Running Dogs

by William Hunt

  “Gammon and sauce!” Jarvis snorted, and proceeded to lambast the turnpike official in no uncertain terms. "Now see here, Mr turnpike man. We are expected in Gloucester later today with important despatches…

  And if the mails held up… Then ladies and gentleman of substance awaiting the mail coach will know the reason why sir!"

  Forcibly making his point, Jarvis reached into the coach mailbag and thereupon thrust a sample of post under the nose of the turnpike official, before reading out the addresses of the recipients.

  “And mark you well. Look where this is bound. Why to Lord Arlingham of Hardcourt Hall Gloucester – no less.”

  Charlie working nearby pricked up his ears at the sound of the grand titled name being loudly bandied about. Meanwhile, Jarvis continued with his tirade.

  “And when the blames decided… And the blunderbuss pointed. You and your trustee pretties will be replaced. Of that there can be no doubt, sir.”

  Hearing this, the turnpike official became agitated.

  “Look here, Jarvis. There’s no need to take on so. The potholes will be filled up in no time at all. And see now! The new wheel is fit snug on the coach axle.”

  But at that very moment, the gang master arrived with some rather bad news. There had been an embankment slippage ahead, and the repair job was a big one.

  It would seem the embankment needed to be shuttered off by driving in a row of posts. But first the dirt spill had to be cleared, and where the posts were to be found at such short notice, the gang master could not imagine. As the news broke, there was consternation among the passengers.

  One gentleman had to be in Gloucester for a house auction later that day. Another lady dearly wished to bid her brother farewell before he departed to the Indies.

  A hasty visit to the landslip by the concerned parties, confirmed the gang master’s veracity. To clear-shutter-then fill in the breech would take hours. Amid growing dismay, it would seem that under these circumstances, there was precious hope of reaching Gloucester before nightfall… If at all by then.

  Suddenly, the voice of Jarvis the coachmen rang out. “Unload the coach, I’m taking her across.”

  For a moment, there was silence. The menders stopped working, and all eyes turned to Jarvis. Then the call was repeated, “I’m taking her over. Throw down a plank if you would please.” There followed a bustle of activity as the more energetic passengers, swarmed over the coach to off-load the baggage. At the same time the front leading horses were unharnessed, and a more manageable team of two horses were repositioned to pull the lightened coach.

  A sturdy plank was placed across the gaping hole and hastily propped up at either end. The road at this point was wide enough for the horses, but not the offside wheels. All gathered to watch.

  If Jarvis got this wrong, the whole lot went down the embankment. Determinedly Jarvis climbed aboard and took command of the reins.

  The horses were jittery and more than ready to run. The guard stood alongside of the mail coach and viewed his colleague with great alarm.

  “I wonder at this, Jarvis. I really do.” The mail coach driver glanced down and tersely replied.

  “Move thyself, Cecil.”

  Cecil stood clear and with a light slap of the reins and a few words of encouragement to his team the coach moved off. Jarvis drove the team forward at a canter. That’s when they were most controlled.

  Following the ruts in the road, Jarvis held the reins taut and, with boots stretched out on the footboard, the horses were guided passed the landslip.

  Almost immediately, the front offside wheel rolled onto the plank which bowed dramatically. For a second, a collective gasp rose from the bystanders. The plank took the full load of both front and rear offside wheels, and bowed to an extraordinary degree, but did not break.

  Jarvis had kept his course; the team ran true and seconds later the mail coach gained the far side safely. And just as the rear offside wheel bounced onto solid ground. It pinched the plank, which kicked up into the air and somersaulted down the embankment.

  “Whoa!” the team came to a halt and all around broke into cheers. The headstrong Jarvis had pulled it off. As far as all were concerned, he could have done wrong.

  Congratulations thereafter were brought to a hasty conclusion. (After all, the mail coach had a schedule to complete.)

  With cases and baggage quickly shipped back aboard… and notwithstanding a brief squabble between two young bloods who vied for the privilege of sitting next to Jarvis, the other passengers joyfully took their seats. And with the full team of horses now back in harness. The mail coach was ready to roll.

