Running Dogs

by William Hunt

  John remembered how the French sailors in Cork harbour joyously responded to it.

  “It gave me hope,” he said quietly. "But now that’s gone out like a flame under a candle snuff.

  Seeing John so downcast, Charlie sought to cheer up his roommate on that All Saints’ Sunday.

  “Ah, don’t be a molly-mop. Of course, there’s ’ope.”

  “Counting French money?” John sarcastically replied.

  “No, and not your malarkey book neither,” came the stinging riposte.

  “What then?”

  “It’s right under yer nose mate… Right under yer nose,” Charlie insisted. John (none the wiser) waited for an explanation.

  “How long since we came ’ere?” Charlie spoke slowly and deliberately as one addressing a half-wit.

  John shrugged indifferently, “Sure I should care?”

  Charlie pityingly shook his head in a worldly-wise fashion.

  “See while you’ve been mopin’ over that book John-a-dreams. I’ve found out we’ve got rights… At Hardcourt… Where we bide.”

  “What rights?” John was frankly astonished at this statement.

  “The rights of settlement… leastways that’s what Old Un’ called it. He told me the other day: If we dwell long in this parish, then once workless we become a charge on the poor rates… How’s about that Johnny boy?”

  Charlie cock a hoop, gave a triumphant thumb’s up to his roommate, before taking another swig of cider.

  “And when might this wonderful day come to pass?” Asked the disbelieving John.

  Charlie laid down the stone jar, and proceeded with the enlightenment.. “Old Un’ reckons by spring sowing. Not so far away now, mind you,” Charlie chuckled at the prospect.

  “Why those parish coppers will be a poppin’ out of his lordships purse and straight into our pockets… Then the saddles on the other horse mate. The saddles on the other horse Ha-Ha.”

  John forlornly clasped the little book closely to his chest, and said nothing more.

  Point Made

  As the distinguished party took their departure from St Mary’s on that All Saints’ Sunday, the gentlemen farmers and their families closely followed on and waved their hats in respectful loyalist salutation. Lusty voices of support rang out through the Gloucestershire churchyard:

  “Huzzah!”

  “Good day to you, my lord.”

  “England need never fear.”

  For the French aristocrats, the experience of the English mode of worship had been a cultural revelation. Afterwards when the two families were comfortably ensconced in the drawing room of Hardcourt Hall, Mlle Rosalyn was first to voice her impressions.

  “How bare the churches are in England mama” she declared. “No tapestries, paintings or holy icons are to be seen anywhere.” Comtesse Lisa was in full accord with her daughter.

  “The lack of decor is a matter of some regret mon cherie.”

  “Gloucester Cathedral is no different,” the Comte remarked to Lord Arlingham, “To our eyes it seems… Not altogether respectful.”

  His Lordship was mildly ruffled by these disparaging observations, and took issue with the Comte.

  “Well, though devoid of fripperies Henri, the Church of England can wholly claim to command the spiritual allegiance of the people… unlike the Catholic church of France,” he pointedly reminded his guests.

  Somewhat embarrassed, the Comte hastily sought to make amends.

  “If it pleases Your Lordship, we intend no offence. Are we not as one against a common foe?”

  “That was the purpose of today’s visit to St Mary’s,” Lord Arlingham replied, “But did you not think the Reverend Rudhall’s sermon came fully up to the mark?” He enquired, as one expecting further criticism.

  The Comte responded with appropriate enthusiasm, “The rector is to be congratulated, Jeffrey. He did all that was asked and more besides.”

  The atmosphere in the drawing room visibly relaxed, and His Lordship endorsed the sentiments expressed by his guest.

  “Undoubtedly so Henri, and it is a theme that will be oft visited mark you! Subject of course, to the tempo of events abroad… and possibly at home as well.”

  Lord Arlingham now sought to include his son into the discourse.

  “And what made you of it, Rupert?”

  All this time Rupert’s mind dwelt ever on Melody. She must have been present at church. But on the occasion of both entering and leaving, he determinedly looked straight ahead. No more unbecoming glances. Henceforth, he was determined to remember his position at all times.

