by William Hunt
Reaching a gateway adjoining the Great Meadow, Peter Rastall brought forth a ball of netting from deep inside his coat pockets. Deftly the net was spread and lightly pegged between the ground and bottom gate rung.
Keeping watch, George Bell held the Flyer fast with a simple twine anchored by a noose round his wrist, and looped through the dog’s collar before returning to hand. When released the Flyer could simply run off the open-ended lead.
The plan was simple enough. Put up a hare, turn the Flyer loose and with any luck the quarry would be obliging enough to take the gateway route and tangle itself up in the net.
But two men and a somewhat undersized running dog made for a poor substitute to a well-organised drive. With the acreage spread far and wide before them, the whole concept was hit-and-miss and very much trusting to luck.
Walking across the open meadow, the minutes passed but nothing stirred. Then came a flash of russet brown as a fine Jack hare took off, but it was too far distant to be turned, and it ran altogether in the wrong direction.
“Bugger it,” cursed George Bell whilst the Flyer somersaulted off its hind legs and very near choked on its collar in its eagerness to get started.
Slowly, the early December morning wore on and the light grew a little bolder.
“Time, we were gone,” warned Peter Rastall. Reluctantly, George Bell nodded in agreement.
Disconsolately, the pair trudged back empty handed to retrieve the net from the gateway. Both men knew to dally was folly, but their disappointment was keen. Suddenly… a perfectly placed hare leapt up from under their very feet and raced away.
The Flyer tore off in pursuit leaving a stupefied George Bell caught off guard with the twine dangling from his wrist. Both men stood rooted to the spot, mesmerised by the spectacle unfolding before their eyes.
Pell-mell ran the hunter and hunted. The Flyer was small enough to accelerate faster than its bigger cousins, and the hard-pressed hare was forced to swerve to avoid capture. The Flyer (sent wide) now closed down the gap and the chase drove headlong towards the gateway.
“We’ve got’n!” George Bell shouted in surprise. As one the men ran towards the commotion. The hare had crashed into the net with such speed that the net pegs shot out of the ground as the momentum carried it through into the next field.
With squeals and convulsed jerks, it struggled to get free, but was hopelessly bagged and held fast by the ever-tightening draw line.
Meanwhile the speedy – but none too bright Flyer- had stupidly jammed its neck through the gate bars in a vain attempt to seize its quarry. Such was the dog’s frustration that it was distinctly heard to bark once.
Within seconds the business was done. The hare dispatched and the net stowed. Without another word, the buoyed-up poachers of His Lordship game made off as quickly as they could, dragging the unruly Flyer in their wake.
The plan now was to get the saleable beast across the Severn, and thence onwards to the Gloucester Inn keepers. Peter Rastall knew the people to see. So, he stashed the hare and George Bell kennelled the Flyer. By their calculations, they reckoned to pocket six pence apiece for their trouble.
Ah! A quartern loaf for to fill their bellies, and a pot of cider to mellow the mind. Just the thing needed to keep a man in body and soul on a bleak winter’s day. All in all, it had been a good morning’s work. And nobody was any wiser.
The Great Meadow once more became still, but later that morning the ever-restless Severn began to stir. Big incoming tides rolled up from the Bristol Channel to Gloucester and for miles upriver beyond. To those riverside dwellers, the steady whoosh of the leading tidal bow wave could be heard crashing against the banks as it passed by at the speed of a running man.
Following the onrush came the swollen brimming and creeping floodwater inching ever higher. Eddies and whirlpools sucked and swirled as the hastening tide relentlessly pushed upwards, sometimes for more than an hour.
As the tide finally slowed, the Severn reached its high-water mark. At such times, bigger vessels seeking passage to the Port O’ Gloucester ventured upstream. Though in truth, the hazardous navigation meant few (other than local trows and wherries) ever contemplated such an undertaking.
But once in a while, a far-flung ship would make so bold.
John and Charlie toiled alongside the gangs with the marsh clearance on that cold December morning. Charlie puffed and swore from time to time. In all his born days, he’d never worked so hard before.