  Nobody was more pleased with the outcome than the turnpike official. A risky venture indeed! But the result boded well for the turnpike company. Under their management, the mail coaches ran on time… mostly.

  “Well done,” the turnpike official called out affably. “Nothing’s going to stop the Gloucester Flyer, eh Jarvis?”

  “Not even the bally turnpike company,” Jarvis shouted back to the great amusement of passengers and workmen alike. And with a flick of the reins and a triumphal blast of the horn from Cecil, the coach rolled away.

  But enough time had been wasted. The road menders were rousted from their reveries by the gang master exhorting them (in colourful language) to get back on the job and attend the landslip.

  Charlie worked out the day, after which he was paid off. He didn’t get much. Six penny pieces to go in his pocket. But it would keep him in body and soul a day or two longer.

  Now all was solitude again, but Charlie didn’t care. The last few days had been tumultuous. And as for Jarvis pulling off that stunt earlier? He wouldn’t forget that in a hurry.

  Then he recalled the name ‘Arlingham’ once more. That’s what Jarvis said. Charlie was sure he’d heard right. “Bloody strange” he muttered to himself. But now with his sights set on the sinking sun Charlie thought no more of it. And forthwith, he set off along the same route traversed by the ‘Gloucester Flying Machine’ many hours since.

  That Boy

  The summer of 1791 drifted slowly towards the highlight of the lives of the people who dwelt in lowly hamlets and farms across the country. Ploughboys, shepherds, blacksmiths and dairy maids, (no less than the farm households themselves) anxiously awaited the moment when sky and earth harmonised and the busiest time of the year could begin.

  First the haymaking… followed by the grain harvest.

  In anticipation, hay rakes were repaired, and scythe blades sharpened. Some of these iron hooks had seen decades of usage, and years of honing had brought the implements to a thin razor-sharp edge. Once whetted the blades could slice through the toughest grass.

  But not all were quite so engrossed with the immediate cares of securing their daily bread. Those of elevated status in society preoccupied themselves with other considerations, far more commensurate to their station.

  Lord Arlingham sat alone in his study at Hardcourt Hall and contemplated Rupert’s future with weighty gravitas.

  Alas! It was greatly to be deplored that the Grand Tour so carefully prepared for his beloved son was now beset by events unravelling across the English Channel.

  Indeed, the Comte’s vivid (and extraordinary) description of a world turned upside down had indelibly impressed itself upon His Lordships psyche.

  Now due to no fault of his own, Rupert languished at home. His tutorials terminated, it seemed that he was to be denied the rites of passage his father enjoyed many years earlier.

  But what was to be done with the boy in the meantime? That was the pressing problem. Lord Arlingham briefly toyed with the notion of taking Rupert to London in order to acquaint him more fully with wider society.

  But then he recalled – with a disdainful grimace – the stink from the Thames. London in high summer was best avoided.

  At that moment, His Lordship was distracted from further introspections by a rider coming through the gates at a steady gallop. It was the post boy from
Gloucester.

  Glancing up at the long clock, His Lordship gave a grunt of approval. The Gloucester Flying Machine had clearly made scheduled time.

  The post boy drew the horse up sharply at the steps of Hardcourt Hall and was hailed by the footman with a familiarity borne of past acquaintance.

  The footman took possession of the incoming mail and handed the lad a drink. The post boy gratefully gulped down the beverage, and with a cheery adieu, spurred up and pressed on with the rest of his delivery round.

  Lord Arlingham waited expectantly. After a minute or so, there came a polite knock at the study door.

  “Come.”

  The head butler brought the dispatches on a silver tray to his Lordships desk. “Good day to you my Lord,” he said, politely placing the tray on the study desk before departing.

  “Hmm,” His Lordship pondered the morning post, which prominently included several letters sealed with red wax. The first to catch his eye bore a postmark from Ireland… And he also noted a communique from London Old Bank.

