Running Dogs

by William Hunt

  “Well, that’s our birthday present knocked into a cocked hat my lord,” Squire Portlock ruefully remarked in frank admission.

  The other guests were clearly of the same opinion, and together voiced their profuse apologies to Rupert. Such was the commotion that His Lordship was moved to mollify their concerns.

  “Pray be calm.” He raised his hands as he spoke.

  “You must not be so hard on yourselves. This is a gift unlike any other.” Then His Lordship surveyed the intricate mechanism that had so wondrously come to life moments earlier… and was moved to deep contemplation.

  “Yet, when I gaze upon such a marvellous contrivance,” he mused aloud. “Fashioned by the hand of man, I realise we are capable of anything – anything at all. Why there is nothing mankind might not achieve… If the will of God so demands it.”

  Lord Arlingham’s reveries were suddenly interrupted by an incoming servant.

  “Dinner is served my lord.”

  “Ah, splendid! Those nearest the door, please lead on. If you would be so kind.”

  Reprisals

  Far away, and in another country altogether, Squireen Colm McDavitt and his wife sat at home partaking of evening supper. The small mullioned windows of the long rectangular thatched house, (for windows the squireen could boast of), reflected the mealtime activities by way of an illuminated pewter candelabrum set down on the wooden dining table.

  In England, such a sturdy dwelling could easily pass for that of a substantial yeomanry farmhouse. But McDavitt was no farmer. Outside in the paddock and nearby sheds, the handiwork of his endeavours bore witness to his chosen calling.

  A number of confiscated cattle and pigs from the erring Hughes farmstead had been impounded… Held over until market day at New Ross, where they would be sent for auction. McDavitt expected a good price too.

  Stood in attendance at the table was a manservant. The supper had previously been prepared in the kitchen by the manservant’s wife who doubled up as housemaid. And when formal occasion so demanded, she took on the role of lady­in-waiting to her mistress. McDavitt wasn’t made of money after all.

  On this night after breaking bread, the household dined on thick ham slices, supplemented with a tureen of boiled potatoes. And from time to time, the manservant poured a liberal draught of red wine into Squireen McDavitt’s (chipped and cracked) pint-sized china mug.

  As the squireen drank, he made a mental note to order a consignment of wine from the vintners at New Ross. And he grew inwardly satisfied to know that he could attend to this business on market day.

  Hmm! Then there was extra revenue to be had from the recently discovered potato beds on the Hughes farm. The squireen smugly congratulated himself as he contemplated the various strands of business dovetailing into a profitable nicety for him.

  Suddenly, a rumbling and a growling came forth from the house dog stretched out under the dining table.

  “Shut up now, Tizer!” McDavitt sent in a well-aimed kick. The animal let out a brief yelp and unmoving, fell silent once more.

  The minutes passed as the meal continued… the silence broken only by the occasional creak of a chair and the relentless mechanism of the long case clock. A foreboding sentinel set back in the gloomy recesses of the dining room, and did the squireen but know it… counting down the seconds to his nemeses.

  Click… Click… Click…

  Now Tizer was properly upset and, scrambling to its feet, burst out from under the table in the most urgent fashion. Ignoring the curses liberally bestowed, the red-haired, lop-eared dog stood quivering bolt upright. Its head was cocked and pointed towards the outer walls. Unable to contain itself any further, Tizer erupted into loud excited barks. Something outside had disturbed the animal.

  Normally, the manservant would have the task of routine inspection, but given the dogs agitated behaviour, McDavitt thought it’s best to attend the matter personally.

  “Passing beggars?” he surmised to his wife. Rising from his chair, he picked up a shillelagh propped against the wall, and giving charge of the candelabra to the manservant… Squireen McDavitt led on to the front door.

  Too late. Events outside had already pre-emptied the investigation.

  Swiftly moving through the falling darkness of that late May evening, a band of men attired in white smocks with flaming torches in hand surrounded the house.

  As one, they tossed the brands upwards onto the thatched roof. Within seconds, the fire had taken hold, and crackling spitefully the flames danced rapidly over the rooftop.

