Running Dogs

by William Hunt

  All twenty-four of them.

  Upon arrival, the scythes men strung out in a long line, and took up positions at the lower end of the field. The lead came from the left, and the men would proceed clockwise. Ahead of them lay a long gentle incline tapering away to the distant rise of towering horse chestnut trees bounded by the iron railings of Hardcourt Hall.

  With the silence broken only by the grating clack… clack… of the corncrake and the scraping of pumice stone whetting the crescent hooked blades. An air of expectancy hung over the field, as the men prepared for what lay ahead.

  “Follow me and keep up,” called the lead man. The others watched and waited. The lead man began to mow with an easy swing from the right. Swoosh… The first swathe was deposited to his left at the edge of the grassland. He continued alone.

  A minute or so later, the second man followed. Swoosh… Swoosh. And so it went. Soon enough, all the blades were in action, and as they found their rhythm, the strokes came in unison. To a distant listener, it sounded as waves breaking on the shoreline of the sea. The hard days toil was finally underway.

  High in the sky, the larks trilled their endless song and flew ever higher, as if in melodious complaint to the despoilment of their home cover.

  But as the team moved across the meadow, the ever-watchful Richard Amos was quick to inspect the closeness of cut. No waste was to be permitted. However, a quick glance allayed his concerns.

  “Hmm, flat as a table top,” he noted approvingly. No complaints there.

  Now it was the turn of the estate to honour their side of the bargain. Amos saw to it that the cider buckets were placed in the hedgerow shade to keep cool in readiness for the thirsty men.

  But all the while, a couple of watchful under keepers patrolled the perimeter with guns slung under their arms and terrier dogs scurrying around at their feet. As the mow progressed, the creatures of the field so disturbed by the loss of cover would desperately break across the open ground.

  Stoat, rat, rabbit dashed away to the hedgerow, whilst from time to time, a covey of partridges exploded into the air and whirred away to safety.

  Those animals deemed as vermin were shot or set upon by the dogs. Suddenly, a magnificent jack hare bounded into view, and traversing the open ground like a brown thunder ball, cleared the far hedgerow with one jump.

  The scythes men took in the sight with a mixture of admiration and envy. But hares were prized game… Exclusively for the sport and table of the landowners themselves. All others taking an active interest- did so at their own peril.

  The morning passed; a break was called, and the cider brought on in pails. Each man eagerly scooped out the drink with a stone or pewter mug and greedily slaked his thirst. Perhaps a quart would be downed in one go. But there was no question of inebriation at these times. The body’s need for liquid replenishment burnt off the alcohol.

  No sooner had work re-commenced, than beads of perspiration broke out over the scythes men’s faces and torso. Handkerchiefs and neckerchiefs tied round foreheads and throats kept their eyes clear and necks comfortable, but shirts and smocks became soaked through.

  Late morning, the team took a rest on a bank under the shade of a couple of old elm trees. Everyone reckoned, it wasn’t a bad start, and some predicted the meadow would be shorn by the week’s end.

  They were joined by ever-present Richard Amos.

  “What say then gaffer?” George Bell addressed the bailiff in an affable and somewhat overly familiar tone.

  Richard Amos surveyed the work with a critical eye. He wasn’t about to congratulate them at this stage.

  “You’d gotten to that far gate this time last year as I recall.”

  “Ah but the grass is thicker growed,” answered George Bell with aplomb. “The cuts come harder, but who’s to gain but his lordships barns.”

  The men guffawed loudly at such impertinence. At these times the field workers were as ‘Lords of the harvest’. The acres of uncut meadow and cornfields saw to that.

  “I’ll count the cartloads in,” Richard Amos retorted. “We’ll see then, shall we?”

  The men smiled among one another but said nothing more.

  At that moment, the field began to fill with men, women and children chattering and carrying rakes over their shoulders. Richard Amos strode away to attend the new arrivals.

  The scythes man hailed their kinfolk, and with excited gusto the incomers waved back. Richard Amos promptly set the newly arrived workforce to their tasks, and within minutes, swathes of mown grass began to be raked back and forth, allowing air and sunlight to dry the stalks out evenly.

