by William Hunt
The captain brightened and rose from his seat. “Ah that would be capital, O’Neil.”
Magistrate O’Neil poured out a generous measure for Captain Brown.
“Yes, it’s most unfortunate to meet a fine English officer such as yourself under these circumstances…”
Magistrate O’Neil broke off whilst handing Captain Brown his drink.
“But in these troublesome times, it’s as well to show willing. The Leinster Volunteers are a grand bunch of lads.”
Captain Brown disagreed.
“The Volunteers took over, whilst we were so engaged in the American colonies O’Neil. But in truth they should have disbanded by now.”
Magistrate O’Neil nodded and then smiled knowingly.
“Ah, but there’s France captain. Things might come to a head and soon. What then? You’ll need every good loyalist you can find for sure.”
Captain Brown mulled over the weighty implications of this statement. “War with France, eh? Why that can’t come soon enough for me O’Neil. It’s the only way I’ll ever get promotion”.
“Now what’s the toast you have in the military?” Magistrate O’Neil quizzed… “Ah yes, of course. Here’s to a sudden plague and a bloody war.”
“That’s the one on parade”, re-joined Captain Brown.
“And captain… When the smoke clears and all’s done. May you be the last man standing?”
The very thought fully restored the English officers good humour, “Charge your glass O’Neil. I’ll drink to that”. “Your very good health, Captain Brown.”
The young green corn fields rippled and waved as a stiff wind blew through the farm holding… When up the hill they came. The horseman and the redcoat foot soldiers in a marching column, two abreast, six deep.
At the farmstead, the beleaguered Hughes family were packing their meagre possessions on to a small hand drawn cart. The cottiers were equally pre-occupied in preparing to evacuate their erstwhile habitations; and every able-bodied family member played their part in man-handling their worldly goods away from the farm site.
There was nothing else for it. All the farm beasts including the communally shared mule had been confiscated the previous day.
Inexorably, the detachment drew near. Mounted at the head of the column was Sergeant McMahon. A robust exponent of law enforcement, and a local man to boot, he came highly recommended by Magistrate O’Neil
“Halt!” The foot soldiers came to a stop whilst the Third Greys broke from escort, and formed an arc to the rear of the outgoing tenants.
Sergeant McMahon spurred his mount forward, and approached Daniel Hughes. Both men were long since familiar with each other.
“Have you come to wave us off, sergeant?” Daniel Hughes remarked caustically. “We were about leavin’ anyway,”
“That I have not,” replied Sergeant McMahon, “As well, you know,” Daniel Hughes face wore a puzzled expression.
“I’m sure I don’t follow, sergeant.”
“I think you do, Hughes.”
Daniel Hughes thought for a moment.
“If you’re talking about last night’s shenanigans at Squireen McDavitt’s - - -.” Sergeant McMahon swiftly pounced on the farmers remarks.
“Ah! So, you know all about it then, eh?” Molly spoke up in defence of her husband.
“Sure, everyone does. Didn’t we see the flames for miles around?” There were widespread noises of general agreement from the cottiers. “The news is all over the place sergeant. All over.”
Daniel Hughes shook his head solemnly and without a trace of irony ventured to sympathise.
“It was at terrible thing. The squireen losing his home the way he did.”
“It was,” agreed Sergeant McMahon who with a brief wave of his hand toward the line of redcoat volunteers added ominously.
“And I’ve brought some of me boys along to arrest those that done it.” Hearing this Daniel Hughes face cleared, as with belated understanding.
“Ah well, don’t let us keep you, sergeant. Oh, and if we hear anything about this business. Anything at all mind, why I’ll be off to see Magistrate O’Neil faster than old ‘Skewball’ the racehorse with a hornets’ nest a hanging from his tail.”
With a flourish, Daniel Hughes gave a farewell salute. But Sergeant McMahon didn’t move.
“I don’t see your son John! Where is he?”
Daniel Hughes sighed, and replied as one stating the obvious.