But the reed beds were disappearing fast. Trenched round, drained off and finally slashed back, the resultant spaces lay bare and open. A few more acres to clear and the marsh land of Moorend would be no more.
As usual the dirt spoil was tipped directly into the Severn itself, whilst the reeds and wood were thrown on to a bonfire which burnt throughout the day.
Routinely, John rolled his filled barrow along a line of makeshift planks, to be dumped over the bank. With every high tide, the dirt was washed away with nary a trace.
On one such occasion whilst unloading his barrow, John glanced briefly down river. To his surprise, he discerned a ship with a proud hull, making its way up on the slowing flood-tide.
His attention was immediately arrested. The ship was quite unlike anything he’d witnessed so far upstream before. John watched its progress with growing fascination. The vessel seemed familiar somehow.
He could see it was a brig. His brief foray across the Irish Sea had taught him that much. With its sails furled, and borne gently upwards on the Severn tide, the brig made a respectful three knots, and quickly drew nigh.
“Stand aside, mate,” called Charlie, following up behind with a barrow load of dirt spoil. John stood motionless… transfixed.
Charlie paused impatiently. Then, he too caught sight of the brig, and his eyes widened with surprise.
“Gawd! I never thought I’d see one of them ’ere.”
The brig floated majestically by… dreamlike… no-bow waves.
Fluttering from its forrard mast: The Fleur-de-Lys ensign.
It was ‘LA VAGABONDE’
All hands were present. The ships master stood on the fore deck, intently watching the progress of the brig. At the helm Paul stood foursquare behind the wheel, taking directions from a local pilot who’d been hired to guide them in. The other crewmen gazed port and starboard side, and every so often a wave of the hand would signal the wheel to be trimmed accordingly. All aboard made for a study of intense concentration.
“Viva la Vagabonde!” yelled John in his frantic excitement.
Completely startled, the ships compliment eyed John jumping up and down on the bank side frantically waving his hands high in the air. Such a joyously enthusiastic welcome from the shores of England was something they did not expect to receive.
Then as they realised who it was, the momentarily dumbfounded crew gave vent to incredulous shouts and cheers.
“C’est le fantome du John irlandais,” called out the jocular Paul. The others laughed disbelievingly at the spectacle of John’s bank side antics.
Even the ship’s master smiled and shook his head perplexedly at such a strange encounter. But now was not the time to renew old acquaintances.
“À vos taches,” he ordered, and the crew immediately resumed watch over La Vagabonde’s safe progress.
By now the digging party hearing the exchange from ship to shore threw down their spades and billhooks and scrambled over the flood bank to see what the ruckus was about. Richard Amos was not present that morning, so a more relaxed atmosphere prevailed.
The sight of the departing brig held their attention for a few moments. “Them’s foreigners!” exclaimed one.
“No Union Jack flag see.”
Then suspicious eyes fell on John and Charlie. And not for the first time of late. The Reverend Abel Rudhall’s sermon had done its work. Charlie as ever came on with a quick line.
“Why, we didn’t like ’em neither,” he assured his workmates. “Get out of it we said! Bri
tons and King George forever!”
“Ahh!” The mood eased, but just then a distant voice rang out from the deck of La Vagabonde.
"Au-revoir John Mon amie."
Excepting John, nobody knew what had been said, and a collective puzzled silence ensued. With a shake of heads, they started back to work, but not before one of their number mimicked the sound in a derisory babbling fashion. His comic efforts found resonance, and hoots of laughter resounded along the Severn banks.
I-Spy
"ME-LO-DY! ME-LO-DY! Where are you, maidy?
Richard Amos walked purposefully around the yard of Home Farm. Answering her summons, Melody appeared through an outhouse door of the milking parlour.
“Here I am, Mr Amos.”
Richard Amos regarded the young woman for a moment. He couldn’t but be impressed with her pretty presence, but like the rest of the village, he was fully aware of the earlier business at the fairground. Then of course, there was the undercurrent of gossip that speculated at what may have followed.