  Wisps were done, a little at a time, but when gathered together and forked onto the hay carts over the coming days. The whole would amount to a great tonnage of hay fodder.

  By long tradition of custom and practice, the local families formed themselves into close working parties. Alice Bell took charge of Peter Rastall’s boy Jack. And together with her two youngest Timothy and Sarah. He became an extended family member.

  As for those untried itinerants (which included John and Charlie). Their jobs hung in the balance. Whether they fitted in or not depended on how they performed right from the start. Unlike the locals, they could expect no leeway. Slackers or troublesome characters would be quickly seen off by Richard Amos.

  Belatedly, Melody and Charlotte arrived from Home Farm armed with rakes. At the sight of Melody trotting onto the scene, the usual distractions ensued. Even at a distance she carried her grace for all to see.

  “Ah, there’s our Melody – I wondered where she’d got to,” George Bell remarked to no one in particular.

  “Ah she’s a comely enough sight mind, George,” remarked Peter Rastall.

  “It’s time she got married off,” advised Old Un.

  “There’s no end of botheration amongst the young lads whenever she’s about. Tasks don’t get done and arguments get started.”

  “Ah, when God so wills it,” George Bell said somewhat uneasily. “The man of her choice can’t be far away I’m sure.”

  A pregnant silence fell across the gathering, and the scythe men glanced knowingly at each other. George Bell was as yet unaware as to the extent of where Melodies fancies lay. Her impertinence on Windmill Hill a few weeks earlier was put behind him. The incident on Buttermilk Lane had yet to reach his ears.

  At day’s end, the exhausted workforce quit the fields and made for home. With their scythes slung over their shoulders George Bell and Peter Rastall met up with their kin, and all trudged the mile long arc of the Severn bank to their homes at Moorend.

  Alice Bell led the way with Sarah and Tom, whilst Jack bearing a (now empty) wicker food basket on his head, trotted alongside. A short distance behind, the two respective heads of household talked over the day’s happenings. One topic above all had caught their imagination.

  “Why to see those hares run,” George Bell spoke animatedly.

  Peter Rastall nodded in hearty agreement. “Fine beasts they were and all.”

  “Gloucester inns pay a shilling for one,” he added temptingly.

  “Ah what’s to be done Twilight?” bemoaned George Bell.

  Now Peter Rastall became business-like. “Snares and traps won’t work George. Jasper Ely and his keepers are on the lookout from dawn to dusk.”

  “Are they now?” retorted George Bell, “Who would’ve believed it.” Peter Rastall ignored his companion’s sarcastic remarks… He had a point to make.

  “There is a way,” he spoke mysteriously.

  George Bell took interest. “Oh, and how’s that?”

  “Running dogs what’s needed – for the quick take?”

  The men looked in complicity at one another. Then George Bell vehemently shook his head.

  “Oh! Best not dwell on such things, Twilight.”

  “Then, I’ll speak no more of the matter,” concluded Peter Rastall. Thereafter, the two men continued the rest of the journey to their little riverside holdings in silence.
But all the time their minds speculated as to the joys and fears of owning a running dog.

  In truth, the country people with their personal cares and worries; were but dimly aware of events in far off places. Wrapped up in the endless fight to keep their bellies full and their hearths warm, the ramifications of their actions could not be guessed at.

  But across the English Channel, extraordinary enactments of law had thrown down a challenge to the core bastions of the landowning classes of England itself.

  For in France, 1789. The stuff of nightmares came to pass:

  The French National Assembly Repealed All Game Laws.

  Be they high or low. Men (and presumably women), were free to hunt beast or fowl through field and forest by day or night. And pick flowers and fruit in meadow and woodland, should they so wish.

  Such an alien state of affairs went against everything the English landowning classes stood for. These foreign edicts struck mightily at the core of their collective psyche.

