Running Dogs

by William Hunt

  “She was to go and speak with him,” Jack replied. Then he held out the copper coin.

  “Look what he gave us, Dad.”

  “So you got a tuppence piece to run an errand for Toby Portlock?”

  “Yes.”

  Peter Rastall looked hard at Jack, “You ain’t told anyone else?”

  Jack was affronted at such a question. “Course not, Dad.” Peter Rastall relaxed and a brief reassuring smile flickered over his face.

  “Well, you earned that right and proper lad. Look! Why don’t you keep the money until the fair comes, eh?”

  Jack beamed at the thought of the fair.

  “Now whilst I put a candle in the lamp – you get the jug from the pantry - and we’ll drink to the day’s end.”

  Jack turned his attention to a recess in the comer of the room whilst Peter Rastall lit a candle with a taper from the smouldering hearth and placed it up on a window ledge.

  The room brightened, and Jack returned with the cider jug. Peter Rastall filled up his mug, and afterwards poured out a more modest cup for his son.

  They both drank and, now refreshed, Peter Rastall once more turned his thoughts to Melody. It was clear that the wilful adventuress was best avoided. With this in mind, he issued a warning to Jack.

  “Now listen to me… At mow’s end, the maids will return back to the farmhouse. But until then, if any young gents come a riding by… Go somewheres else. And keep out the way. No more errands, mind.”

  Jack nodded, and then with all the artlessness of a young boy he asked, “What does Toby Portlock want with Melody, Dad?”

  Peter Rastall puffed nosily and side stepped the question.

  “I can’t begin to wonder,” he said. “But it ain’t right, Jack,” he added sternly. “We don’t mix with them people and neither should Melody… Now heed what I say there’s a good boy.”

  With that, Peter Rastall brought the matter to a close, and both sat silently drinking until nights end saw them retire up a steep wooden flight of steps to the loft six feet above.

  Upon the planked floor of the loft’s thatched apex lay two plain wooden beds with mattresses stuffed with hay and goose feathers. Each bed was covered by a thick woollen blanket.

  In the summer the loft was cool and provided a respite from the summer heat. But on cold winter evenings, father and son sometimes wrapped themselves in their woollen blankets and sat all night by the dying embers of the fire.

  Over the next few days, the ever-lengthening swathes of raked hay had been built into hay-cocks. Later these small stacks were forked and tossed onto the slowly passing hay carts. By now, dozens of field workers filled the estate fields, but none more than the Great Meadow.

  The mow had reached the halfway mark and was beginning its second clockwise circuit, when all of a sudden one of the team gave a loud yell of pain and began hopping about on one leg.

  Work stopped, tools were downed. A melee of some urgency ensued around the stricken man. One or two of the others could be seen stamping on the ground nearby.

  “Old Un’s been snake bit,” somebody called out. Everybody stood back from their labours whilst the unfortunate scythes man groaning with pain and anxiety was shoulder carried off the field. His affected leg tightly bound by leather belt, served as an impromptu tourniquet.

  Some of the women were advising a poultice of dock leaves.

  A fretful Richard Amos urged a resumption of work. “That’s too bad, too bad, but the mow must go on.”

  After a few backward glances and noises of concern, the scythes men walked slowly to their places. Those minus leather gaiters, now looked warily about them. Nobody could remember a similar occurrence before.

  The team took up position once more, but now they were a man down. Richard Amos glanced at the lengthening shadows thrown across the field by the elm trees, and realised there was not much more time left in the day.

  Then, he saw John forking up the hay. A thought struck him, and John was sent for.

  Upon his arrival Richard Amos got straight to the point. “Did I hear you say you can mow?”

  “Sure, I’m a spalpeen man.”

  “Show me?”

  Richard Amos thrust Old Un’s scythe into John’s hands. Nothing loathed, John took up at the edge of the cut and began his action. A minute later, it was clear to all those watching that John was no stranger to such work.

  Richard Amos brightened and made his decision forthwith.

  “Good man. Put him in the line.”