“Too comely for her own good”, he thought. Then it was down to business. “Your father’s owed payment,” he declared.
The final threshes and winnow had taken place in the barn a day since, and customarily the men were paid off at the end of each stint. Unfortunately, Richard Amos found himself held over at Hardcourt Hall, and the workforce (including George Bell) had gone home empty handed.
Richard Amos knew what these earnings meant and sought to rectify the matter at the earliest opportunity.
“Take this to him forthwith.” He handed over to Melody a small number of copper coins. Melody was hesitant, but Richard Amos shooed her on her way.
“Hop to it then, girl! And don’t be long mind.”
Melody fetched her bonnet and tied it on tightly, before draping her shawl over her shoulders for protection from the cold December day. Then suitably attired, she set out at a brisk trot to Moorend with the back pay owed her father. Crossing the fields to Buttermilk Lane wasn’t a good option at this time of year. Consequently, she went by way of a detour past Hardcourt Hall.
But as she made her way up the lane, the symbolic white swan surmounting the imposing wrought iron gates loomed large atop the hill. Melody approached with trepidation… fervently, hoping she might avoid any unfortunate encounters with those whose displeasure she’d recently incurred.
Unfortunately for Melody, Hardcourt stables lay on the opposite side of the lane. And as she passed by. The maid was immediately spotted by several young stable lads, who responded lustily with whistles and bawdy comments.
Perchance Rupert happened to be present in the yard and, attracted by the disturbance, took measure of its source. Catching sight of Melody, Rupert feelings of youthful ardour welled up once more. Then she disappeared from sight… Distractedly, Rupert recovered himself and issued instructions to the head groom.
“Saddle up my horse. I will ride out now.”
Shortly afterwards Rupert cantered onto the lane, and reined his steed in the direction of the maids progress. The stable hands with smirking faces watched in amusement, until the head groom bawled them out to attend their tasks.
Drawn spontaneously in her wake, Rupert kept a discreet distance. He had no plan other than to follow where’er she led. Half a mile on, Melody came to a fork in the lane. One way led to St Mary’s Church. The other sloped down to the water meadows and along Buttermilk Lane to Moorend.
But what was this? A rider approached from the direction of the Church. It was Toby Portlock. Of late, Toby no longer rode with the Hardcourt foxhounds. These days he was to be found with the neighbouring hunt at Berkeley. With the estrangement of the two young men now complete. Their paths, (other than by accidental encounter) no longer crossed.
Rupert watched with voyeuristic intensity as Toby reached the maid and dismounted. Together they talked easily for a minute. Then they embraced and kissed.
Melody broke free to continue her errand. But not before she briefly stopped to wave affectionately to her summer love. Toby responded in like manner, before riding jauntily back along Church Lane to Manor Farm.
For Rupert, belated realisation finally broke like a thunderclap. They were known to each other. And for how long he wondered? Rupert spurred up and resumed his compulsive pursuit. Along Buttermilk Lane Melody flowed gracefully onward.
Rupert recalled how he contrived to meet with her on this very lane last summer. Then his feelings were of sweet rejoicing. But now, he traversed the same terrain in a state of mind that was far from harmonious.
He reined up. The maid had reached the family home at Moorend. Rupert dare not get closer. He dismounted and took cover behind one of the few withy trees left standing. Whereupon he reached inside his coat pocket and brought forth his trusty brass spyglass.
Rupert scanned the dwelling. His task made all the more-easier as a result of the past clearance work. Now the little copyhold cottage and its small paddock abutting the Severn banks, lay exposed to the outside world.
As he watched, Melody was greeted by her mother at the door. She stepped inside, and all became still. Nonplussed, Rupert Valans put down his spyglass and pondered his next move… And as he did so, a long overdue objectivity began to assert itself in his young mind. He took a step back and looked hard at the ridiculous antics he was currently engaged in.
What would his father think of this behaviour now? That he. The son of a Viscount and heir to the Hardcourt estates, was ingloriously traipsing behind a village maid like some lowly ploughboy. He became consumed with feelings of self-reproach at the level he’d sunk to. Why, this nonsense must stop forthwith. It was time to comport himself in a manner befitting his station.
