Running Dogs

by William Hunt

  The men puffed contemptuously, whilst the women crossed themselves, clasped their rosary beads and gave over to standing prayer. The harsh logic of their collective predicament was unanswerable.

  At that moment Molly’s babe began to cry, “He needs feedin’ just now, Dan.”

  “Sure, and Molly, let’s all bide together this morning now?”

  Daniel Hughes encouragingly beckoned the others to follow his wife and family back to the farmhouse. Heeding the farmer’s call, a ragged procession of women and children picked their way along the farm path behind Molly and the babe. Pointedly, the men-folk remained where they stood and silently waited.

  Daniel Hughes took advantage of the brief interlude, and quickly collared his eldest son.

  “Now hear me, John. Ride to your Aunt Breda’s and tell her of our woe. It’s a shelter we’ll be needin’ and soon.”

  John protested, “Can I not stay awhile?” At nineteen years, he earnestly wished to be privy to ‘men talk’. Daniel Hughes was equally keen that he should not.

  Holding his son firmly by the shoulders, Daniel Hughes looked him straight in the face, “John! Will you do as I say – please now?”

  John caught the strain in his father’s voice, and without further protest, submitted to parental instruction. Uncoupling the mule from the turf cart, he promptly rode off bareback on his errand.

  At last, all was quiet. It was time for the men’s talk.

  “That McDavitt need attendin’ to, Dan!” One of the cottiers announced grimly.

  “He’s right. It’s time the boys showed up,” agreed another.

  “Ah! You know what that means now,” Daniel Hughes cautioned.

  “And you know the rules as well as the rest of us, Dan,” came the swift response. “An attack on one is an attack on all. Even a dog can bite back.”

  Daniel Hughes once again urged caution. “We don’t know the full measure of this thing,” he pointed out. “After all, I’m the one losin’ the farm. But those takin’ over might need hands. Have you thought of that now?”

  Hesitation now crept over those vengeful men. In the confusion that followed the squireen’s departure, nobody had fully ascertained the facts. Maybe there was a way out for some of them after all …

  “Now, I’m thinking let’s away to the farmhouse and take a drink together,” suggested the farmer. “There’s no more work today.”

  On that matter all were agreed. The impromptu meeting was terminated, and the menfolk trooped off to the farmhouse to join their families and fortify themselves with a few jars of poteen.

  After a while, the liquor lightened heads and further lifted spirits. Perhaps the situation was not so bad as first feared. Cottiers might preserve their jobs and habitation for their families.

  In the end, it was unanimously decided to find out for sure. With a final downing of mugs, the menfolk (including Daniel Hughes) quit the farmhouse in a body… and began the long walk to New Ross. It was here that land-auction sales were regularly held. In one of the local taverns, somebody was bound to know what went under the gavel and the outcome of the bidding. (Given that land was the main source of contention in Ireland, these proceedings would be intently followed by all and sundry.)

  And thereafter, what the farmer and his cottiers subsequently discovered, would ultimately determine their collective policy (for good or ill) towards Squireen McDavitt.

  It was night-time at the farmhouse. The tumult and disorder of the day had long since subsided. After the menfolk departed, the women and children clung together indoors drawing what comfort they could from each another, till at last – by stages – they returned to their own abodes.

  Now all was quiet, and (save for the dull glow of the fire, and a brave halo of light from a candlestick on the table) the room lay in darkness.

  Molly and John warmed themselves at the hearth, patiently awaiting the head of the house to return. Molly tipped gently back and forth in a rocking chair, whilst John with feet astride and arms folded perched precariously atop of a tripod stool. His gaze directed at the slow burning peat.

  “Where can your father be?” Molly anxiously broke the silence. “Still out at this hour.” No sooner the words were spoken then muffled noises were heard outside. Both mother and son looked up in anticipation. The rattling of the latch was followed by the slow creak of the opening door.

  The accompanying gust of air caused the peat embers to burn more brightly, whilst the candle flame blew sideways, and was all but extinguished. Daniel Hughes had returned home.

