by William Hunt
Lord Arlingham waved an impatient hand.
"My honoured guests will take early Mass on the day in question. Afterwards Ecumenical Dispensation will be granted by the priest for the purpose of their sole visit to St Mary’s. Now when can you be ready?
After a moment’s reflection, the rector felt the text could be scripted by “All Saints’ Sunday” – He further wondered what emphasis be placed on the “sermons vigour”. His Lordship held no hesitation on that particular score.
“I expect you to drive the congregation hard, Rudhall! Hard I say! England demands no less, sir… No less!”
“Very Good, my lord. It shall be done.”
“Then please let us not detain you any further reverend. You have much to attend I think.”
The rector bowed and made to depart the drawing room. But perchance there was one final matter that warranted consideration.
"Oh! And by the way Reverend Rudhall! When the sermon is prepared, may I be permitted to inspect the contents? That I might contribute in some small way perhaps?
“Certainly, my lord.”
The news of the Valans’s visit to St Mary’s broke over the congregation the following Sunday. And in addition, a vellum scroll to the same effect was pinned to St Mary’s Church door. The churchwardens even hammered up a further notice onto the aged oak tree on Hardcourt green, and resoundingly voiced the contents to those onlookers happening by.
Soon the forthcoming service became the talk of the parish and far beyond. St Mary’s Church was to be graced by the presence of the Valans’ family. An event hardly witnessed since Lady Caroline was laid to rest in the Valans’ family vaults within the churchyard.
A further sensation ensued when it became known that the ‘French nobles’ (oft seen at Hardcourt), would be among ‘the honoured guests’.
Carpenters were sent for and a customised high-backed pew (reserved for the distinguished party) was quickly constructed and placed at the head of the nave close to the lectern.
And so, the days passed until the Sunday of All Saints. On the morn of the service, the rector and churchwardens uniquely presented themselves at St Mary’s lych-gate to greet the incoming worshipers. All the while, the six bells in the tower pealed out the summons to worship.
Visiting gentry from within and outside the parish were respectfully ushered to the reserved front bench pews. The regulars took up their traditional positions, but this time several ranks removed to the rear.
Those gentry possessing family box pews, jealously sent on servants ahead to stand guard within. Until such time as the family arrived to claim their rightful places.
The Portlocks as regular churchgoers to St Mary’s were also on hand this day, and were personally met at the lychgate by the rector.
“Good day to you, reverend. It seems you have a special sermon prepared for us today.”
“All is in readiness, as His Lordship so requested,” the rector self-effacingly replied.
Squire Portlock took note of the rows of carriages parked along the lane. “Hmm! Well, you won’t be in want of listeners today reverend. That’s plain to see.”
The rector heartily agreed. The turnout had exceeded all expectations. “In all my days as incumbent, I have never seen St Mary’s so full,” he observed. “But please allow us to escort you to your box pew.” Thereupon the Portlocks were led inside. With their high standing in the parish; the Portlocks had no fear of interlopers trespassing in their space.
Finally, as the incoming slowed to a trickle, the latecomers were roundly chivvied and quickly ordered inside. Now with a packed congregation assembled and waiting, a messenger was hastily despatched to Hardcourt Hall.
The church bells ceased and the minutes ticked silently by until the Valans coach finally into hove into view, closely followed by the resplendent Landau. The two carriages pulled up in a reserved spot directly outside the church. The coachmen smartly placed down footstools, and the dignitaries alighted.
Lord Arlingham and the Honourable Rupert Valans met up with the Comte de Moritz, Comtesse Lisa and Mlle Rosalyn. All were dressed in finery and elegance unmatched by any of the congregation inside. With a fulsome welcome, the rector and churchwardens led the dignitaries to the customised top pew.
As the procession passed along the centre aisle, a perceptible ripple of respectful awe was heard emanating from the upstanding congregation. This was a memorable occasion of pomp beyond anyone’s recall.