  And in the light of such events abroad… suspicions mounted at home. The poaching of game now attained significance far beyond the understanding of the lowly rural villagers – who were daring – or desperate enough to breech these laws. Of late, the authorities in England began to perceive such transgressions as tantamount to:

  A Revolutionary Act.

  Spalpeen Boy

  “Make way! Way!” Yelled out a liveried horseman; imperiously galloping ahead on point duty to Gloucester. Bearing grandly down in the herald’s wake. The Valans coach (with Lord Arlingham and Rupert comfortably ensconced), set forth from Hardcourt Hall for the start of their impromptu summer vacation.

  Forewarned the hay carts pulled sharply over, whilst the field workers scattered into gateways and pressed themselves against the hedgerows. Among the throng were Charlie Rackford and John Hughes.

  John alone took no evasive action, and remained rooted where he stood. Had it been only a few short weeks ago since he bade farewell to his family? After all, he’d been through it felt more like a hundred years.

  So much distance was covered. So many new faces, and now in a few moments he might discover an incredible truth. This could not be… Surely…

  The coach loomed near, the clatter grew louder, and then it drew abreast of the haymakers. For a split second, John caught sight of a man’s face through the curtained windows. The passenger briefly glanced out and then the coach passed by.

  “Be Jeezus!” John muttered under his breath crossing himself. It was none other than Lord Arlingham himself. John recognised him instantly.

  Some years earlier, when John was still a boy in Wexford. He remembered everybody lined up to pay their respects to His Lordship, on the occasion of a visit to his Irish estates.

  Freshly returned from the colonial wars in America; the Viscount embarked on the Irish tour-with the express purpose of reminding his tenantry…That foreign affairs notwithstanding…The Valans’s possessions remained in perpetuity. On the day in question, Lord Arlingham rode by in an open carriage for all to see.

  Now in England, the Hardcourt men doffed their caps and hats, whilst the women briefly curtsied to the passing coach. John alone stood confounded… oblivious of the protocol.

  Charlie also viewed the oncoming coach with trepidation. But unlike John he sought no enlightenment. In the best traditions of his fraternity, he adopted a policy of discretion and withdrew behind a hay cart.

  Heads down was the preferred option. However, Charlie couldn’t resist snatching a quick eyeful as the coach went by. And what he saw brought not one jot of comfort.

  Elegantly painted upon the yellow coach doors, was the ‘White Swan’ family crest. Charlie instantly recognised the facsimile on the letterhead in his possession.

  “Oh Gawd, ’elp us…” Charlie was also moved to utter profanities. How many miles must he be from London? And here he was right bang in the midst of those he’d robbed. Who would have thought it? A frisson of fear briefly overtook him. The fates might lead him yet to the gallows.

  The coach passed, the atmosphere lightened and the procession resumed toward the hay meadow. But John and Charlie both pre-occupied with their respective thoughts remained silent. In fact, neither spoke at all for the rest of the morning.

  Later in the fields, the occasion of the Valans’s departure brought forth a few snide remarks aimed at Melody from one of the sharper-tongued village women.

  “Her prince has gone alas… What is she to do now?”

  Amidst the sniggers of the others, Melody looked up from her raking and eyed her unpleasant neighbour with haughty distain.

  “Take no notice,” Charlotte advised her friend.

  Melody looked towards Charlotte with supreme assurance.

  “What do I care for such hen cackle? He will return soon enough to me.”

  Charlotte was taken aback by Melody’s strange reply. “The girl’s bewitched” she could only conclude.

  Now rattled by Melody’s serene composure, the village woman gave vent to a display of bad-tempered invective.

  “And don’t take on with those high and mighty looks neither,” she spat out in a peeved tone.

  “You’re no different to any of us, nor ever will be.”

  At that moment, Richard Amos came on his rounds, and everyone quickly busied themselves with the tasks in hand.

  But if Melody’s high-flown behaviour caused jealousy and resentment amongst her peers. It was not as misplaced as they fondly wished to imagine.