  He came in and sat down wearily at the table. It had been a long day. Molly rose swiftly from her chair and, crouching over an iron pot that lay on the hearth, she ladled out a bowl of warm broth for her man.

  “Here now, Dan! You look perished.”

  Daniel Hughes took the bowl and nodded appreciatively. For the next few minutes he busied himself… alternately blowing and supping off a wooden spoon while his wife and son expectantly joined him at table. Then, as his inner warmth revived, Daniel Hughes first sought some answers himself.

  “Did you see Aunt Breda now?” he asked John.

  “I did so.”

  “And?”

  “There’s room at the Inn, Daddy. For a day or two, anyways.” Daniel Hughes breathed a small sigh of relief.

  “Well, that’s a blessing of sorts,” he added quizzically. Then slowly and deliberately, he pushed the bowl and candleholder to one side and leant forward on his elbows.

  “Now, let me tell you what has come to pass.”

  The news was bad, of course. But even in their dire straits, both listeners sat bolt upright with amazement as the details of the farm sale were imparted to them.

  It appeared the competition for the farm was so fierce that the holding (on McDavitt’s orders) had been sub-divided into smaller plots and a let of 17/- an acre was demanded. A hitherto unheard of sum!

  Both Molly and John were moved to gasps of astonishment.

  “We heard the farmers were bidden’ after it, like fleas crawlin’ over a cat’s back,” Daniel Hughes scathingly remarked.

  “And the cottiers, Daddy?” enquired John.

  “That’s just it!” exclaimed his father. “Those incoming tenants are workin’ conacre ground now. They don’t need anyone else.”

  Molly’s indignation boiled over.

  “Oh! That Squireen McDavitt! Did you ever see such greed in a man?” she angrily declared. “Why, when he goes to hell-as he surely must… he’ll be wantin’ rent from the devil himself.”

  The farmer looked meaningfully at his wife, “He might be going there sooner than you think.” There followed a pregnant silence, and a shared complicity of words unspoken between husband and wife.

  Hearing these last remarks Molly uttered a heartfelt sigh and crossed herself despairingly. In response, Daniel Hughes defensively thumped his fists down on the table.

  “There’s nothing else for it, woman!” he voiced loudly. “McDavitt’s pushed us too far this time!”

  Meanwhile, John was fast losing the thread of the ensuing conversation.

  “Can I be let in here?” he interjected. “I hear the talk well enough. It’s what’s not bein’ said that’s puzzlin’ me.”

  Then one of the children, disturbed by the noise, began to stir, “Mammy! Mammy!”

  “Shh! Softly, will ye now?” Molly urged, and left to settle her offspring.

  With father and son sat alone together Daniel Hughes knew it was high time to put the cards on the table. “Judgement has been passed on McDavitt” he exclaimed. “And the boys are after settling the man down.” While John digested this information, his father made a startling announcement.

  “And you must depart at daybreak!” he commanded his son in a manner that would brook no argument.

  John eyes widened with surprise.

  “Me! Why?” he was naturally bound to ask.

  Daniel Hughes looked his son in the face and began speaking to him with a franknes
s John had never encountered before.

  “Now list closely to me, son, and think hard on what I say… When the deed’s done and McDavitt’s full o’ regrets, the magistrates will be blind guessing as to where blame lies. But they’ll see to it that someone goes to the gallows… And you are now of hangin’ age.”

  John was nonplussed. His own personal safety had become a totally unexpected issue.

  “But what if the squireen takes no harm?” he remonstrated uncertainly. “Why then runnin’ off is just plain foolishness on my part?”

  “Mark my words, John,” Daniel Hughes spoke with growing urgency to his son, ‘Avengin’ Angels are come nigh. The boys will do the job. Of that there can be no doubt at all."

  John shook his head disbelievingly. “You can’t be sure, Daddy?”

  It couldn’t be put off any longer. Daniel Hughes came clean.