Deep within the ranks of the bench pews, a chastened Melody stood close by her family. Furtively, she stole a glance toward the stony-faced Rupert as he proceeded up the aisle in the company of his father. It was his first return to the church since the ill-fated tryst. Both now dwelt heavily on the other’s presence.
Directly behind the Valans’s came the French aristocrats. Always ornately attired; this time they surpassed even themselves, and presented to the congregation, a dazzling array of flamboyant finery as had ever been witnessed in St Mary’s.
Now an expectant air filled the church as the Reverend Abel Rudhall ascended the simple carved oak lectern. Following his blessing the first hymn was sung, and thereafter he bade the congregation to be seated.
In workman like fashion, the rector arranged his sheaf of notes to order. Then with skill borne of long practice, he silently contemplated the waiting multitude, before commencing:
THE SERMON
"The Lord said – Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed too are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.
Today on this All Saints Sunday, our humble church is both honoured and comforted to have with us Lord Arlingham and his most illustrious son, the Honourable Rupert Valans.
We are doubly gladdened by their presence, for the burdens of parliamentary office weighs heavily upon His Lordship, who bound by duty has oft been unable to worship at St Mary’s… A state of affairs that no one regrets more than he himself.
Nevertheless… today we are brought together sharing the common bond of Christian worship and standing as one in God’s house. Exulted I am in my sight, to see so many people gathered to the bosom of our church.
But who may be the companions of His Lordship I hear you ask? Why, until of late they were unknown to our parish. Indeed, they are strangers to our very shores.
May it please them now if I introduce you? We have in our midst the Comte Henri de Moritz, his gracious wife, the Comtesse Lisa, and their daughter Madamoiselle Rosalyn. They are an upstanding Christian family from France."
An audible collective buzz ran through the congregation as the Comte acknowledging their introduction, briefly bowed his head in the direction of the lectern.
“Yes. Indeed,” the rector loudly affirmed. "They are French and, until a short time ago, served their country with the same devotion as His Lordship serves England…
But why should they be here? Ah yes! A vexed question indeed. And I shall give you the answer this very day. They have turned to England for salvation and sanctuary that is why. And His Lordship – ever mindful of the parable of the ‘Good Samaritan’ – has with outstretched arms given aid and succour to his fellow Christians in their hour of need. Well now! This is a strange to-do. Is it not?"
The rector paused and allowed the congregation a moment to take stock of the imparted information before resuming. This time he wore a graver countenance.
"You may have heard… some of you. From the lips of cattle drovers, gypsies, dissenters and ne’er do well vagrants that pass through our village from time to time…
You may have heard talk of a distant commotion taking place in the very country from which the Comte and his family were so abruptly forced to leave.
Perhaps in the course of such talk, these strangers may perchance declare themselves FOR such a state of affairs and wish it might be the way of things here… in England.
Such wickedness cannot be allowed to pass unchallenged and the truth of the matter will be told to decent God-fear
ing people… today!
Yes, there is indeed a commotion taking place within France. A commotion that has spread far and wide over that country as once did the plagues of olden days.
But unlike the plagues of the past with its tell-tale boils and pestilence, what ails the malefactors cannot be seen and lies hidden, until their words and writings expose them for what they are – Satan’s agents!
Once there bespoke the King’s order and devotion to the Church, but now calamity has befallen that country.
I have in the course of my meetings with the Comte and his family heard for myself the terrible things it has been their misfortune to bear witness to.
As did so many other good Christian people, they struggled to maintain Christian decency, but the Godless maladies became a raging tempest that aught could withstand.
Churches have been seized, and the very symbols of our Christian faith. The Cross of our Lord… Torn down and cast asunder by wild mobs, who run amok committing vile acts at will.
And now, their satanic leaders in Paris, stuffed full of idolatrous preening vanity, expect the Church to bow before them!