  Immediately, the other scythes men began to grumble. George Bell was elected as their spokesman and he approached Richard Amos.

  The bone of contention was quickly apparent. “Did this Irishman not say that he was prepared to work for a penny or two a day?” The bailiff frowned irritably but did not deny it.

  “Well, then gaffer, poor men we may be, but if he is willing to work for such a pittance-others might follow- then where would we be? Our families go hungry and we become parish fed.”

  Richard Amos chaffed at such awkwardness. But he quickly came up with a solution. In a loud voice he proclaimed a bargain,

  “Let the Irishman prove his worth on this, the last hours cut. If he’s up to the mark, then tomorrow please God, I will square with him in the same manner as the rest of you.”

  The men looked at each other. Nobody objected.

  “Now!” urged Richard Amos. “Go to your tasks.”

  And so quite unexpectedly, John found himself (subject to approval) on the promise of the top pay rate of nine pennies per acre plus drink.

  With a joyful wave to Charlie, (who signalled back rudely with his pitchfork), John got in line and set to the mow.

  It was nearly done. The following Saturday, the scythes men paused in front of a small rectangular island of waving grass left standing in the centre of the Great Meadow.

  Taking their cue, the scythes men formed up in a line and noisily made tracks through the uncut grass. Around the perimeter, the head keeper Jasper Ely and several under keepers waited with guns and dogs.

  Those animals huddled in the remaining cover broke free in a last desperate scramble to escape and were respectively spared or despatched according to whether deemed game or vermin.

  Then the all clear was given and the last of the grassy island was swiftly felled by the swinging blades. Now the work ceased. Tomorrow, it was the Sabbath.

  The hay carts trundled off back to Home Farm, and the field workers eagerly trooped off to the Forge Inn to pick up their weekend pay.

  Richard Amos was already ensconced in an alcove just inside the passageway of the inn. On the table in front of him lay a bound ledger, accompanied by rows of neatly stacked copper, and (occasional) silver coinage.

  An expectant queue formed at the Forge Inn doorway. And one by one, Richard Amos settled up with each and all. Now a mood of joyous celebration filled the taproom and drinks flowed freely.

  Somebody mentioned ‘Old Un’ and a collection was taken. As all were in good humour, coins were readily offered up, and before long, a shilling was raised.

  “And how was ‘Old Un’ bearing up?” Richard Amos wished to know. He was professionally interested. With the corn harvest just round the corner, good men with a blade were at a premium.

  Peter Rastall had been to see ‘Old Un’ and offered an opinion.

  “He’s fettle enough now Mr Amos, but he don’t want to go in the fields no more. The snake bites put the wind up him I believe.”

  When John took his turn at the table, Richard Amos enquired as to where he was bound next. John shrugged his shoulders. Sure he didn’t know; Richard Amos did.

  John was to be held over. His place on the mowing team was assured till harvest home.

  Men that prove their worth are always well received and John was no exception. He had acquitted himself well and earned no small respect from those he’d worked alongside.

  But there was another problem. Where was he to stay? The landlady of the Forge Inn,
Mrs. Edith Musselwhite, (overhearing the exchange), quickly informed Richard Amos that her husband Jeb was fully employed in the smithy.

  With all the haulage taking place, a number of horses had thrown their shoes and urgently needed to be shod. She was very sorry but the stables would be needed for the beasts. John and Charlie could stay at the Forge Inn no longer.

  Richard Amos, as always, quickly came up with a solution.

  “Irish John and his work mate Charlie are to be quartered in the old fish hut for now,” he announced.

  The news was received with general amusement all round.

  “Why, there’s nothing to it but rats, bats and spiders,” jested one to great hilarity from the crowd. Nevertheless, Richard Amos’s words were final and Peter Rastall was co-opted to oversee the move.

  Charlie and John could only acquiesce…

  Later with their cots slung over a handcart and with Peter Rastall guiding the way, Charlie and John vacated the stables and hauled their worldly goods towards their new abode.

