Running Dogs

by William Hunt

  Charlie smiled triumphantly at John. “Job’s good an’ done… but you weren’t much use,” he added critically.

  “I don’t like Kings Business,” John replied and averted his eyes from the sorry spectacle. Looking across the common he espied a little girl rounding up a gaggle of geese.

  With childlike grace, she ran to and fro and (like a sheep dog) herded the geese towards their pens. Stopping momentarily, she looked up plaintively, and for a second or so their eyes met.

  John’s little sister Bridget swam into his mind’s eye. He painfully recalled her waving him a last goodbye. What would she think of him now he thought? How ashamed he felt.

  “LOOK OUT!”

  It wasn’t over yet. With burning rage, one of the more headstrong young men suddenly lunged at John with his bare hands.

  But the watchful Charlie (no stranger to a street ruckus) read the signs early – saw it coming – and shoulder charged the luckless commoner side on… sending him spread-eagled on to the floor.

  Oi! Oi! Amid the shouts cudgels fell like rain. Those that could (on both sides) attempted to restore order. This time it wasn’t so easy to stop.

  Finally things calmed, but the young man had paid heavily for his foolhardy actions. Bloodied and bruised, and amidst a chorus of woeful cries from his kinfolk, the young man slowly and painfully limped off the lost battleground.

  The commissioner now in a fine state of official zeal excitedly pressed the parish constable to arrest the man forthwith.

  Parish constable Tom Wagstaff refused point blank.

  “I will not, sir!” He blurted out. “They’ve suffered misfortune enough for one day.”

  Taken aback by this unexpected display of insubordination, the commissioner was momentarily nonplussed, and for several seconds stayed silent.

  “Very well,” he finally replied. "See the fencing is completed and afterwards pay the men off. With these final instructions issued, he slapped the reins and the cabriolet rolled away.

  The peg markers were replaced, and the fence-men resumed their work. All the while the specials, ‘Cock a Hoop’ at the swift and easily won victory, rejoiced vociferously.

  Amidst the joviality, Charlie took heed of John’s gloomy countenance, and sought to lighten his new companion’s mood.

  “You was miles away just now mate,” Charlie observed with a grin. “That bloke was out to do you a bad turn.”

  “It’s no more than I deserved,” John replied mournfully. Charlie became narked at John’s melancholy mind-set.

  “We were carryin’ out the lawful duties of the land for Gawd’s sake!”

  “But we’ve done a bad thing,” John replied. “Have you no pity for these people?” That set Charlie off a treat and no mistake.

  “Pity, is it? Pity? List to me, mate! I’ve been drove like a dog thro’ the parishes of England by people like them! Move on wastrel! That’s all I ever got. Not even a turnip top to fill me belly.”

  Charlie eyed John indignantly, allowing his words to sink in.

  “Look after yourself mate, and bugger the rest of ’em,” he concluded harshly.

  And as if to present a shining example of Charlie’s philosophic vision; a knot of farmers with their lads had gathered together down a nearby lane. But they hadn’t come to sympathise with the commoners’ plight… quite the opposite in fact.

  With their cattle barred from the grazing land. Only one course of action remained open to those commoners. Sorrowfully they slowly herded their beasts to those waiting expectantly. A flurry of bids saw the livestock swiftly change hands at knock down prices.

  Satisfied with their bargains, the farmers bade the young lads away with their beasts to pastures new. The commoners went disconsolately home with a pittance, and a bleak future to ponder.

  By now the whole business had run its course, and the parish constable saw no reason to detain the specials any further. He summarily called them all together… It was time to pay out the King’s shilling.

  “Here…” opening up a small leather drawstring pouch, he handed over a shilling apiece to each waiting man, and dismissed them forthwith.

  With whoops of exultation, cudgels were tossed into the wagon, and then all (to a man) set course for the nearest tavern, to drink away their newfound prosperity. John and Charlie alone remained.

  Parish constable Wagstaff looked on in mild surprise. “Not away to the ale house, boys?”

  Then he began to pay them some mind.