Yet, only within the last weeks, it has become known, that these so-called French revolutionaries have committed the most monstrous act so far.
Jews! The very people who sent our Lord to die in torment on the cross have been granted citizenship and with it the freedom to wreak what unchristian mischief they may choose upon the prostrate body of that most unhappy country.
But yet… there is hope. Salvation for the righteous is at hand.
While the Christian men and women of England remain firm and united behind King George and their Church, the fearful caldron of calumny across the English Channel will be withstood and driven back to the Inferno of Hell from whence it came!"
At that moment, the service was interrupted when a woman parishioner overcome by the proceedings, gave out a loud shriek and swooned into a dead faint. Amidst much jostling, she was borne out of the church by her distraught kin. Such a dramatic turn of events spurred the rector on to a furious finale.
“But we can never rest our guard!” He roared. "There are those among us already beguiled and won over to the evil doctrines so slyly spread by others.
These so-called republicans with their pamphlets and writings have sought to stain and befoul England with their evil message of woe.
Be watchful and vigilant at all times. As you attend your daily tasks, you may find yourself waylaid by one of these strangers. With skilful and silver tongue, they will ply their evil art of confounding your minds with devilish arguments, and invite you to join them in an embrace of the republican way.
TURN ASIDE IMMEDIATELY!!
Was not Adam and Eve cast from Paradise by the serpent beguiling words of the Devil? These people are no different. Call the parish constable and point out the evil one to him forthwith.
Perilous days may be drawing near. We must not waver in our resolve. Keep faith with King and Country. And our good Lord will be our staff and comfort in time of coming trial with the forces of darkness that is Republican France".
“LET US PRAY”
Not all were at church on that All Saints Sunday. John and Charlie didn’t count. As itinerant outsiders their presence was of no consequence, and indeed after the sermon, they would subsequently be viewed with great suspicion. Along with the infirm, heavily pregnant or frail in dotage the church bells tolled not for them.
But the Sabbath must be kept, and on this day both men rested from their labours in the fish hut. Over the weeks, the bare sanctuary had been converted to a place that might bear some comparison to home.
Earlier that morning Charlie had borrowed Peter Rastall’s pack mule and loaded up the panniers with logs hewn by the land clearance. The logs were relayed to the fish hut and thrown onto a growing woodpile outside the door.
The drops completed and the mule returned. Charlie made his way back to the fish hut. Inside a hazy room, John was crouched over the fire cooking a stripped puffball in a skillet pan filled with goose fat.
John looked pleased with himself. “I found it in the Big Meadow just now”.
Charlie sat down on his pallet. “Well, it’ll be a change from turnips and boiled spuds.”
After a few minutes the fungus was judged done, and the spongy oily slices slid onto their wooden bowls. The last of the bread was torn equally in two and both men ate greedily.
Subsequently, a stone jar passed between their lips. The cider went down well. On the Sabbath the Forge Inn was closed, but in anticipation the jar was filled up with a couple of quarts the day before.
“We got a bit more kindling Johnny… It’ll spit with wetness mind.”
John was philosophical. “Too late to dry out now, Charlie.”
Charlie agreed. “Summer is when they fetch the driftwood off the sand banks at low tide- so I hear. Cut up early the wood burns in the hearth with nary a complaint.”
Just then there was a blow back from the fire, and Charlie began to splutter from the smoke. He aimed a sharp sideways kick at the door which flew open.
“My life, no winders; I don’t know what we’ll do when the cold sets in proper,” he grumbled.
John smiled at Charlie’s discomfort.
“Oh! Don’t take it so bad. I hardly saw glass until I got here. In Ireland this would be a good place Charlie.”
Charlie snorted derisively.
“Then Ireland is the scraggy end of a papist pigpen,” came forth the withering reply.
“I wonder I should go there at all.”
The two were by now very close. And as they sat on opposing pallets in that tiny cell, Charlie mellowed by the drink decided to open up a little more… He reached inside his grubby waistcoat and withdrew the (long secreted) package. Not that John was likely to be any help of course. But nothing ventured.