  Just then the front door was cautiously pulled ajar. A loud bang from a firearm sent an iron ball thudding into the wood panelling.

  With great haste the door was slammed shut, and a heavy timbered post was desperately dropped between two mounted iron hooks set either side. Thereafter, both master and servant beat a hasty retreat into the interior.

  The pandemonium was great. By now the roof was now well ablaze, and the smoke from the burning thatch billowed through the house itself.

  The mullioned windows were shattered, and the incoming rush of air fuelled the flames’ intensity.

  Amidst the shouts and yells of fright, Squireen McDavitt made straight to the chimneybreast where a scattergun was hung. Seizing the gun, he vainly attempted to load the weapon, but there was no time.

  Overcome by the biting smoke filling their lungs, the occupants were driven pell-mell to the kitchen door at the rear of the house.

  Outside the peasant gang were prepared. By prior understanding, the assailants had split up. One group gained entrance to the livestock pens. Their purpose to ensure the distrained animals would bring no profit to the squireen’s household.

  Amid the bellowing of the cattle, and the shrill squeals of the pigs, the animals were despatched, and within a few moments dead and dying livestock lay all around.

  But others waited outside the farmhouse exits. The flames from the firelight glittered in their eyes, their faces blackened by soot to conceal identities. They were a terrible sight to behold.

  The kitchen door burst open, and stumbling out with shrieks and groans the inhabitants broke clear of the farmhouse. The mistress and servants (with the yowling Tizer bounding around them in circles) were allowed to proceed on their blind flight of terror.

  Not so, Squireen Colm McDavitt.

  Bringing up the rear and desperately brandishing his scattergun, the squireen hoped to bluff his way past. Maybe the sight of the gun would deter the assailants from close encounters. But half blinded and coughing, the man was in no fit state to use the weapon, even if it had been loaded.

  Squireen Colm McDavitt was swiftly overtaken and knocked to the floor by the gang. Then he was pinned down. A knife was brandished (and amidst the man’s cries of anguish)… a mischief was done to his face.

  It was all over in barely five minutes. As fast as they had arrived, the gang withdrew into the night, leaving behind their calling card. Prostate on the floor lay McDavitt. In the paddocks and pens, a cacophony of noises from the dying livestock rent the air, the whole scene nightmarishly lit by the flames of the burning house.

  That night the squireen’s abode burnt as brightly as his past avarice. Inevitably, the authorities would move into action. Punitive measures would surely follow. Justice was quite another matter altogether.

  Consequences

  Captain Nathaniel Brown of the Third Grey Dragoons was most annoyed. It was barely 9:00 a.m. when a breathless clerk of the court arrived at his quarters, bearing a hand-written message from Magistrate Kieran O’Neil, requesting his immediate presence at the New Ross Courthouse. It concerned a matter of great urgency.

  Captain Brown had every reason to be displeased. That very morning he’d arranged to meet up with a fellow officer of old acquaintance who had recently been posted to the nearby garrison at Waterford.

  Their paths had not crossed for several years and the reunion promised to be the most convivial occasion. He was greatly looking forward to an excha
nge of regimental news and the chance to talk of old times… And now this.

  For Captain Brown, Ireland was a God-forsaken posting. Apart from the occasional visit to a tavern in New Ross that sported a billiard table; there was no other outlet to relieve the monotony of this rainy desolate bog land.

  Still that was a soldier’s life. You took the rough with the smooth. And anyway, it was consolation enough to know the current ‘tour of duty’ wouldn’t last forever.

  Calling his aide, Captain Brown ordered a mount to be ready within the hour. And after drafting a letter of sincere regret for onward despatch to Waterford, he donned his dress uniform for the official business to follow.

  Once properly attired, Captain Brown rode along the main streets of New Ross to his rendezvous. All the time he noted with disdain the usual air of impoverishment the small town conveyed that was so typical of Ireland.

  Pedlars pushing hand-carts, servants on errands and small barefoot ragged children scampered about the thoroughfare, dodging the sedate carriages that serviced the imposing commercial and legislative buildings further up the street.