  “Well, I know the others, but I don’t recollect seeing you two before.” For the first time that day, the wayside rovers came under scrutiny.

  This made Charlie uncomfortable. And at such times he came on fast with the patter.

  “His Majesty King George called on us to do his bidding. Me and my friend ’ere was duty bound to answer his summons. God bless his Majesty, say I.”

  “Hmm,” the parish constable stroked his chin thoughtfully, “I hope you aren’t thinking to stay hereabouts?”

  “We seek employ where it may be found,” John ventured hesitatingly.

  “Then look elsewhere,” the parish constable sternly advised. “There’s no work here! Dursley has enough parish fed idlers as it is.”

  “Ah! And they’ll be some more up for parish relief after today,” said the wagoner with a caustic laugh.

  “Be gone!” Parish constable Wagstaff dismissively waved the two men away.

  Charlie threw John a look that said, “I told you so”, and both began a walk to nowhere. Hardly had they traversed a few yards when…

  “Oi! Wait!” Warily they turned. It was the wagoner. What did he want? To throw them a parting insult perhaps?

  “Where I’m from haymaking starts Monday… I dare say we could find something for you to do.”

  “Oh! And on whose land do we labour?” asked Charlie, for want of something to better to say.

  “Why Lord Arlingham’s estates at Hardcourt,” replied the wagoner. If Charlie was startled by what he heard. John winced as if receiving a physical blow.

  “Did you say Lord Arlingham sir?” John finally enquired in bewildered tones.

  “That you did,” answered the wagoner with growing impatience. “Well now? Do you work or no?”

  For lack of any other alternative, John and Charlie jointly decided to accept forthwith.

  “If Lord Arlingham is to be our new master… Then it’s to him we must be bound,” Charlie was able to confirm.

  Hearing this, both parish constable and wagoner laughed heartily, “Why His Lordship has been thy master already…”

  The blank looks on the faces of John and Charlie added to the mirth of the other two.

  “Coaley Common is taken by him this day,” came forth the explanation. “And willing servants thee have been to his needs.”

  John was aghast at his unwitting complicity. When he realised on whose behalf such odious work had been undertaken, his cup of bitterness ran deep to the dregs. Contrite, he averted his gaze from the others to conceal his deep vexation.

  But time was pressing and the wagoner urged all concerned to climb aboard. The first task was to set down parish constable Tom Wagstaff at Dursley. Then after the horses were watered and rested, the wagon rolled northwards along the Gloucester road towards Hardcourt itself.

  Languishing in the cart, Charlie and John silently took in the passing countryside-munching on a shared penny loaf bought with their newfound wealth. The events of the past few hours had thrown up a tenuous bond between them. But first there was the matter of formal introductions. Charlie led the way:

  “What’s yer name matey?”

  “John. I’m from Ireland.”

  “Huh! I guessed that.”

  “And who might you be then?”

  “Charlie. London’s my town.”

  “Ah to be sure.”

  A wary silence descended. Enough had been said. For the two wayfarers, the recent past was unmentionable, and the immediate future unforeseeable. Not least the
place to where they were bound… Which by the strangest of coincidences brought them perilously near to those high born and powerful personages who entertained prior and darkly disapproving knowledge of their recent misdemeanours.

  Blessed and Busy

  “Oh Lord, we beseech thee,” implored the Reverend Abel Rudhall. “Hear our cry, and give us your blessing for what we are about to do.”

  “Amen!” came forth earnest and scattered response from the assembled congregation of St Mary’s Church. June was almost gone, and in those final days, the God-fearing people of Hardcourt parish came together to pray for a successful start to the hay making that Monday morn.

  The church brimmed full at this crucial time. The personal family box pews of the farming gentry took precedence along the south side of the aisle nearest the lectern. Long since paid for by the past donations of their forebears, these seating rights were jealously guarded and handed down within the family circle.

  On the opposite side of the central aisle, simple bench pews were the lot of farm servants, and day labourers alike. But even here, the congregation arranged themselves within their own strictly observed seating hierarchy.