  From deep within him, a (so far) dormant personality trait began to crystallise. The youthful Rupert Valans was metamorphosing into a hard-unforgiving man.

  “The sermon Rupert! – Your thoughts, if you, please sir?”

  Rupert roused from his introspections, duly aired his considered opinion.

  “Well, I am bound to say Papa, that the rector was correct in his surmise. But the republican heresy may be closer than we imagine. Perhaps it lurks within this very parish already.”

  The party came abruptly to a stop at this startling thought. A pregnant silence descended as this concept was inwardly digested.

  “May I be permitted to suggest a course of action?” Rupert ventured.

  “Please do!” Lord Arlingham (no less than the French Aristocrats) was most intrigued with what Rupert had to say.

  “To counter such possibilities, I propose an oath of allegiance to King and country be taken by all at church service. To be sworn in by a presiding magistrate if necessary.”

  Exclamations of surprise issued forth at such a novel innovation.

  “Why bless me Rupert. Your point is taken though I consider it a trifle overzealous.” Lord Arlingham could only marvel at his son’s inventive thinking. And the more he thought about it, the more appealing it became.

  “On reflection, there may something to be said for such a course of action,” His Lordship admiringly acknowledged. “Why, if the sermon hasn’t put the fear of God up the congregation already. Then Rupert’s policy most certainly will.”

  Others too had undergone profound changes. Not least Melody who now realised that her moment had passed, and her summer hopes were dashed forever. For a time, she danced and dazzled as a mayfly on gossamer wings over shimmering waters, with the trout snapping eagerly after her. But now she was beleaguered and alone.

  Of late, she had endured much teasing from the other farm servants, who disparagingly referred to her as ‘the Fairground Flossy’. Even Charlotte had petitioned Mr Amos for a change of quarters at Home Farm.

  At Moorend (when all finally come to light) Alice bitterly remonstrated with her wayward daughter, and earnestly begged Melody to pray for forgiveness. In God own time, the maid might yet find the right man of her own station, and everything would blow over.

  As for Toby Portlock… with his energies fully devoted to horse and hound, he took no further interest in the maid. A summer dalliance was one thing, but to seek out Melody in the dark months would seriously compromise his standing.

  Besides he’d been privy to the gossip from the stable hands at Manor Farm. Word had it that Rupert Valans went adventuring one night a short time ago. But what transpired remained cloaked in mystery. Toby could only conjecture.

  In recent days however, Rupert in the course of his dealings with the staff at Hardcourt Hall was overheard questioning the suitability of “those rank upstart maids that presume to dwell on my father’s estate.”

  No names were mentioned, but it was clear who he meant… as Melody Bell now found to her cost. Wherever she went in the parish, the leering faces, and whispered asides, demonstrated the direction of Rupert’s ire beyond all doubt.

  Things got worse for the milkmaid.

  “Strumpet!”… A shaken Melody bore these spiteful comments from a group of women she passed on the lane one morning. Ever so surely, she was becoming an outcast in the parish of her birth.


  Melody glanced apprehensively towards Hardcourt Hall. Only a short time ago she had gazed with wondrous expectation at the big house.

  But as Hardcourt Hall rose up through the skeletal branches of Madam’s Wood, its appearance began to display a forbidding presence of ominous portent.

  And thereafter… Melody began to feel afraid.

  Coursing Hares

  The nights darkened, and the weather cooled. As autumn entered its final phase at Hardcourt, the last of the yellowing leaves fell from tree and bush, leaving a bleak visa broken only by the winding course of the brown Severn waters, with its eternal mud washed tidal banks.

  Below Hardcourt Hall, the Great Meadow lay dormant. Bordered by a straggling thorny hedgerow of blackthorn and hawthorn, outside of which lay a patchwork of corn stubble and dug over turnip fields. To all intents and purpose, its usefulness for the year seemingly done with.

  But on a bright cold November morn all became change. At first light, a large white marquee with awning was erected on the high ground of the Great Meadow close to Hardcourt Hall. Once done, a retinue of household servants busied themselves inside the marquee, installing furnishings and home comforts for those yet to come.