  Inside the Fish Hut

  The little red-bricked fish hut had lain derelict on the Severn banks below Windmill Hill for many years. But it hadn’t always been so. Once upon a time, fishermen worked within its walls, mending nets and crafting the funnel shaped putts for use nearby.

  In those days, the riverbed lay bare at low tide, and putt weirs were set out to intercept that ‘King of Fish’, the salmon.

  But the Severn is eternally restless, and far away down river, tons of silt began to wash up against the estuary shoreline, giving birth to new ground.

  The gradual narrowing of the estuarine noose saw the water levels rise upstream, until one day the fishermen at Hardcourt could walk out onto the sand banks no more. By stages, the putt weirs were relocated further down where the Severn widened, and thereafter the little hut was abandoned for good.

  Now for the first time, the two wanderers gazed upon the watercourse. “Meet the Severn,” Peter Rastall spoke by way of introduction.

  “That a river?” Charlie spoke with scorn. “Why I’ve pissed more into a chamber pot.”

  “She’s got a temper mind,” Peter Rastall warned. “But she’s been good to me.”

  Peeping over the banks, the two men viewed the muddy brown waters some ten feet below the scoured bank. John thought it dirty, not at all like the clean running waters of the Barrow back at home.

  As far as the two outsiders were concerned, the Severn was a poor sort of a river altogether. Then Peter Rastall drew their attention to a bare little building perched on the foreshore, a short distance away.

  John and Charlie looked at one another with wry expressions. Their initial enthusiasm for the new venture began to fade.

  Reaching the hut, Peter Rastall put his shoulder against the heavy wooden door. After a couple of attempts, it shuddered open and the light streamed into the windowless cell.

  There was no ceiling. Directly above, the rafters held up slate tiles on its apex. Propped up against the wall were some ancient withy sticks, whilst a scattering of wooden pegs and half-constructed putt hoops lay strewn over the bare floor. At the far end was a little iron grate and a chimney flu.

  Charlie had got used to his stable home conveniently close to the Forge Inn and started to grumble.

  Peter Rastall took Charlie to task. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” he spoke disapprovingly. “Be thankful Mr Amos has need of Irish John,” Charlie was further reminded. “Otherwise you’d be both be sleepin’ under the stars tonight.”

  “We have a roof and a hearth, Charlie,” John pointed out optimistically. Charlie stood corrected.

  “May I beg pardon of the company? And I do ’ope Mr Amos will take wine with us at ’is earliest bidding.”

  Peter Rastall shrugged dismissively, and left the pair gazing at their new quarters.

  For John and Charlie, all that remained now was to take possession. An hour later, the floor was swept and the assorted bric-a-brac dumped into the Severn.

  The two men offloaded their cots and plonked the rude structures inside the bare space either side of the fire grate. Things didn’t look half so bad now. John was involuntarily reminded of home, and Charlie’s buoyancy returned,

  “I’ll tell you something, Johnny old mate.”

  “And what might that be now?”

  Charlie smiled cunningly, “Out of sight out of mind, ain’t we? Nobody mentioned rent money this time. Not like the forge.”

  Charlie drew his finger to his lips.

  “Who knows Johnny? We might get away with it.”

  Afterwards, there was the matter of returning the handcart. For once, John resorted to a little guile himself. Feigning fatigue he persuaded Charlie to do the honours.

  Charlie was most concerned. A fit John was his ticket to survival. “You bide and rest,” he advised consolingly. “I’ll see to the cart.” And Charlie departed leaving John reclining on his cot.

  For the first time in an age, John was alone. He did not completely trust Charlie. Throughout the mow, John had kept his coat and satchel in the fields where he could keep an eye on things.

  It couldn’t last. Sooner or later Charlie would pry within.

  He opened up his satchel and pulled out the dusty pouch. Then yanking open the drawstring, he emptied the contents out over his cot. There it was still. The pistol (lock stock and barrel) along with the other parts, not seen since the morning his father presented it to him.

  But where might he hide it?

  As he pondered the placement of his precious possession, he remembered his father had secreted the weapon within the brickwork of the farmhouse.