  Barely had the hands settled down to their work when Toby Portlock riding over from Manor Farm, appeared outside Hardcourt Hall. Ostensibly, the object of his mission was to seek out Melody and acquit his representation on behalf of Rupert’s syrupy ode.

  Dismounting below the entrance of Hardcourt Hall, he led his horse down the lane past the frontage of iron railings and the horse chestnut trees. There he made his way along the hedgerow skirting the Great Meadow, until perchance (by way of a wooden stile accessing the field), he caught the attention of little Jack Rastall. With an urgent wave of his hand, Toby summoned the boy to him.

  Obediently Jack trotted over. “Sir?” he enquired.

  “Ah! Now I’m looking for the maid called Melody. Do you know of her?” Jack nodded.

  “Is she here?”

  Jack pointed over his shoulder.

  “Now be a good boy and tell Melody that Toby Portlock wishes to speak with her.” Toby forthwith placed a two-penny piece in the boy’s hand.

  “And say nothing of this to any of the others,” he warned.

  “Yes, sir.” Jack clenched the money tightly in his fist and raced off down the Great Meadow on his errand. Toby had chosen his messenger well. Jack though young in years, was a reliable lad who knew the meaning of discretion. He’d been taught by his father.

  As luck would have it, Melody had taken herself away from the work line and was at that moment stood alone quenching her thirst with a cup of cold tea. Jack dutifully passed on the message and promptly scampered away.

  Glancing up in surprise, she spotted Toby leaning over the stile beckoning her to him. With the coast clear, Melody slipped through the main gate, and flowed up the lane to meet with the waiting Toby Portlock.

  “Ah, thank you for being good enough to come!” Toby exclaimed.

  “Why, I could do no other, Master Toby,” she replied with disarming humility.

  Toby smiled apologetically, “Yes indeed… Now I expect you are wondering what brings me here.”

  Melody held her tongue and waited upon the direction the encounter would take. All the time a quizzical smile played across her lips. Toby could not help but be drawn and momentarily ogled the maid disgracefully.

  Then he came around to the business in hand.

  “Well, I am here on behalf of the Honourable Rupert Valans no less,” Toby began. “It would seem that consequent to your recent encounter he has thought of little else since… Plainly, you have won his heart.”

  Toby gazed ironi
cally at the maid.

  “You must be very flattered to have such an illustrious suitor.”

  Melody feigned virtuous surprise and began to tell white lies.

  “Why, I don’t know, Master Toby. I gave no cause to excite such fancies.”

  “Can you read girl?” Toby asked.

  “Well, I cannot but write my own name,” she admitted. “But there are those in the village that are Bible read.”

  Toby laughed, “Bible be hanged… Rupert Valans has penned a poem declaring his love for you.”

  With that, he brought forth the roll of parchment. In spite of herself Melody let out an infectious giggle, and both she and Toby shared a moment of merry incredulity at the risible situation.

  “Shall I recite it to you?” He asked with a complicit chuckle. However, all further progress was interrupted by distant calls from the Great Meadow.

  “Mel-oo-dee… Mel-oo-dee… Where are you girl?”

  Melody gave a start. “I must go, Master Toby.”

  “Of course,” Toby agreed somewhat regretfully.

  “We will meet again perhaps,” he further suggested.

  “If you so wish,” she replied before hastily setting off. But when a little way down the lane, she turned and gave a flirtatious wave. Much to his surprise, he returned the compliment in the manner to which it was given.

  As he rode back to Manor Farm, the recollection of the encounter filled Toby’s mind. There was no denying it. She was a pretty wench. “Perhaps I might pen an ode myself” he thought, and burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all.

  That night Peter Rastall and his son Jack reached their riverside smallholding at Moorend. With a grunt, Peter Rastall sat down at the table and removed his heavy boots, before rolling down his stockings. The summer heat saw the door ajar. It had been a long day and Peter Rastall was tired.

  At this point, Jack decided to tell his father about the incident earlier that day. Peter Rastall abruptly came to and sat bolt upright in his chair.

  “The Portlock boy sent you to find Melody!” He exclaimed with surprise. “Why so?”