  Reaching the Tholsel Courthouse, Captain Brown rapped the iron knocker on the front door, which was promptly opened by the self-same clerk of earlier acquaintance.

  The English officer was led forthwith inside the building to meet with one of those rare civilian personages whose status could be measured on equal terms.

  “Captain Nathania Brown!” the clerk called out loudly.

  Captain Brown so announced strode on in to court chambers. “Magistrate O’Neil I believe?”

  The black gowned and bewigged Magistrate O’Neil raised his corpulent bulk from behind his office desk.

  “It is so captain. Come in.”

  Magistrate O’Neil leant across and shook the English officer firmly by the hand.

  “Sit yourself down now captain.”

  Responding to the magistrate’s invitation, Captain Brown took possession of the vacant seat opposite and, placing his Toby hat on the office desk, sat comfortably back.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you captain,” Magistrate O’Neil continued. “I only wish the circumstances of this meeting might be more congenial that I do.”

  Captain Brown nodded but said nothing. As he took his ease, he focussed on a second man stood to attention beside the seated magistrate. He further recognised the uniform of an Irish volunteer.

  Both the English officer and his opposite number wore the traditional red uniform coat, but the volunteer had his lapels bordered with striped green braid, and furthermore, his big coat buttons were decorated with the insignia of an Irish harp.

  As a soldier of His Majesty King George, Captain Brown disapproved of these irregular Irish militias. Nevertheless Magistrate O’Neil proceeded with a formal introduction.

  “Oh! And captain, I have with me here, Sergeant McMahon of the New Ross Volunteer Company.”

  At the mention of his name, Sergeant McMahon was moved to a clumsy salute. Captain Brown ignored the formal courtesy and got down to the business in hand.

  “I understand there’s been some trouble O’Neil.”

  The countenance on the face of Magistrate O’Neil turned grim.

  “Oh yes, its White boy trouble captain, and busy boys they have been too. But this time these rogues have surpassed themselves with their criminal audacity.”

  Then all went silent as Magistrate O’Neil paused… seemingly given over to grief. In the event Captain Brown had to prompt a response.

  “So, what happened exactly?”

  Now, Magistrate O’Neil came to with a start and became positively indignant.

  “What happened captain? What happened? Let me tell you. Last night, a leading loyalist of this community and personal friend of mine, Colm McDavitt, was at home in the bosom of his family, attending to his own business and interfering with no one. When his household was set upon – his livestock destroyed – and his home burnt down… And what came afterwards, why I can scare speak further on the matter.”

  Again Magistrate O’Neil paused and, producing a linen handkerchief, proceeded to mop his brow before resuming his narrative.

  “Colm McDavitt… God bless the stalwart darling man fought as hard as he could. But those cowardly bog men overcame him, and in consequence of his bravery took a knife to his face… and that’s enough.”

  Captain Brown nodded sympathetically, “I see. Did he recognise his assailants?” Magistrate O’Neil huffed briefly.

  “It’s a wonder he himself is recognisable after what happened. But in answer to your question Captain, he did not. It was dark, and those cowards had blacked their faces and all.”

  "So, what is it you wish of me, O’Neil?

  Magistrate O’Neil looked with no small surprise at his guest, whilst Sergeant McMahon cleared his throat impatiently.

  “Well, captain. I was expecting British Army cooperation in arresting the criminals.”

  Now Captain Brown in his turn became impatient.

  “But by your own admission, we don’t know who we’re looking for.”

  At this point, Sergeant McMahon started to interject, “Excuse me, captain sir!”

  Magistrate O’Neil abruptly held up his hand and Sergeant McMahon obediently fell silent. Then Magistrate O’Neil spoke slowly, and with great deliberateness.

  “Oh yes, we do, Captain. We know exactly who we’re after. A tenant farmer, Daniel Hughes is his name.”

  “And how’s that, O’Neil?”

  “Simple captain. Why only the day before, this ingrate and insolent man – egged on by his labourers – had the gall to defy Colm McDavitt, who in the pursuance of his estate duties had called upon the farm to kindly settle up their overdue rent returns.”