  “Oh! I’m as sure of anything as I’ll ever be. Yu’ see… I am one of their number…”

  John stared at his father as if seeing him for the first time.

  “I took an oath so help me!” Daniel Hughes confessed. “And there’s no gettin’ out… I’m sworn to the cause, John. Now you must go whilst time favours us. Otherwise, those nineteen years will be as nuttin… Nuttin’ at all.”

  John was not so easily convinced, “So, I’m to be running like a frightened hare, am I?”

  Desperate for his son to see sense, Daniel Hughes made a final entreaty to him as fiercely as language would permit.

  “And have you seen the hare dodge and turn, and break the back of the finest long dogs put against him… Have you, John! …Why man, it’s running on your feet, or maybe hanging by the neck. Which is it to be now?”

  John gave over to silent (and sombre) contemplation. His father’s persuasive arguments left no room for manoeuvre. At that moment, Molly re-joined the company and sat back down alongside John.

  “I’ve told him… He must leave,” Daniel Hughes spoke simply.

  By the light of the candle, John noted his mother’s drawn face registered no surprise. And belatedly, he realised this close family secret had been kept from him all his growing life.

  Molly gently took her son’s hand, and held it cupped in her own. His father looked across the table in kindly silence. There was no more to be said… other than from John himself.

  “Can you both spare me for the time bein’?” John finally enquired. “I’ve taken a notion to see what’s over the hill.”

  Departure

  John was asleep. He had a cot set along the wall to one side of the hearth. He was young, and in the way of all youth, sleep came easily. But morning once again brought the start of another day. He could slumber no more.

  A rough hand shook him repeatedly, “John! John! Wake now.”

  He opened his eyes and saw his father looking down at him. The farm door had been thrown open, and daylight streamed in through the house.

  Daniel Hughes beckoned his son to the table. Rubbing his eyes, John rose, and turning his back to the light, he briefly attended his dress before focussing bleary eyed on the object of his father’s attention. As he did so, the sloth of sleep vanished, and instantly he was wide awake.

  On the table beside a stringed pouch lay a small single barrelled pistol. “What’s this Daddy?”

  “A travelling companion,” came the succinct reply.

  John gazed wonderingly at the grey-barrelled weapon with its brown polished wooden handle.

  Daniel Hughes smiled approvingly, “It’s a fine sight. Don’t you think? Here let me show you the manner of its working.”

  His father became business-like, and, with a dexterity borne of past practice, demonstrated the basics of loading the gun. By the time he’d finished, an assemblage of wads, pewter shot, flint and powder horn littered the table.

  “Now, let’s see you do it,” commanded Daniel Hughes handing over the pistol. John quickly repeated the sequence, “horn – shot – wad. Tamp down. Cock the hammer. Load pan… Aim.”

  With that, John pointed the gun towards the hearth and pulled the trigger. There was a click – the hammer came down, and a small spark flew into the air. “Bang!” John triumphantly cried.

  Daniel Hughes was delighted, “Ah! You always had a fast thinking head. Now see… one thing more.” His father dipped his finger into a small pot of goose-fat and greased the hammer mechanism.

  “Clean the barrel with the rag and a draw string,” he further advised. Then a noise from the back room brought the lesson to an end.

  “Hush! Your mother’s astir – away with it.”

  John swiftly took charge of his new possession, and into the mouth of the pouch tumbled pistol, parts and all. A sharp yank on the string lace saw the neck end pulled tight, and the pouch promptly disappeared from view.

  Molly greeted her son and roundly scolded her husband for not waking her sooner. Afterwards, all was frenetic activity as preparations for John’s departure hurriedly got underway.

  Soon the whole Hughes clan were seated round the table for the morning rations. John had three siblings: Benjamin, his younger brother, followed by his little sister Bridget – who for the moment had taken charge of the babe – whilst Molly dispensed the rations from the ever-warm iron pot of simmering broth.

  Once they had eaten, and the children were shooed outside, there was the little matter of John’s outward journey. Where was he to go? His father held no doubts on that score. John had to quit Ireland for the time being.