  The marquee itself was a coveted possession of Lord Arlingham, and once served as his military quarters during the American campaigns in South Carolina. But now it stood pitched foursquare on the Gloucestershire countryside.

  A few hours passed and then the Great Meadow began to fill with carriages and those on horseback. Energy and colour was restored to the faded countryside. Gentleman and yeoman farmers mingled together in eager anticipation of the day ahead.

  The object of the gathering soon became clear as greyhounds were paraded up and down in pairs before the gathered spectators.

  Then great applause arose from the crowd as Lord Arlingham and Rupert arrived on the scene. By now a hundred or more people had taken up near the marquee, in anticipation of grand day’s hare coursing.

  As the dogs passed along the crowd for inspection, judgements were made and wagers taken. Brandy flasks were nipped, and heavy long coats kept the frosty air at bay.

  Inside the marquee, atop a plinth on a table replete with port and brandy bottles, was the coveted prize: a small silver trophy, to be presented to the owner of the dogs deemed to have outperformed the rest during the forthcoming contest.

  Squire Portlock’s greyhounds: Scorcher and Fairboy were much fancied that year. So much so, that when the squire and his son duly arrived with the animals in question; a minor melee ensued, as the coursing fraternity crowded round to acquaint themselves with the greyhound’s potential match winning qualities.

  Leaving the dogs to be prepared for the slipper, Squire Portlock and Toby strode towards the marquee to pay their respects. Passing the footmen posted under the awning, they espied His Lordship in discussion with some of his gentlemen farming tenants. But the Portlocks took priority, and excusing himself from their company, Lord Arlingham bid the newcomers welcome.

  “Ah, Jonas! Toby! Good of you to come… I understand you have set your cap for another try at the cup.”

  “We mean to take possession this year, my lord,” Squire Portlock asserted. “Johanna has made space on the mantelpiece in anticipation of our forthcoming success.”

  Lord Arlingham laughed heartily, “Well, we shall know by days end … And Toby? Are you up for the days sport?” He smilingly wondered.

  “I am, my lord,” answered Toby.

  “Oh! That’s all too obvious, sir,” Lord Arlingham replied, “The young man thrives on such occasions. Does he not, Jonas?”

  Squire Portlock readily agreed, “That he most certainly does, my lord.”

  Then His Lordship looked intently out across the Great Meadow, “Soon all will be in readiness,” he remarked to his guests. “Once I give the signal we can begin. But Alas! I seem to have mislaid my son?” It was a matter of propriety after all. Before the proceedings could be officially opened, Lord Arlingham required his son and heir to be present at his side."

  “Look Toby. Be a good fellow and retrieve Rupert to our company? He’s sure to be somewhere nearby.”

  Toby bowed and dutifully embarked upon his errand. Seeking out his erstwhile companion, he gained the high ground above the marquee and there espied Rupert, a little way off from the crowds, peering discreetly down at Home Farm.

  Toby grinned to himself. Since their rendezvous at the fair, Rupert and Toby had become all but strangers.

  “Aha! The Grand Tour has given way to the Grand Obsession I think.”

  Rupert unhurriedly and unfazed turned to face Toby.

  “Well, as to the tour. I think we can but mourn its passing.”

  Toby shrugged indifferently, “Well, who cares anyway. Not I for one. But more to the point, old chum. What transpired between you and the wench in the end? We haven’t talked in an age.”

  “I don’t know what you are referring to,” Rupert curtly replied.

  “Yes, you do,” Toby insisted. “Why of late you’re buttoned up tighter than a stout man’s waistcoat. Do tell all.”

  Rupert slighted by this cavalier address replied warningly, “I take exception to your tone, sir.”

  Undeterred Toby continued in the same vein, “But fie Rupert; what did I see before me just now, but a lovelorn swain spying on the cowsheds. Ha–Ha.”

  Rupert’s response was crushing.

  “Enough! May I remind you as to with whom you speak? I will not be addressed in such a familiar fashion… Least of all by you.”