“He’s gone a lookin’ for work, sergeant… There’s nothing for him here now. Is there?” he concluded in a bitter undertone.
Sergeant McMahon raised himself to his full height, and with a supporting hand on his saddle, he cast his eyes far and wide toward the distant horizon.
“Now that is a pity and the actions of guilty man for sure. No matter we’ll find him later.”
There followed a pause. The commencement of official business was about to begin. Sergeant McMahon puffed up pompously, and producing a rolled-up court parchment, he recited in a loud voice the mantra borne of oft-repeated practice:
“Daniel Hughes, I have a warrant for your arrest in connection with last night’s outrages against the person and property of Colm McDavitt.”
Pandemonium broke out at the farmstead. As the volunteer redcoats moved to apprehend Daniel Hughes, the families blocked their way. With screams of defiance, the womenfolk tore at the soldier’s tunics and faces.
Sergeant McMahon shouted to the soldiery with great urgency. “Take him – Take him!”
After being momentarily re-buffed, the soldiers re-grouped, and using their muskets as clubs, began to batter their way toward Daniel Hughes. Shouts rent the air, and inevitably… Daniel Hughes was seized.
Sergeant McMahon gloated triumphantly.
“You’ll hang for what you did, Hughes, and as for your son. He’ll be stood on the gallows alongside you. I’ll see to it. That I will now.”
The detachment formed up, wheeled about, and Daniel Hughes was marched away from the cries of his distraught family. However, Sergeant McMahon’s mission was not quite complete yet.
“Clear the farm,” he commanded the dragoons.
The Third Greys formed up and rode their mounts into the path of those remaining. Bumped and buffeted, those bruised and luckless unfortunates were summarily herded out onto the highway beyond the farm walls, and left to collectively lick their wounds.
Sergeant McMahon was well satisfied with what had been accomplished that morning. In the event neither musket was fired, nor sabre drawn. Now, it was just a matter of apprehending the son John Hughes.
Sergeant McMahon knew him by sight. A good start would be to check the waterfronts of New Ross and Waterford without further delay.
But unbeknown to the zealous sergeant, John Hughes had stolen a day’s march on route westward to Cork. And by now he’d footslogged deep into the province of Munster.
It was a totally new experience for the young man, and as he traversed these unfamiliar ways, he found himself further afield than he’d ever been before.
Mindful of his father’s advice, John Hughes took note of any passing mail coach bound to or from Cork. This gave him line of sight direction finding. And there could be no mistaking these impressive conveyances bowling along the highway at twelve miles an hour.
On one occasion John was beset by a fork in the road, and straddling its apex like an ancient megalith, stood an imposing triangular milestone with a carved arrow atop each face giving direction, and the place names carved likewise underneath.
But unable to read… John Hughes was compelled to tarry until a drunken but affable farmer pulled up in his cart and pointed out the road to follow.
“If it’s Cork ye want. There’s fifty good miles to go. A lame man will be glad to do it. Ha–Ha!”
That day, John Hughes alternately walked and rested, until the sun began to sink below the western skyline. Tired and hungry, the traveller found himself on a hillside strewn with boulders and stones
… far from any habitation or sheltered hedgerow.
It was time to go to work. With a clasp knife in hand, John cut down a withered gorse bush, and placed a ball of twiglets and crumbly wood dust into a scrape.
Deftly, he conjured up a tinderbox from his satchel, and struck the flint repeatedly, till at last the dried gorse fitfully smouldered into life.
With gentle puffs, the ball flickered into flame, and once the fire had taken hold, John brought forth two raw potatoes from his coat pockets, and poked them into the fiery scrape with a stick.
Setting up a stone cairn surround, John patiently tended it for the next hour, occasionally making forays on the hillside to gather more fuel.
Finally, he could wait no longer and kicking over the stones he dug out the two (blackened) potatoes. In the fading light broken only by the glow of burnt out fires embers, John hungrily cut open the tuber with his clasp knife and scooped out the creamy white inners.
Thereafter, he slaked his thirst with a mouthful of poteen from a small pocket canteen.