  Occupying the foremost row was Richard Amos: bailiff, and manager of Home Farm. Richard Amos took his orders directly from (and when sought, gave his considered opinion to) Hardcourt Hall itself.

  He was not a man to be trifled with, but was known to be fair in his dealings with any disputes, or bones of contention (big or small) that arose from time to time on the estate. When called upon to arbitrate, Richard Amos passed judgement with a finality that precluded further argument. As a consequence, he was widely, if sometimes, grudgingly respected.

  Directly behind Richard Amos (and only marginally less important) was the head keeper Jasper Ely. His Lordships fondness for the chase and the shoot, gave Jasper Ely and his under keepers untrammelled access throughout Hardcourt estate to oversee the game and wildfowl therein.

  Jasper Ely was a martinet, who zealously discharged his duties to the letter, and was the plague of farm workers and villagers alike. Woe betides anyone caught in possession of traps snares and nets.

  Above all (and by express command of Hardcourt Hall) the keeping of a dog, other than those officially kennelled for the purpose of permitted hunting, was completely forbidden.

  On this score Jasper Ely was unsparing, and his frequent intrusive policing presence around the homes and cottages of the estate workers was widely resented by all and sundry.

  In the middle ranking pews, the milkmaids Melody Bell and Charlotte Longney (along with the other farm servants) joined their labouring families for the duration of the church service.

  George Bell and his wife, Alice, made room for Melody to squeeze in beside her younger siblings, Timothy and Sarah. And unfailingly, her striking presence caused many a stir among the young labouring lads.

  Lastly, came those occupying the pews to the rear of St Mary’s Church. These were singular souls, and passing outsiders who occasionally joined the congregation.

  Among them was the solitary figure and close neighbour of the Bells: Peter Rastall. Though born in the parish; he (like his master at Hardcourt Hall) was a widower, having lost his wife giving birth to their only son, Jack.

  The boy, now eleven years old, was presently outside minding a gentleman’s horse for a halfpenny piece.

  In their straightened circumstances, father and son took every opportunity to wrest a living from the estate – proper or otherwise.

  They dwelt in a smallholding by the banks of the Severn, beyond the water meadows in a place known as ‘Moorend’. Living so close to the river, Peter Rastall was ever quick to drop a line or net into its brown muddy waters.

  Salmon, twaite and grey mullet in the season of their upward run were clandestinely taken and sold onwards to Gloucester fishmongers and coaching hostelries.

  It was a risky business. He was violating the riparian fishing rights of Hardcourt estates. If caught by keeper or water bailiff – It meant Gloucester Gaol – or worse. But Peter Rastall – ever the skilled poacher took great care. And working closely with likeminded confederates operating on the far bank, he was usually active at sun-down or sun-up.

  As a consequence, he was nicknamed ‘Twilight’ by the Hardcourt folk.

  Jasper Ely guessed as much. But water bailiffs’ patrolling the Severn had a long beat to traverse. And he as head keeper was oft preoccupied managing coverts and protecting his lordship’s game birds.

  Nevertheless, Jasper Ely’s righteous enmity towards Peter Rastall burnt brightly, and he took consolation from the biblical quotation: “But he that doeth wrong shall receive for the wrong which he hath done.”

  Now on that summer Sunday morning, the sun was high and rays of light fell in long slanting ethereal golden shafts through the simple mullioned glass windows onto both preacher and congregation alike.

  Across the land, the final preparations were underway to harvest the life-giving sustenance to man and beast alike. Bordering the dusty tracks leading to St Mary’s Church, the green hay meadows and yellow wheat fields speckled blue with cornflower, swayed and rippled to the gentle breezes of the wind. The hour was near.

  But as the many congregated on the holy ground of St Mary’s to take communion with God. Others waited to do so at a time more convenient to them, and in a setting entirely more sequestered.

  As the church clock chimed the eleventh hour, the Reverend Abel Rudhall was reminded of his second appointment at Hardcourt Hall. Steadily he brought the main service to its conclusion and leaving the curator in charge of the outgoing congregation, the rector hastily took himself off in his gig.