  Toby, momentarily shocked at this display of class arrogance from his once time old friend, quickly composed himself, and thereafter replied in measured, respectful and most formal terms.

  “Would the Honourable Rupert Valans please accept my apologies? But I am sent by His Lordship who requests your immediate presence.”

  In the frosty silence that followed, the two young men returned to the marquee. Their (long ailing) friendship finally snuffed out for good.

  In the far distance, the lines of beaters, flanked by Jasper Ely and the under keepers, walked steadily abreast over the land adjoining the Great Meadow. As the hares broke cover, the beaters furiously waved rags in the air, driving the startled animal through the hedgerow and onto the open ground where the leading pair of leashed greyhounds were straining to be off.

  Then released by the slipper, the chase was fast and furious, lasting three or more hundred yards. Either the hare swerved, jinked and made it safely to the cover of the far hedgerows, or the dogs kept the hare turning across open ground.

  The beaters paused from their work. In the distance they could hear the lusty shouts of excitement from the viewing gentry.

  On these occasions, every able-bodied man on the estate from cowman to ploughboy was commandeered for the day’s drive. Even John and Charlie found themselves diverted from the trench work at Moorend.

  During the lull, Charlie cupped his hand over eyes and squinted towards the distant activity around the marquee.

  “Why, I believe I see His Lordship, Johnny boy,” he remarked in passing.

  John focussed in. The bright colours of hunting scarlet-coated gentlemen mingled together in sharp relief around the white marquee. Lord Arlingham was easily identified, surrounded (as always) by the local worthies.

  “Holy Mother!” John intoned, “Is there no release from this man?” He crossed himself and earnestly wished he might be elsewhere.

  Nearby, the ever-watchful Jasper Ely cast a weather eye down the line of resting beaters. His wandering gaze came to rest on Peter Rastall chatting with George Bell. It wasn’t hard to guess what they were discussing. He decided to have words. On his approach both men fell silent. In the event Jasper Ely focussed his attention solely on Peter Rastall.

  “Now mark me well, Twilight, if that so be your name. Those hares lawfully belong to Hardcourt Hall. Take one, sir, and you will never see these fields again… That I can promise.”

  Jasper Ely
stared at Peter Rastall allowing his words to sink in. Then with a scowl he turned his attention to the task in hand.

  “Line up.”

  George Bell and Peter Rastall gave one another a quick conspiratorial glance, and prepared for the next drive. Though rightly suspicious of Peter Rastall, it never occurred to Jasper Ely that those biding at Moorend would have the audacity to harbour a running dog in direct defiance of His Lordship’s most sacred edict.

  And indeed the ‘Flyer’ was proving a great success. At break of day, it ran along the edge of the Moorend reed beds. And time and again it returned with a coot or moorhen held in its jaws. The new owners could only regret the piecemeal destruction of the marshland slowly underway, denying them the easy opportunities the habitat so far presented.

  By mutual agreement, both Peter Rastall and George Bell took turns to kennel the Flyer. It skulked between abodes and curled up in the lean-tos until given a run outside. Its baleful yellow eyes glared up reproachfully at those who shut it away for the night. But it never made a sound.

  Poaching and Visitors

  At the beginning of December, the price of bread rose. The corn factors of Gloucester taking advantage of the higher prices bid at Bristol, shipped down a consignment of corn stocks from their local warehouse stores, leaving a shortfall of corn at Gloucester itself.

  The shortages led to a corresponding price rise at home. Things went hard for the local populous, reduced as they were to paying more for their loaves or buying less bread. Many a rumbling belly went unanswered as the poorer felt the pinch, and for those on the land with little winter employment, the hardships were great.

  Moorend was no different. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Now was the time for the Flyer to perform. Defiant of the dire consequences that might follow, Peter Rastall and George Bell in their long woollen coats, gaitered breeches and muddy boots (with Flyer in tow) set off at first light towards the Great Meadow.

  So far, the dog had run down a variety of small prey along the perimeters of the rapidly vanishing Moorend reed beds and the nearby hedgerows. But on that December morning, a bigger prize was sought.