  Intrigued as to which document should receive first consideration, he opened a side drawer and brought forth a neat tortoiseshell handled magnifying glass, accompanied by a delicate paper knife.

  And for the first time that morning, all further troubling thoughts of Rupert were forgotten.

  Meanwhile the solitary and bored heir to the Hardcourt estates found himself neatly deposited between a lull in the social calendar at large, and parental procrastinations at home.

  Otherwise unoccupied, and left to his own devices, Rupert brooded over the encounter with Melody on Windmill Hill. And with his first stirrings of youthful amour, she became endowed with a significance that belied propriety.

  In truth, Rupert had been aware of her for some time, a fact that (much to his chagrin) he had inadvertently let slip to Toby Portlock.

  Perchance when out riding one day, the admiring comments and catcalls from some young farmhands brought the maid into sharp focus. Rupert looked on as she haughtily made off down a nearby lane, ignoring the stir she had caused.

  Intrigued, he soon discovered that she was employed as a farm servant at Home Farm, which lay due north of Hardcourt Hall. Through the windows of his quarters, (and with the aid of a brass telescope) the farm was clearly visible.

  Rupert soon had her routine tracked. Twice daily, both she and her work companion, Charlotte, set out from Home Farm along Buttermilk Lane to the milking parlour where the cows were herded off the water meadows.

  Alas for the want of direction at this most crucial time. Were the Grand Tour to proceed… then Rupert’s ties to Hardcourt Hall would be severed for many years.

  Upon his return, he would be a grown man. The mantle of boyish infatuations ere long consigned to the distant past. And in its place, a mature worldly view that looked out far beyond the confines of a provincial Gloucestershire setting.

  But it was not to be. With his burgeoning youthful passion, Rupert romantically perceived the maid bathed within a halo of bright light.

  And him! The gallant chivalrous knight of olden times come a courting. Toby’s joking analogy on Windmill Hill had since fired his imagination.

  Unable to contain himself any longer, Rupert contrived to affect a meeting. With planning aforethought, he rode across the water meadows and, having dismounted, waited along a wayside track. After a while his ears picked up the maids returning from their milking duties.

  Chattering brightly the two drew close. In pretence of leading his horse onto the lane, the two parties abruptly met. Both maids glanced up in surprise at Rupert’s presence and with giggling undertones they continued walking.

  “A good day to you!” Rupert called after them. Melody and Charlotte stopped and maintained a respectful silence. Rupert beckoned to Melody, who briefly exchanged glances with her companion, before making her way to him.

  Charlotte eyed the situation concernedly, and then with a discreet sweep of her heels quickly departed, leaving Melody and Rupert alone together.

  Rupert took the lead in opening up a social intercourse.

  “I trust the gate is in good order now?” the young man enquired.

  “Oh yes, sir,” Melody replied, afterwards relapsing (as per her father’s instructions) into obedient silence.

  Rupert strove to keep the encounter alive, “Well, we don’t want such things occurring too often, do we?” The maid took this remark as a criticism, and went onto the defensive.

  “It was no one’s fault, sir… the cattle took shelter under a tree by the gate. The trees been chopped down since, so all is well again.”

  Rupert listened to the explanation, “I see… Good… Oh, and thank you once more for your birthday salutation, Miss Bell.”

  “That’s quite all right, sir,” she replied, “I hope the day went well for you?”

  “Very much so,” responded Rupert enthusiastically, “I was presented with an exquisite gift you know.”

  Melody was puzzled by such fanciful talk. “The gift was not to your liking, sir?” she enquired with a slight frown.

  “On the contrary!” Rupert replied emphatically. And rather unwisely went into further detail.

  “I was presented with an Automaton – a mechanical doll.”

  Now Melody’s eyes widened and her mouth curved upwards into a heart-stopping, beautifully wicked smile.

  “Why, I never heard of a doll given to a grown man before.”

  She began to laugh at Rupert who quickly sought to explain more fully. “No, you misunderstand… It’s not an ordinary doll. It is a marvellous mechanism. You wind it up – music plays – and it moves by itself.”

