull it off.
On, through grey trees and dark shadows that might have held anything. The river frothed over the rocks below. The wood could not go on for ever, I thought; sooner or later we’d find its end, and be faced with the merciless exposure of the fields. Thank God the moon hadn’t risen yet!
Hugh called from a little way ahead. He was standing on the edge of a deep-cut little dell; the land dropped away beneath his feet and plunged to a tiny stream tossing over rocks and falling into the river. I peered into the gloom. The dell seemed to run right back through the oak wood into the fields between us and the road.
“There’s no way Mrs Jerdoun can get down there,” Hugh said. “We’ll have to go round. Into the field and then cut back to the river.”
“Too risky,” I said.
“But – ”
A branch cracked behind us.
39
One of the rare virtues of the English is that they have a firm idea of the true order of society: wife defers to husband, lower orders to upper.
[A Frenchman’s guide to England, Retif de Vincennes
(Paris; published for the author, 1734)]
Esther swore, softly, fluently.
“This is my fault,” she said. “If I had not been wearing this ridiculous dress and shoes, we could have been well away.”
“No point in apportioning blame,” I said. “We have to do something.”
I peered into the gloom of the wood
behind us, trying to see something, anything. Could the noise have been caused by an animal? A shadowy blur of movement. Too high up to be an animal, too far off the ground. “Go on. I’ll distract them.”
Esther took my arm. “No, I will.” I looked at her in astonishment. “This is my fault, Charles. I will put it right.”
“No,” Hugh and Heron said at the same time.
I tried to speak calmly. “They won’t spare you because you’re a woman.” The whole idea was out of the question. Unthinkable. It was not going to happen. I had to convince Esther of that fact. Quickly.
“I agree,” Heron said. “I will do it.”
“Sir – ”
“I can’t go any further!” he snapped through gritted teeth. “Now give me your damned pistols and get out of here!”
I met his gaze, remembered that glimpse I’d had of him when he handled Fischer’s sword. All the same, what could one man do against two attackers who’d already proved themselves ready to kill? “Very well,” I said.
Silently Hugh handed over his pistol; Esther glanced at me before doing the same. I pushed them ahead of me. I wanted to say something to Heron but even as the words formed on my lips, he shook his head. “You have much the worse task, Patterson. You will have to explain to Fowler what has happened.” His hand fastened on my arm, warm and heavy. “And for God’s sake, don’t let him get himself hanged! Now, go!”
He slipped into the shelter of a tree, started to work his way back along the path towards the place where we’d seen the movement. I could not bear to watch him, and turned away. Hugh was already slipping and slithering down the slope of the dell, trying to find footholds in the rocks and the grass; he went down the last few feet in a rush, cursing, twisting aside at the last moment to avoid crashing into a tree.
Esther tossed the coachman’s coat down to him and fearlessly launched herself over the edge. Her pale skirts billowed out around her. Almost at once, they snagged on a rock, and pulled her off her feet. As she stumbled, I went after her, headlong, recklessly, grabbing for her. The cloth tore; her arms windmilled wildly. I almost caught her, felt her arm slip through my fingers then she was rolling away from me down the slope. I heard her cry out as she grazed a rock, then she was still, lying half-in half-out of the stream.
Hugh got to her before I did, but she was already struggling up. Her hair was down around her shoulders; her cap torn off, her skirts ripped and hanging in tatters. Her shoes had disappeared. I seized hold of her. She pushed me away. “Don’t fuss!”
High above, we heard a shot.
We froze. Esther was clutching my arm. Hugh swore. Relief at Esther’s close escape faded instantly. “Damn it!” I said. “I can’t leave him. Go on. Both of you!”
“Charles!” Esther cried.
I was already running, sprinting along the length of the dell, stumbling on rocks hidden in the gloom and almost falling. I clutched at an oak sapling to save myself. How could I have left Heron? He’d been generosity itself to me, in his friendship and support, and I’d just let him go to his death!? Devil take it, I would not!
At the end of the dell, I hauled myself up and out by clutching at trunks and branches. I found myself in an open field stretching, grey and gloomy into the distance.
A horseman was galloping down the field towards me.
Another shot. From the wood. Our attackers must have separated – one had come through the wood, the other along the road. Well, he’d seen me now – he was altering his course to come straight for me. I sprinted along the edge of the field, dived back into the wood. I could hardly see anything. I blinked furiously, trying to penetrate the gloom.
Two shots. Pray God it had been Heron firing. But in that case he’d now be defenceless except for his sword. And if his attackers got close enough for hand-to-hand fighting, he’d not have the strength to last long.
I started forward, tripped over a root and went down, banging my knees. I hunched, desperately peering around. The thudding of the horse’s hooves in the field came ever closer. I crept on, from tree to tree. There was something up ahead. A long low hump under an oak. Dear God, it was a body. And up ahead, more movement among the low shrubs.
