by William Hunt
Lord Arlingham personally oversaw the transaction. And when the business was concluded; he was pleased to inform his cousin’s that all had gone well and further advised them to follow suit at their earliest convenience.
And across France much the same sort of thing was taking place. Those seeking to escape the revolution cast their eyes towards England… and ere long, the London banks were awash with gold and other precious metals secreted across the English Channel.
But no sooner had the Comte and his family taken up grateful residence at Hardcourt Hall, when an extraordinary opportunity presented itself.
The much-reviled (and of late financially hard pressed) Assemblée nationale (from whose authority the aristocratic order were so keen to escape) now began to issue paper (assignat) bonds against the sale of church lands in France. And church land that lay within le canton of the Chateau Royale was no exception.
The de Moritz family as devout Catholics were outraged. And through the offices of London Old Bank, secretly bought church property to be held in trust until such time as the Comte described it: “The madness is passed, and biens ecclesiastiques be restored to the bosom of the Holy Roman Church of France.” But for the moment, the land holdings were to be discretely managed by a French agency: The revenue earned in rental would be then be transferred to England by exchanging currencies.
Strange times indeed… But His Lordship (as part shareholder in the venture) was not altogether too displeased with the outcome.
“We sup with the devil Henri,” he admitted to the Comte… But after all, business was business. And with the deeds of the French land sale nestling securely inside the vaults of ’ London Old Bank’. It was a ‘done deal’.
But nearer home, things did not auger quite so well. The mornings post brought bad tidings. His Lordship’s attention was first drawn to the turbulent events in Ireland, as conveyed to him by the pen of Magistrate Kieran O’Neil.
His Lordship noted the contents but was not unduly concerned. Agrarian disturbances had long been a feature of that most disloyal colony. And he knew he could rely on his Wexford office to find a replacement manager/middleman soon enough.
But the shocking news from London was another matter entirely.
A forced entry into the house of the Banker Jeremiah Bagshaw and the subsequent murder of his wife Margaret; was an ‘affront’ to the English way of life itself.
Upon reading and digesting the contents, Lord Arlingham was visibly shaken. He was on close personal terms with the Bagshaws and had only recently visited the Dover Street household when overseeing the transfer of French valuables into the Old London Bank vaults.
Unusually for the time of the day, he poured himself a stiff brandy. And afterwards he sent for the Comte to join him in his study…
When told of the news from London, the Comte was horrified. “Dieu ait pitie!” he gasped. “May we hope the ill-doers were taken?”
“One of the blaggards anyway,” Lord Arlingham could confirm. “And from the date on the letter, he is due to be hanged this very morning. Unfortunately an accomplice escaped.”
“He will not escape Gods judgement. Eternal damnation awaits him,” the Comte spoke wrathfully. His Lordship was bound to agree.
“Yes indeed, and I will send our condolences to Jeremiah Bagshaw this day… However, there is one thing, Henri. A small matter, but our commission to the French agency. Two hundred and fifty livres in assignat bonds if you recall… Well, it appears the money was stolen by the one that got away.”
“Hah! Much good they will do him on the streets of London,” the Comte scoffed dismissively.
“That’s true but after all we must make good the sum outstanding,” the Comte was in perfect accord.
“But of course, Jeffrey.”
His Lordship sat at his desk and reflected sombrely on events. But afterwards his countenance became more relaxed, and regaining his composure he tapped his index finger on a document bearing a Parliamentary seal.
“The post has brought a heady mix of news, Henri. But I’m gratified to see that my Bill presented to Parliament earlier this year has finally received Royal Assent.”
“Oh? And may I enquire as to the nature of this business?”
“Why, the incorporation of Coaley Common into Hardcourt estate land holdings. The commissioners are proceeding with the enactment as we speak.”
The Comte sought to clarify the explanation, “Ah, but I understand there is certain term you use to describe such things?”
“Enclosure, Henri,” Lord Arlingham succinctly replied.
Ill Met
The Cotswold escarpment swept down to the Vale of Berkeley, where nestling far below on its lower slopes, the little town of Dursley thronged and bustled with people on market day.
Central to its activities stood an impressive market house set on pillars. It was erected earlier that century in honour of ‘Good Queen Anne’. Her regal statue surmounted on a pedestal, stood recessed in the east wall of the market house… And from her vantage point, she royally gazed over the town itself.
But the atmosphere on this market day was tense, and around the market house itself, a commotion was in evidence. Contentious business was underway in the court room above…to the obvious displeasure of the townspeople gathered below.
Stood keeping guard at the foot of the steps leading to the upper rooms, an uncomfortable parish constable remonstrated from time to time with the more vociferous members of the crowd.
“I have my job. ‘Tis Kings Writ after all’,” parish constable Tom Wagstaff declared.
“Then curse the day such a king was ever crowned!” shouted one bystander.
Parish constable Wagstaff, honour bound to uphold his lawful office, quickly retaliated.
“Watch that talk of yours, Jack Wychard! Otherwise, I’ll put you on a charge.”