  “By what means?” the prospective traveller demonstrably bared the palms of his hands uppermost in a show of penury.

  Daniel Hughes came back with a ready response. With a few gentle clinks, a handful of copper and silver coins dropped onto the table top.

  “There’s the ship money,” he said. “Take it now!” John grinned at the coins in bemused wonderment.

  “The savings were held back to be payin’ the cottiers later,” explained his father.

  “But that’s neither here nor there anymore…”

  Still, yet, one more surprise. John scooped up the waiting coins. “And which way do I go, Daddy?”

  “Travel on to Cork,” Daniel Hughes instructed his son, “follow the south bound mail coaches, and ship out the first chance you get now.”

  So be it. On the whole, John liked the idea. He understood Cork was far off to the south-west. And that kept him ashore for a few days at least. Boarding a boat for the first time was a big step.

  It was time to go. John donned his long, brown linen coat and shouldered a worn-leather satchel containing a meagre supply of provisions hastily brought together for his journey. Then, the family gathered outside the farm door to see him off.

  In a flurry of hugs and farewells, John took leave of his mother and father. Afterwards, he leant over and gave his sister Bridget a peck on the cheek.

  “Be a good girl now,” he charged her.

  “Will I see you again, John?” she asked her brother with wide-eyed childish simplicity.

  “Why of course. I’ll be back before you’ve grown this much.” He playfully held up his thumb and forefinger just fractionally apart to demonstrate how soon that would be.

  As John bid his brother Benjamin farewell, Molly interceded, and clasped her eldest in a final fierce embrace.

  “Take care. We won’t stop thinking of you darling. Not once honey.”

  A few moments later, John set out. Barely had he walked a dozen paces or so when the magnitude of his undertaking began to dawn on him. He stopped and turned. The family stood in a collective solemn vigil on the farmhouse doorstep. Every eye fastened in his direction.

  John bravely attempted to make light of the situation. “It’s the mainland for me!” he called out heartily.

  “Ah! Sure. England is not so far,” his father responded encouragingly.

  “Oh! And if you happen to come across Lord Arlingham out ridin’ one day… be careful not to frighten his horse now… lest the poor unfortunate man takes a tum
ble and lands on his head…”

  John chuckled, “I’ll return at harvest time. Never fear.”

  “We’ll be looking out for you,” replied Molly with a tremulous voice. John steeled himself and set off in good earnest. This time he did not look back. He rounded a bluff and was lost from sight of the onlookers.

  His mother, holding the baby tightly, was given over to grief and took succour in her husband’s arms.

  “Never more will I see him!” she wept. Daniel Hughes was too moved by the occasion to offer up consolation, and tearfully remained silent.

  Now Bridget broke away and (as fast as her little legs would carry) ran unsteadily across the rough grassland toward the top of the bluff. From her vantage point, she watched John making his way along the farm track between the stone-walled cornfields.

  “Come back, John. One day,” she cried.

  John caught sight of his little sister silhouetted on the skyline. She waved to him as children do, and then disappeared. John was left gazing forlornly at the empty spot and beyond into the infinite blue sky.

  Grimacing, he squeezed the water from his eyes, and then with a wipe of his coat sleeve… set forth on his odyssey.

  Birthday

  It was the Honourable Rupert Valans’s seventeenth birthday, and to mark the occasion; his father, Jeffrey Vernon Valans, 4th Viscount Arlingham, had summoned a small gathering to celebrate the occasion at the family home of Hardcourt Hall in North Gloucestershire.

  On this day in question, a number of carriages, including a splendid Landau, were drawn up outside the main entrance of the grand Elizabethan house. All the while, energetic stable hands and drivers in attendance watered and rubbed down the teams of horses sweating and frothy from their exertions.

  Hardcourt Hall solidly reposed behind its ornate wrought-iron gates on a small wooded hill in the Vale of Gloucester. And surmounted over the gateway – a carved white swan with outspread wings bestrode a coronet. The emblematic symbol of the Valans’ family crest.