I felt in the grass, set my hand on a heavy stone, prised it out of the ground. The movement resolved itself into a figure. No, two. Slight, slender figures coming towards me. Then who the devil was on the horse?
I hefted the stone – and threw it as far as I could into the river below. It bounced off rocks with a huge crack. I saw the figures spin round –
And in that moment the horse and rider crashed into the wood. A low-hanging branch whipped aside and back, and caught the horse across its neck; it screamed and reared. The rider dragged it back, held it rigidly on course. I saw the rider lift a hand; a pistol glinted faintly. Then there was a gunshot so close it almost deafened me. Someone shrieked. I scrambled forward trying to get to the body under the tree. The rider had another pistol, aimed and fired again – I saw the flash of fire in the darkness.
I laid my hand on Heron’s shoulder. His head shifted slightly; he said irritably, “For God’s sake, Patterson, keep down!”
But I could already see we were safe – the two figures were crashing back through the wood, making the most tremendous noise as branches cracked and dislodged stones tumbled down into the river. I thought I heard one of them gasping in pain and panic.
Heron and I looked up at the rider on the horse, high above us.
“You missed,” Heron said. “I thought you never missed.”
Fowler bared his teeth in a snarl.
40
I am unfashionable, I agree, but I do like to be up early in the morning and get my business done.
[Letter from Retif de Vincennes, to his sister, Agnés, August 1736]
The first light of dawn was breaking. On the Keyside sailors hurried to and fro, loading the last supplies, making ships seaworthy; the tide would begin to ebb shortly and the ships would sail with it. The bell of St Nicholas chimed a quarter hour; a cock crowed.
I climbed Silver Street towards All Hallows church. It had been a long night and I saw no prospect of sleep for a few hours yet. Fowler had been in the devil of a mood, cursing everyone – for undertaking such a stupid expedition, for not leaving word where we were going, for not going properly armed, for insisting he stay behind. He’d managed at last to wheedle the name of the servant out of Crompton, only to find he’d let us go off with the fellow.
“He did at least give us two pistols,” I pointed out.
“Just salving his conscience,” Fowler said savagely. “So he could say he did something to help. Someone’s going to throttle that fellow soon, and there’ll be no mystery – it’ll be me!”
Heron had stood quietly by, making no attempt to moderate Fowler’s behaviour or language as he told us what had happened. Perhaps he judged it wiser to let Fowler work out his frustration. Armed with Crompton’s information, Fowler had ridden out after us on the fastest horse in Alyson’s stables; eventually, after a great deal of searching, he’d found the coach.
“No horses,” he said. “Looks like they hid them somewhere, to sell maybe. But the girl was still in the coach. Sleeping her head off.”
Catherine, it transpired, had been given a drink by the coachman, to ‘settle her stomach’. It had patently been drugged. When Fowler found her, she was just waking and, being a sensible woman, had been able to give him a good description of where we’d been left for our picnic. Fowler had discovered the abandoned hamper and the dead body of the coachman, and had been methodically quartering the land in search of us when he heard the first shot.
The telling of the tale calmed him down; he stood breathing heavily, looking at me with a great deal of resentment; when Heron turned to ask Esther whether she felt able to carry on, he hissed at me, “I told you what I’d do if you let Heron get himself into danger.”
“Save your anger for our attackers,” I recommended. I expected a swift retort, but he mere
ly looked at me for a long moment, before turning back to answer something Heron said. Bit by bit he regained his old manner, became again the respectful servant, anxious to assist.
We rescued Catherine whom Fowler had left with the carriage – she was hiding in trees when we arrived. Then we descended on the first farmhouse we could find. The farmer was just preparing for sleep; Heron dispensed a purseful of guineas, bought food, and a dress and shoes for Esther from the farmer’s wife, hired the farmer’s carriage and horses, and left the household giddy with excitement. We drove on to Blackett’s house, Esther and Heron in a brand-new lady’s carriage painted a particularly fetching shade of puce, while Hugh and I rode alongside armed to the teeth with almost every weapon the farmer had possessed. Fowler had reloaded his pistols and rode at the rear, as ramrod straight as a soldier.
Heron and Hugh remained at Blackett’s house. Heron was not capable of further exertions and knew it; he’d accepted my suggestion without comment. Hugh had been more difficult to persuade but had eventually agreed – I wanted him to question Blackett, to glean what he could about the dispute over the woodland. Blackett would certainly know all about it – he was an inveterate gossip. With everything settled, I went out to the stables for the horse Blackett had agreed to loan me, knowing that at least the others would be safe – our opponents would hardly raid a house full of servants and securely shut up for the night.
Fowler was in the stables, lounging against the wall with his hands in his pockets and a sour expression. He looked at me, said, “Heron’s always saying I talk too much.”
“You were anxious for him.”