Now the crowd loudly jeered, and the parish constable wished his job to someone else. He was but a yeoman farmer-lately appointed to the (unpaid) office of parish constable by the local Justice of the Peace. Who coincidently owned the land that Wagstaff farmed. As the old saying goes… a refusal often offends.
Just then (and to the parish constables great relief) the presiding commissioner descended the stone steps from the upper floor of the market house. His splendid bearing immediately became the focus of everyone’s attention.
Neatly attired in an iron-grey periwig, a finely tailored bottle-green coat and polished, black buckled shoes, he stood in marked contrast to the bonnets and straw headwear, linen dresses, smocks, buttoned down gaiters and corduroy breeches of the plain ordinary townspeople.
In order to be clearly seen and heard, the commissioner remained on the upper steps and commandingly waited whilst an obedient hush duly descended on the gathering below. A proclamation was imminent.
Unrolling a vellum parchment, he loudly announced the purpose of his presence. “Let it be known that by the power invested in me by His Majesty King George III. I am authorised to oversee, the enclosure of Coaley Fields as enacted by His Majesty’s Government… God save the King.”
The commissioner rolled up the vellum parchment and took a measured (if disdainful) look at his audience, before he spoke once more.
“Special constables are wanted this day… to undertake enforcement of ‘The King’s Writ’.”
The announcement was met by a disapproving silence from the onlookers. The commissioner waited impatiently for a moment or two and finding no takers he tried again… this time with an inducement.
He forthwith placed his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and produced a coin which he held up to the audience. In the sunlight, it glinted brightly between his finger and thumb.
“A silver shilling piece to those who take the ‘Kings Oath’. Step forward now!”
Upon hearing this, a ripple of indignation ran through the crowd. That was more than many could earn in a couple of days; never mind just the one. But still dissenting voices gave tongue.
&nb
sp; “Not for a golden guinea, say I!” somebody called out, and amid general disgust the crowd began to ebb away, unwilling to suffer the proceedings any further.
Not all departed, of course. Those eager to take the Kings shilling, jostled with each other for pride of place. At times like these… such people were always to be found.
Among the hopefuls were two very tired and desperate men. Charlie Rackford was one of them. Under normal circumstances, Charlie would have shunned authority like the plague itself. But now in dire need for the means to a crust, he was driven directly into their arms.
John Hughes was also among that number. He’d traipsed the villages north of Bristol unsuccessfully seeking employ. As the last coin slipped out of his pocket that morning, he too was ready to try anything.
The commissioner cast his eye over the dishevelled and motley collection of humanity. Then, he pointed out those he thought suitable for the job in hand.
“I’ll have you… Yes, and you…”
Parish constable Wagstaff guided by commissioner’s probing finger, proceeded to herd together those so selected. When the quota was filled, the chosen few were summarily bid to follow the commissioner up the steps into the civic rooms of the market house.
Ten men needed. John and Charlie were included.
Upstairs, the volunteers were corralled into a small wooden panelled antechamber, devoid of any furniture, save a little table stacked with Bibles.
The commissioner opened an adjoining door that led into the inner chamber of the market house, and spoke respectfully to an unknown personage. “All present to be sworn in your Honour.”
“Very good,” came the reply, and seconds later an imposing magistrate in full formal regalia appeared in their midst.
“Line up,” barked the commissioner. The men shuffled into line. Hat’s off." Those with hats removed them forthwith.
Then the commissioner quickly distributed a Bible to each man. The magistrate was ready to administer the oath:
“Hold up the good book in your left hand. And say as me – I shall well and truly serve our Sovereign Lord and King, and Lord of this Leet in the office of constable for the township of Dursley on this day according to the best of my skill and knowledge, so help me, God.”
With the oath taken, the magistrate retired into the main hall, and the newly sworn in ‘special constables’ were ordered back down the steps.
John in his consternation at taking a non-Catholic oath covertly crossed himself, and in low undertones sought forgiveness, from ‘Our Lady’. Not discreetly enough though.
“Papist!” Charlie whispered venomously in John’s ear.
John turned distractedly to his newly enlisted fellow constable. “What is it we do?” He asked blankly. Charlie shrugged offhandedly before tersely replying.
“You ‘eard. Kings’ business.”
None the wiser, John and Charlie were borne along with the other special constables to a nearby waiting wagon.
Taking their places, the special constables sat down on two benches each side of the wagon, whilst parish constable Wagstaff took advantage of a front seat beside the wagoner.
Meanwhile the commissioner ensconced aboard a jaunty cabriolet, now signalled the party onward to the pre-arranged destination.
The wagoner reined the horses to drive, and the ill-assorted caboodle trundled off at a slow trot down the main street… to the obvious disgust of the watching townsfolk. They knew what it was all about.
Ere long, the parish constable addressed the specials. “Look under your seats, and take charge of your truncheons.”
The men leant forward and each fished out a cudgel. With an unpleasant grin, one of the specials brandished it at the others, who laughingly followed suit. Charlie joined in, and with a theatrical scowl, playfully waggled his cudgel under John’s nose.
John alone remained unaffected by the prevailing mood. His earlier impetuosity now gave way to deep foreboding as to where this business was leading.