So resolved, Rupert was on the point of breaking off, when suddenly he discerned further activity at the cottage. Once more he raised his spyglass, and there was no mistaking what he saw. It was George Bell with a running cur and what looked like a rabbit draped over his shoulder.
Rupert watched as George Bell bundled the dog inside a lean to before retiring indoors. Rupert put down his spyglass and stared on in a cold fury.
“Why! Those people make pretty fools of us,” he spoke loudly in an ever-growing rage.. “The daughter mocks my love and her father steals our property… But no more – NOT EVER!”
Rupert re-mounted, and (in complete contravention of his usually cautious nature) rode back along Buttermilk Lane at the hardest of gallops.
The Law of the Land
Blithely unaware that anything was amiss, Melody delivered her father’s back pay and promptly returned to Home Farm, as per instructions. All the while, the dire consequences facing her family that she had so unwittingly set in motion… gathered momentum.
And dire they were, for on that December day in 1791, the Honourable Rupert Valans truly came of age. Without prior consultation with his father – and by his own express command – the estate overseers were sent for, and summarily despatched post-haste to Moorend.
A regular posse of men headed by Jasper Ely and Richard Amos progressed rapidly on foot along Buttermilk Lane. And if there was any doubt as to the seriousness of their intentions, one of the under keepers even shouldered a scattergun.
At the Bell’s cottage the head of the household was summoned forth and a fine ‘how-do-you-do’ followed. The accusations of wrongdoing were countered by the inevitable denials.
There followed a brief search, and the Flyer was almost immediately located. With a flourish the dog was paraded before the crestfallen George Bell, and his anxious brood.
“This goes badly for you, Bell,” Jasper Ely spoke grimly.
“Tis only a mangy mutt Jasper,” George Bell desperately attempted friendly familiarity with the estate martinet. “Why, I’ll drown him right now and all’s done with. What say?”
Richard Amos shook his head sternly.
“The dog was seen by His Lordships son, George.”
Just then, a further revelation brought deepening crisis for the B
ell household. A rabbit was found. Now poaching had been proven, and the luckless George Bell was henceforth to be placed in charge of the parish constable.
Alice pleaded desperately for her husband: How were they to live? She wailed. What would become of them? Their two younger children, Tim and Sarah, began to cry in unison.
“You’ve no one to blame but yourselves missus,” retorted Jasper Ely. “Wrongs been done, and the proofs plain for all to see.”
Amid the general pandemonium, young Jack Rastall (who happened to be present), slipped away unnoticed and made off home.
Along the lea of the Severn flood bank, Jack ran as hard as he could to warn his father of the gathering storm that must surely find its way to their own smallholding.
Peter Rastall was indoors by the wood fire, weaving an eel puncheon from withy wands in preparation for warmer days when the eels fed and the trap could be baited. Eels and elvers were left to the poor folk after all.
Breathlessly, Jack broke the news to his father. Peter Rastall was galvanised into action.
“Go, keep watch,” he ordered, and then frantically he sought to rid himself of any incriminating evidence. The hare hung up on a hook in the larder alcove, was hastily bundled (along with nets and snare lines) into a sackcloth bag. Once he’d tied up the neck with string, Peter Rastall raced from the cottage to dump the lot into the Severn.
When he got to the bank, he found to his consternation, the river languished at low tide.
A few yards out-separated by a narrow channel of water, lay a long exposed sandy spit curving to a taper out into the main watercourse. Peter Rastall paused irresolutely wondering what to do next. Then he heard Jack’s warning cry.
“Them’s a coming, Dad.” That did it.
Peter Rastall scrambled down the bank and forded the channel in double quick time. The water lapped around the top of his knee breeches. Once onto the spit, he raced across the sandy bed, and reaching its farthest point, he hurled the bag out into the Severn. With a splash the bag hit the water, flattened out, and slowly began to float away downstream.