With his hunger partially assuaged, John found shelter to the lee of a rocky outcrop. And there on a makeshift pillow of grass, (bundled up inside his waistcoat), he lay down his weary head.
But before he slept, John crossed himself and prayed to the Good Lady. Would she look down upon his poor soul? And by her infinite merciful kindness… Spare him from rain that night.
Lords and Ladies
At Hardcourt Hall, Rupert Valans’s birthday celebrations had proved a great success. The dinner passed off well, and amidst such conviviality, a number of toasts were proposed including: a salute to the enduring good health of Hardcourt Hall in particular, and latterly of the parish community in general. These sentiments were heartily endorsed by one and all.
But time drew on, and by stages the local gentry took their leave. Some (a little worse for wear it might be said) had to be assisted down the steps to their waiting carriages by the combined efforts of their wives and an able-bodied footman.
Among the last to go was the Reverend Abel Rudhall who lingered obsequiously and overly long in the presence of his betters. Finally, he was gently but firmly propelled through the door by a servant. In parting the rector solemnly pledged the Valans’s would be in the prayers of St Mary’s congregation on Sunday next.
“Then by God’s grace we are in the safest of hands’ re-joined Lord Arlingham as the rector bowed out.”
But not all departed that afternoon. Those guests closely connected to the Valans’ inner circle, were invited to remain at Hardcourt Hall for a while longer.
Among those so favoured were: the Comte de Moritz and his family, the Portlocks and Major Bullimore. These valued personages now found themselves brought together to socialise informally with their hosts in the privy of the drawing room… and on this occasion, a more intimate atmosphere prevailed.
But first there was the little matter of Rupert’s presents to attend. The magical music toy from Paris was without equal of course. That was beyond question.
However, the Portlocks had presented Rupert with a Royal Worcester porcelain dragoon especially commissioned for his birthday. It warranted an appropriate and befitting response.
“Well, Rupert! How do you suggest we proceed?” Lord Arlingham wished to know. It was a ticklish question that called for a diplomatic solution, which would meet with the satisfaction of all concerned.
On balance, Rupert decided to keep the treasured automaton in the privacy of his personal quarters. But the horseman would be placed on the marble ledge of the grand fireplace, directly under his mother’s portrait.
“A splendid idea my boy,” enthused his father.
“And remind us all again… What regiment does the dragoon belong to?”
“The Third Greys. Your old regiment, sir.”
Lord Arlingham beamed with pleasure. Rupert’s performance on this day had been faultless.
Thereupon, a pair of servants took great care man-handling the dragoon into position. (The grand marble mantelpiece stood as high as a man’s head.) And afterwards (with an usher leading the way), the Parisian magical music toy was borne aloft to Rupert’s quarters.
For a while, hustle and bustle overtook the usual tranquillity of the drawing room.
The Portlocks however took quiet satisfaction with the outcome. During the ensuing hubbub, Jonas ventured a remark to his wife.
“We may have been trumped by the French my dear. But we’ve run in a close second I think.”
Standing aloft on its marble placement, the dragoon caught the light thro’ the window. The colourful decoration of the sabre wielding red-coated horseman surmounted on a rearing regimental grey horse was thrown into sharp relief to general acclaim.
“Why? It’s a perfect setting,” his Lordship warmly observed.
The Comte and his wife were also impressed, and moved to congratulate the Portlocks on their choice of gift. Thereafter honours were even.
With the return of normality, the party regained their seats and drinks were served all round. Lord Arlingham himself was much taken by the sight of his old regimental colours, and nodded reflectively in the direction of the porcelain horseman.
“Yes indeed, if we’d had more like ’em in the colonies, America would still be ours today. What say you, Alan?”
Major Bullimore was in perfect accord with these sentiments. In such a vast country as America, the infantry alone was just not adequate enough to deal with the ever-changing military situation.
And had not His Lordship written to the Upper House, warning them that failure to remedy this deficiency would have grave consequences for the future conduct of the war effort.