The sounds of heavy wooden mallets being swung and sturdy wooden posts driven deep into the ground were audible for a long way off.
Ahead of the work gang engaged in these tasks, a surveyor had previously marked out the placement of the posts to be erected, by setting down peg markers at regular intervals across Coaley Common.
But alongside the acreage to be fenced off, there stood a hamlet of stone cottages. And clustered outside their dwellings, the commoners anxiously watched the steady encroachment.
Every cottage possessed a small walled lean to shed, which was large enough to stable a cow – and sometimes her calf.
When lactating the cow yielded a pail of milk daily, and afterwards the calf would be sold on. It wasn’t much, but owning these beasts gave those people a morsel of self-sufficiency, and as such were highly prized possessions.
But without access to the common, the cattle and the geese could not graze, the chickens could not peck and forage? Free born commoners they had been… until now.
The incessant ‘DAK-DAK’ of the mallets became ever louder and nearer. The reckoning drew nigh and would not be denied for much longer.
But at this the eleventh hour, some of the commoners (in a desperate bid to stave off the inevitable) had placed themselves between the workmen and their planned route. In a further act of defiance, the peg markers were tom up from the ground and thrown away. Unwilling to risk a confrontation, the workmen downed tools. A stand-off ensued.
With a heavy clatter of hooves and jangling harness, the wagon and its full complement of law-enforcement specials hove into view signalling the beginning of the final act.
“Whoa!” The wagoner brought the team to a stop. The aggrieved gaffer of the post laying gang promptly walked over and forcibly put his case.
“Those bad buggers won’t let us do our job,” he accusingly pointed his finger at the cluster of commoners blocking the way. The parish constable had no choice but to give the order:
“Right! Follow me and bring your truncheons.”
Eagerly, the specials scrambled from the wagon and fell in behind the parish constable. Moments later, they swelled the contentious gathering on the common.
“Now Jacob?” Parish constable Wagstaff sternly addressed an elderly man stood defiantly to the fore.
“Ah, I thought we’d meet, afore long Tom,” Jacob replied.
“And I see you’ve brought your ’elpers too,” he observed bitterly. In such a small market town, everybody knew the others business.
“I’m bound by my duty, Jacob,” Wagstaff evinced – not for the first time that day – and in a voice that held very little conviction. At that moment the commissioner’s cabriolet bounced into view and drew up alongside. His business-like – no nonsense manner – injected an immediate sense of urgency into the proceedings.
“What is this?” he demanded to know.
Parish constable Wagstaff explained the situation.
“I see,” said the Commissioner, and promptly rounded on those commoners by way of a formal caution.
“Coaley fields are to be enclosed from this day forthwith. Those who wilfully obstruct are in breach of the law and committing a felony.”
All the time John listened with growing dismay to the unfolding events taking place. The full implications of his oath were now clear. To think that but a few weeks earlier, he stood in the shoes of those beleaguered souls. Now he was on opposite sides. Why, even the commissioner spouting off from his fine carriage reminded him of McDavitt.
Then one of the commoners spoke up in their defence.
“We’ve always grazed our cattle on the common. Isn’t that so, Jacob?” Jacob concurred. He was sixty years old, and in all his born days, no one ever quarrelled with their rights to put their beasts out to pasture before.
“Ah but you had no proof of ownership to these lands,” replied the commissioner patronisingly.
“The land was shared,” retorted Jacob.
“Always had been…”
The commissioner quickly responded. “But did you not see the list nailed to the church door? A ‘Cow Keep’ ready for every cottager. Why, bless me if these protests aren’t ill-judged and ungrateful.”
This last remark brought forth an outburst of indignation from the commoners.
“Why those ‘Cow Keeps’ you give us wouldn’t feed a rabbit?”
“Just a pile of dirt and weeds set along banks that nobody wants.”
“And they’re an hour’s walk away. We bide here! And our cows with us.”
“That’s enough!” interjected the commissioner sharply. “The law is passed and will be upheld. These holdings are now private property… Stand aside!” He commanded in a loud voice.
“We ain’t movin’!” Was the united and defiant response.
The commissioner mopped his forehead with a white silk handkerchief, and looked meaningfully at the parish constable.
“Constable! These people are trespassing. Remove them forthwith!” Taking his cue (and with a heavy heart) parish constable Wagstaff slowly encouraged the specials forwards. In a few moments, the two opposing forces bumped into each other. That set off a shoving match.
“Link arms; push with your truncheons,” bellowed the commissioner. In response, a rough and ready barrier was formed to good effect. Slowly, the commoners (some seven or eight men folk in all) were forced backwards. Everybody could see their cause was lost.
Anger at this business was widespread but so was inevitability. The fields of England had witnessed these enactments’ time and again. And always to the advantage of those seeking enclosure.
After a minute or two of dogged resistance, a commoner stumbled, and what began as a shoving match descended into a rout. One after another lost their footing and subsequently became trampled underfoot.
“Desist! Desist!” Jacob cried in great distress. “Quarter… We give ground.”
“Hold off,” came the order, and the one-sided contest came to a halt. Breathless and flushed with success, the specials stood down whilst their defeated opponents picked themselves up and began to fall back.