  “Moves by itself…” Melody puffed incredulously and gazed at Rupert as though he were soft in the head. “I think you jest with me, sir.”

  Rupert shrugged, “I will show you one day perhaps.”

  “Seeing is believing,” she confidently responded.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Melody once more relapsed into polite silence. Rupert realised the meeting was at an end.

  “Well, I think I have held you over too long.”

  “Yes, I must go,” Melody glanced back along the lane. Charlotte was gone. They were quite alone. An impetuous course of action presented itself to the emboldened maid.

  “I didn’t give you a birthday present, did I sir?” Rupert expressed surprise.

  “No, you did not.”

  “Then take this,” she moved swiftly and kissed him quickly on the cheek. Rupert was electrified.

  “Thank you– I,” he stuttered. Melody, having committed the rash deed, immediately began a hasty – if graceful retreat – as though she was leaving the scene of a misdemeanour. Indeed, she found herself quite in awe of her own temerity.

  Stunned Rupert stood motionless holding the reins of his mount. And now helplessly smitten, he watched the dreamlike Melody recede into the distance.

  Barely was the tryst concluded, than a body of farm labourers came over a rise. Clouds of lapwings (recently disturbed by Rupert’s incursions across the water meadows) wheeled o’er head… drawing the men’s attention to the recent assignation.

  “Look!” called out one, and pointed out the distant white bonnet and trim flowing figure of Melody, making her way swiftly along Buttermilk Lane towards Home Farm.

  And there could be no mistaking the young man on horseback slowly leaving the scene with more than one backward lingering glance in her direction.

  “Why, it’s Master Rupert an’ all.”

  The younger men began to chuckle amongst themselves.

  “I heard he was askin’ after Melody not so long back,” observed one.

  “What’s to do I wonder?” queried an older labourer.

  “Can you not guess, Old Un’?” came forth the jeering response?

  “Twas a chance meetin’. No more…” Old Un’ surmised dismissively.

  “Not so!” replied one of the younger men, “Why look at Master Rupert. He’s a twitching li
ke a hound to scent. You can see that from ’ere.”

  This remark was met by a general noise of agreement.

  “Then he should leave well alone!” Old Un’ retorted, but now the analogy of hound was taken further.

  “Ahh! But a dog will only worry a willing bitch,” spoke out another. This witty (if somewhat earthy) sentiment was ringingly endorsed by raucous laughter all round.

  A Little Business

  The arrival of the French aristocrat émigrés to England had not been achieved without considerable forward planning on both sides of the English Channel.

  Prior to their departure, the Comte de Moritz had kept up a regular and detailed correspondence with his Gloucestershire cousin at Hardcourt Hall. And by stages the ground was prepared for the evacuation of the Chateau Royale.

  The family connection began earlier that century when Jeffery Vernon Valans’ Great Aunt Jocasta Valans – whilst a lady-in-waiting at the Court of King George 2nd. Fell in love with a young French diplomat Phillip Fontaine: the Comte’s future Grandfather. After obtaining family assent, she married in France under the auspices of the French Catholic Church and took up residence at the Chateau Royale with her spouse.

  Thereafter, the French connection remained steadfast throughout the passing decades. Albeit from time to time, international quarrels put a strain on tribal loyalties. Not least the loss of the Americas.

  But the insolent usurpation of power by the lower orders in France posed a political threat to those echeloned in the higher stratum of European landowning society. And the once feuding aristocrats came together in common cause against the French republicans.

  On this issue, the Valans and Fontaine family were of one mind, and both desired the restoration of the French monarchy. For the moment, however, the practicalities of the move occupied their respective energies.

  Unquestioningly, the top priority at this time was the safe transfer of funds from the Chateau Royale to a secure holding in London.

  In the event, the most secretive consignment of Louis d’or gold coins, livre and other valuables were spirited out of France and shipped across to England. Thereafter the money was deposited into the vaults of London Old Bank.