  He looked around. The brick walls in the fish hut were one layered, but the breastwork that encompassed the fireplace looked hefty enough.

  After a quick examination, he took out his knife and carefully scraped the clay daub from two bricks at floor level. Removing the bricks, he felt the gap for size and, satisfied with what he found, bagged up the pistol and parts before hiding them behind the brick course.

  John’s mind was at rest now. Apart from a cut-throat razor, his tinderbox and some utensils, only the book given to him by Fergus O’Donnell remained in the satchel. And that was of no consequence, was it? What use would Charlie have for a book?

  Whilst so pre-occupied with his own cares, it never occurred to John that perhaps Charlie might be hiding a few secrets himself.

  John went outside and took in his new surroundings. He wondered how his family were faring across the sea. When the harvest was all done, he vowed to keep his promise and return home to them. All should be well by then?

  As he idled wistfully on the Severn bank, he espied a trow laden with coal from the Forest of Dean, sail sedately upriver to the Port O’ Gloucester. In the near future, he would have need of a boat going the seawards.

  “I see, you are fettled up,” the returning Charlie caustically observed. John’s reveries were brought to an abrupt end.

  I think it was the bad air inside," the apologetic John offered by way of an explanation.

  “Well, get used to it, Johnny boy. This is ’ome for a while mate.”

  “Yes”, thought John to himself… “For a while”. A few more weeks and then he would head off back to Ireland for sure. In the event, their joint sojourn within the walls of the humble fish hut was to endure far longer than either man expected. Future decisions made by others would see to that.

  Courtesy Call

  During a lull between the completion of haymaking and the start of the corn harvest, Squire Jonas Portlock rode out from Manor Farm and journeyed northwards to Gloucester. The two-fold purpose of his visit combined business with pleasure. A good helping of both was first to be taken at the ‘Bell’ coaching house in Southgate Street.

  These were busy times at the ‘Bell’. As one crop was realised, all attention became focussed on the next. Prospective corn harvest revenue was now the big topic. As the venue also served for the Tory Party headquarters, a lively cros
s-pollination of politics and prices reverberated through the smoke-filled coffee rooms.

  Jonas Portlock took a small brandy, sought advice, and exchanged views with his peers, but mindful of a later engagement, kept charge of his overall sobriety.

  It was a little matter of noblesse oblige. Before his departure to the Wye Valley. Lord Arlingham deemed it a great personal favour, if (during his absence), Squire Portlock would be so good, as to keep a ‘weather eye’ on the de Moritz’s, currently in residence at the Valans’s town house in Westgate Street.

  The request was duly noted and, amid cheery salutations, Squire Portlock took his leave of the ‘Bell’ to undertake his next (and more formal) assignation… But not before a wag shouted after him…

  “Vive la compagnie Jonas!”

  To great merriment, Squire Portlock turned and ceremoniously bowed in response. The presence of the French aristocrats was a well-known talking point within Gloucester society.

  It was but a short distance to Westgate Street, and at the appointed time Squire Portlock presented himself outside the imposing three-storied Tudor building. He rapped hard on the iron-ringed doorknocker which was answered by a footman.

  Thus expected, Squire Portlock was promptly ushered through the building, up a flight of stairs, and into a small chambered room with its mullioned windows overlooking Westgate Street. Here, he was warmly received by the Comte and Comtesse.

  As always, they were impeccably attired, and in a continental fashion that never failed to engage all who were brought into contact with them.

  Comtesse Lisa enquired after the health of the Portlock family. Squire Portlock assured her they seemed well enough when he left them earlier that morning.

  At that moment, an adjoining door opened and Squire Portlock was greatly surprised to see Mlle Rosalyn enter the room escorted by a Nun in a white habit.

  Squire Portlock greeted Rosalyn, and then…

  “Jonas, may I introduce you to Sister Jacqueline,” offered Comtesse Lisa. For the first time in his life, Squire Portlock found himself making the acquaintance of a female order of the Catholic Church.