  Within the grounds of Hardcourt Hall there stood a chapel- of -ease. It was but a small shallow roofed stone building with a stained-glass window that brightened up a simple chancel overlooking several rows of ornately carved bench pews. These Sunday services (whenever held) were the Valans’s private affair.

  But of late, the Portlocks found themselves drawn more closely into the Valans orbit. And in consequence, they were formally invited to join Lord Arlingham and Rupert at Hardcourt chapel for Sunday worship.

  Deferentially the Portlocks accepted, and forgoing their box pew at St Mary’s, they departed Manor Farm on that particular Sunday morning in question. The driver so instructed, conveyed their carriage to an altogether more private assignation with God.

  During the journey, the squire and his wife sat together, whilst Toby reposed in the opposite seat. With arms folded, he used the occasional bump of the carriage to rock and sway with exaggerated affect.

  At length, an exasperated Squire Portlock addressed his son.

  "Your petulance is noted but today we attend Hardcourt chapel … As his lordship so bids us.

  Toby nodded respectfully, but remained silent.

  “You know what this is about Jonas?” his mother pointed out. “He wanted to ride over himself.”

  “I could have been your cavalry escort,” Toby was roused to comment.

  “Hmm,” his father was not impressed, “You are too hard on your mounts sir. Look what happened when you rode out with Rupert. Why, the horse was lathered to exhaustion.”

  “They gave me a broken old nag!” Toby exclaimed by way of defence.

  “Nevertheless; for the time being, your mother and I require you to travel with us.”

  Toby chaffed, and Johanna sought to sweeten the medicine.

  “He can ride soon enough when the hunting season begins… Can he not, Jonas?”

  “Yes, I daresay,” his father reluctantly allowed. Hearing this Toby brightened, but the squire began to grumble.

  “By rights the boy should have been setting out on his continental tour. Why, we even took him out of ‘Kings’ before term end. Now he’s at home idle. What’s to be done I say?”

  Johanna sought to placate her fretful husband.

  “We cannot know for certain how things will turn out my dear. Perhaps in the fullness of time
, all will become well and the tour may recommence…” She added encouragingly.

  Both Johanna and Toby gazed enquiringly at the squire who gave a non-committal grunt and stared out of the window. On the high horizon Hardcourt Hall came into view, its Cotswold stone façade, handsomely framed against the bright summer sky.

  Jonas Portlock placed his arm on the window ledge of the carriage, and pensively rested his face in the cup of his hand. “That blasted tumult!” he muttered under his breath.

  Throughout the weekend, a prospective haymaking workforce began to gather in numbers outside the ‘Forge Inn’ run by the landlady Mrs. Edith Musselwhite and her blacksmith husband Jeb. The Forge Inn was an old Tudor timbered alehouse with stables and a blacksmiths smithy. It stood four-square on Hardcourt village green, and for centuries past had been the focal point of village activity.

  At this time of year, it became the traditional recruiting centre for those seeking employment in the fields around Hardcourt. Many had walked out from Gloucester itself, in order get first refusal. Old acquaintances were renewed, and cheery shouts greeted incoming faces not seen since the previous summer.

  Amidst the general hubbub, Richard Amos moved among the crowds with urgency of purpose. His task now was to secure a workforce needed to mow the Great Meadow.

  All who worked on the estate knew of the Great Meadow. It skirted the western flanks of Windmill Hill close to the Severn, before sweeping up to the lower slopes of Hardcourt Hall nearly a quarter of a mile distant.

  Such was the magnitude of the task, that a large mowing gang of two dozen or more men were needed to deal with the acreage. The hay secured from the mow made good profits by selling onwards to the coaching and stabling yards of Gloucester. The revenue earned thereafter, went directly into the coffers of Hardcourt Hall.

  Unsurprisingly, Amos had first pick of the available workforce. The other tenant farmers chaffed with impatience until Hardcourt Hall business was concluded.

  It was at this time that the wagoner trundled into the picture with his two erring passengers. He reined up outside the Forge Inn and took stock of the crowded scenes before dismounting.