“Now what make you of this, Johnny boy?” Charlie pulled out a paper note which he handed over to John. Slowly John began to scrutinise the engraved print work with a noncommittal frown. In the end, Charlie became impatient.
“Na… I didn’t suppose you’d be any use. Give it back ’ere.” John puffed. “Well, I don’t know Charlie, but–”
He pointed gingerly at the note, “I’ve seen that for sure.”
“Wha–?” Incredulously Charlie hastened to John’s side.
“Show me!”
“Why the marks… Right there.”
“That’s letters,” Charlie cried excitedly. “Run your finger over ’em – left to right, mate.”
John did so, and Charlie called them out as they came.
C-I-N-Q.
"Is it a word, Charlie? John searched Charlie’s face for a clue, but Charlie was at a loss. Then his nimble mind raced on ahead.
"Where’d you see this before?
John shrugged, “Ah well… On a brig.”
“On a brig?” Charlie echoed incredulously.
“Yes, when I crossed the sea. The marks were painted on the wine barrels in the hold. I should know. I slept among ’em.”
“Wine barrels?”
“Yes, wine barrels – I was aboard a French ship – La Vagabonde.”
“French!” Charlie shouted in surprise.
Startled, John looked up in alarm. “Have I upset you now Charlie?”
Charlie’s face was wreathed in a beauteous smile, “God ’elp us! No!” he chortled.
“Look ’ere!”
And in his excitement (all caution thrown to the winds) Charlie tossed a wad of assignats onto John’s lap.
“It’s Frenchie money! That’s what it is, mate.”
Gleefully, Charlie sat back on his pallet. Unexpectedly and from the most unlikely quarter, the mystery package he’d thieved from Dover Street was now solved.
Charlie basked in triumphal satisfaction, momentarily oblivious of all else. But shortly, his natural acquisitiveness re-asserted itself, and hurriedly he took back the assignats from John. Thereafter Charlie’s usual ca
ution returned. He glanced warily at John.
“And now I suppose… You’re wonderin’ how I come by such things?” John put two and two together. By now, to a large measure – he understood the nature of his companion. He remembered the dubious explanation offered up to him under the oak tree at harvest time. But the sight of a discomforted Charlie tickled John. Feigning puzzlement, John laboriously scratched his head before gazing at Charlie in childlike bewilderment.
“Why can it be so? Are you one of those distressed French gentlefolk I’ve heard so much about Charlie? Run out of France with only your money for company? All this time and you never said. Be-Jesus, I can scarcely believe it now.”
“Hah!” Charlie snorted whilst John continued with the charade.
“Had I but known, I’d have powdered me peruke special an all. Please I do beg your pardon sirrah!” With great pantomime John stood up and bowed elegantly to his companion.
“Ah! Cocky young shaver this morning, ain’t we?”
John sat down and reflected. He had a few longstanding vexations himself.
“Charlie… One favour for another I think?”
He reached over to his battered old satchel, and unearthed the book given to him by Fergus O’Donnell. Charlie guessed what was coming and sighed, whilst John thumbed over a page or too.
“There’s a line under some words, Charlie,” he said as he handed over the book.
“Can you tell me what it says?”
Charlie reluctantly set to translate the typed print.
“’Ere it is: Men are born and always – Uh – Free in their rights.”
Charlie viewed the pages with growing dismay. This would take all day. “Can you not read more?” John enquired. Charlie made a further attempt at deciphering the underlined typeface.
“It says: The ends of all rights of man are liberty.” Thereafter Charlie tossed the book back to his companion. John was unable to conceal his disappointment.
"I thought you were a reading man, Charlie?
“Oh! I am Johnny boy. Give me a wanted poster, or a passage of Bible scripture. But that’s too much, mate… Anyways, what need we of such a thing?”