  Captain Brown gave a snort of exasperation. “Land disputes yet again O’Neil!”

  “I beg pardon, Captain.”

  Captain Brown had encountered these situations before. He was doubly irked to know that his day was forfeit, in order to deal with these everlasting squabbles. This time he spoke his mind.

  “Well, it seems to me, O’Neil, these outrages occur all too frequently to do any good whatsoever. And each time the Army’s called in to clear up the mess. Cannot these land agents be more circumspect when it comes to setting and collecting their damn rents?”

  Magistrate O’Neil and Sergeant McMahon stared at the captain in collective amazement. Why if a leprechaun with a white beard and sucking a clay pipe was jigging about on the desk in front of them, the pair could not be more confounded.

  But not for long… It was time to pull rank on this uncooperative English officer. Magistrate O’Neil gazed steadfastly and fixedly at his guest.

  Captain Brown, I think it is time to remind you that these outrages occurred on the estates of Lord Arlingham… Who I am led to believe you served under during the revolt of the American colonists.

  Captain Brown now became rather uneasy. “Ah – hmm… That is so.”

  Magistrate O’Neil pressed home his attack.

  “Indeed, sir. He was your regimental commander was he not?”

  These weighty words had the desired effect on Captain Nathaniel Brown, who began to stroke his chin with some vexation?

  “Yes, yes! The Third Greys were so commanded.”

  “And since Colm McDavitt can no longer put quill to parchment. As the presiding magistrate, I am duty bound to furnish his lordship’s office, with a full account… A FULL ACCOUNT NOW! Of the conduct of all those so concerned… Meritorious or otherwise.”

  Magistrate Kieran O’Neil paused to let his words sink in. “Do you follow my meaning there now, Captain Brown?”

  It was time for Captain Brown to change tack. “Why of course – Harrumph – Let me assure you O’Neil, His Majesty’s Armed Forces will uphold the Law of the Realm at all time. Ireland can depend upon it, sir.”

  The charged atmosphere palpably abated. Magistrate O’Neil leant back in his chair and surreptitiously winked at Sergea
nt McMahon.

  “Did ye hear that now, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, I did Mr Magistrate O’Neil … Sir.”

  Captain Brown now reconciled to the task in hand ventured to enquire as to how the matter should now proceed. Without hesitation, Magistrate O’Neil slapped his hand down on a scroll of vellum paperwork across the desk in front of him.

  “Here we are, Captain. I have a warrant made out. All we need now is a body of horse and foot to accompany Sergeant McMahon and detain these Tories forthwith.”

  Captain Brown nodded his support but added a small proviso of his own. “After which I trust the guilt of those parties will then be proven by a court hearing.”

  This time Sergeant McMahon would not be silenced.

  “Captain. They’re all guilty whether they done it, OR NOT!”

  “Ah! Is that so?”

  The captain could not conceal his bemusement at this outburst. Once again Magistrate O’Neil was on hand to translate to the satisfaction of all concerned.

  “Complicity captain, complicity. Why these villains feign ignorance, then its smirks and nods all around. Collusion is an offence before the law, is it not? Therefore, one is as guilty as another.”

  Captain Brown sighed wearily at the explanation concocted before him. By now, all he wanted was an end to the whole tiresome business.

  “Very well, I’ll have some men fall in, later this morning.”

  With that, Magistrate O’Neil gave the sergeant his marching orders. “Did you hear that, Sergeant McMahon? Be off and prepare the lads now.”

  With a final clumsy salute to the English officer. Sergeant McMahon marched noisily out the office. Mission now accomplished… Magistrate O’Neil gauged it was high time to smooth the ruffled feathers of his guest.

  “Ah, such an unpleasant business there, captain.”

  Magistrate O’Neil made his way to a bureau by the window. He opened it up and withdrew a finely decorated decanter and matching glasses of Waterford Crystal.

  “Now, can I not be turning your mind to the happier task of moistening your throat with a malt whiskey?”