Lord Arlingham agreed most emphatically. Suffice to say his communiques were noted, but nothing further was done.
Major Bullimore snorted with contempt at their mention and cited regimental feeling on this matter: Every cavalry officer he’d ever spoken to who’d served in America had without exception drawn the self-same conclusion… “With more horsemen, my lord. We could have run those ragged patriot armies out of the Carolinas!”
Throughout these on-going military reminisces, the Comte and his family maintained a polite (if somewhat ironic silence). With France fighting on the side of the American colonists, it was politic to remain non-committal at such times.
But Rupert and Toby glanced at one another in mutual boredom. They’d heard this old campaigning talk before, and by now the long hours of stuffy formality had taken its toll. Both young men chaffed with impatience to be outdoors.
Taking advantage of the run of conversation, Rupert ventured to ask if he and Toby might go riding before the afternoon was done. All the cavalry talk had greatly encouraged them to ‘set their caps’ at such an outing.
As it was Rupert’s day, it was hard to deny such a request. But did not Mlle Rosalyn wish to accompany them His Lordship wondered? Thus reminded, (and so borne of etiquette), Rupert graciously extended an invitation to Mlle Rosalyn.
“Ah, but Rosalyn, has nothing suitable to wear,” Comtesse Lisa shortly replied.
It was a matter of regret, but owing to their abrupt departure from the Chateau, Mlle Rosalyn’s riding costume had been omitted from her trousseau.
Therefore, Mlle Rosalyn was left with no alternative, but to decline the (somewhat insincere) offer. Finally, released from further constraint, the two young men took their leave from the party.
Outside in the hallway, Toby gave voice to his relief.
“Hurrah! No Rosalyn. I want to ride at the gallop. Not play nursemaid at the walk.”
Rupert agreed wholeheartedly, and then became business-like. “The thing now, Toby, is to find you a spare pair of riding boots. Come on.”
In the meantime, two hunters were ordered from Hardcourt stables, and subsequently brought over to the impatiently awaiting young men. (Both of whom were now properly attired in boots and hats procured from Rupert’s wardrobe.) Eagerly they descended the steps of Hardcourt Hall, and t
aking a leg up from the livery hands, bestrode their saddled mounts.
Glowing with excitement, Toby led the way. With a fine disregard for the upkeep of the grounds, the pair galloped pell-mell across the neatly maintained lawns, and onwards to Madam’s Wood.
Watching Toby’s exuberant antics through the drawing room windows caused the Portlocks no small embarrassment and confusion.
“Oh that was quite unpardonable, my lord,” voiced a dismayed Johanna Portlock.
“I’ll give Toby a dressing down the moment he returns, my lord,” Squire Portlock firmly assured his host.
“Well boys will be boys,” His Lordship remarked reassuringly, and amidst the ensuing laughter, the good humour of the company was fully restored.
On Windmill Hill
Upon reaching the edge of Madam’s Wood, the adventuring riders saw before them an old track that led down through the woods and out to the meadows on the far side.
With a joyous whoop, Toby spurred up and recklessly plunged down the woodland track. High in the canopy above came forth the alarmed raucous caws of circling rooks hastily put to flight by the noisy intrusion.
Rupert followed more cautiously at a steady trot, and eventually caught up with the waiting Toby straining to be off once more across the beckoning wide-open spaces.
“Where shall we now?” said Toby, flushed and ready for another dash. This was not at all to Rupert’s liking.
“I think I know Toby. But I must insist we ride together… in a manner that is fitting and proper.”
Toby glanced frowningly at his riding companion, but quickly reminded himself as to the propriety of the occasion.
“As you so wish, Rupert.”
“That I do.”
Rupert paused for a moment, taking in the open countryside around him. Then he pointed his riding crop toward a hillock to the north of the estate.
“I fancy the view on Windmill Hill.”
“Very good,” Toby agreed, “Lead on, and I promise to keep good company.”
Satisfied that protocol was to be observed, Rupert set off at a canter with the dutiful Toby providing close escort.
