Running Dogs

by William Hunt

  With nary a backward glance, Peter Rastall ran pell-mell along the sandy spit to shore. As he clambered to the top of the bank, he espied a body of men fast approaching. Without a moment to spare, Peter Rastall ducked behind some straggling clumps of reeds and speedily skulked back to the cottage. Once inside, he joined the waiting Jack, who looked up at his father in wide-eyed questioning anxiety.

  “Don’t fret thyself, boy,” Peter Rastall reassured his son with a hug, and thereafter they stood together silently waiting. A minute later came the sounds of muffled voices outside… growing louder… followed by a series of hefty thumps against the door.

  Peter Rastall waited a moment before answering. “How do!” he spoke in apparent surprise.

  Richard Amos, Jasper Ely and the gun toting under keeper, oppressively filled the doorway.

  Jasper Ely bluntly announced the reasons for the call.

  “We have taken one felon today Rastall… a neighbour of yours. And if I’m any judge; we’ll soon have another. Now step back! We come on estate business, and mean to search here.”

  Without protest, Peter Rastall obliged, and the searchers ferreted through the little cottage’s attic and downstairs room, but found nothing.

  The stone outhouse was no different. On a wooden shelf lay a few trays of crab apples, and a cheese made from goat’s milk. At floor level, the remaining space was taken by several bundles of withy wands. And propped up in the far comer: An elver net, scythe and flail… Most disappointing!

  “Nothing here, Jasper,” said Richard Amos with a shake of his head, and the search was deemed to be concluded. But as Peter Rastall breathed an inward sigh of relief, his muddy stockings and wet breeches caught the attention of the eagle-eyed head keeper.

  “Been a paddlin’?” Jasper Ely asked Peter Rastall quizzically.

  “Oh! I slipped down the bank just now,” replied Peter Rastall, feigning unconcern. But Jasper Ely smelt a rat.

  “Let’s all go and take a look, shall we?” he said. Bidding his son to stay indoors, Peter Rastall (now under close escort) retraced his steps to the river’s edge.

  When the party reached the Severn shoreline; all eyes were irresistibly drawn to the sandy spit, and the scattering of fresh tracks that ran to and fro across the otherwise pristine gentle convex bed of the Severn.

  “There!” Jasper Ely pointed to an inert lumpy object lying in the water a few yards off the spit’s point beyond the furthest traverse of the tracks. Peter Rastall’s heart sank. The bag lay stranded… Run aground in the shallows.

  “What say, Rastall?” demanded Richard Amos with a critical frown.

  “Ah, well! I chanced to see it, Mr Amos sir,” Peter Rastall replied casually, “And I took the notion to find out it had any worth. But that was nothing more than a sack bag of stinkin’ rubbish,” he added, pinching his nose in a theatrical gesture.

  Jasper Ely saw things quite differently, “Oh, there’s a tale. First, he tells us he slipped in the water – now he ventures out. And mark me well, Dick! Those feet marks were done at a run.” Jasper Ely looked accusingly at Peter Rastall.

  “Why he’s cast it out there by his own hand.”

  Richard Amos listened to the exchange, and erred on the side of caution. “We’d best be sure,” he said, and the under keeper was delegated to retrieve the bag.

  As the man put down his gun and removed his coat in preparation for the crossing; Jasper Ely noted the colour drain from Peter Rastall’s face. Drawing close, the head keeper spoke softly in his ear with gloating malice.

  “Sabrina has betrayed you, Twilight. She’ll not hide your crimes.” Then urging his under keeper forward he shouted encouragingly, “Go to it man. Bring back our prize, and there’s a glass o’ brandy for your trouble.”

  Fortified by the prospect, the man descended the bank and began to gingerly negotiate the channel. Suddenly, in the distance there came a steady whoosh growing ever louder. Running upriver, an oncoming breaking bow wave stretched from bank to bank. The morning tidal bore rolled towards them.

  Jasper Ely’s previously smug demeanour changed to one of urgent bidding.

  “There’s time yet. Get on!”

  The under keeper made it on to the sandy spit, but seeing the approaching bow wave became unsure of himself.

  “Run Man! Run!”

  Under orders the under keeper struck out gamely, but already the leading waves broke over the southernmost end of the spit and washed around the object of his quest.

  Nevertheless, it would seem that with a determined effort and a quick snatch, it might still be possible to retrieve the bag. Driven on by lusty shouts of exhortation from shore, the man closed in.

  Suddenly, the water lifted the bag from its anchorage. It was aground no more. Caught up in the tidal onrush, the bag swept upriver and fast began to disappear into the flowing depths. Beyond all reach.

  Now it was time for the under keeper to save himself. Desperately wading back through the fast-flowing water, he frantically floundered towards the bank. But as he came within yards of safety, the rising water filled the once shallow channel to waist height, and rushed past with such force, the man was in danger of being swept away.

  Ever alert, Peter Rastall quickly retrieved an ash pole from his beached punt, and offered up a lifeline.

  “Here now!”

  With a desperate grab, the under keeper took hold of the pole and was hauled out of danger, beyond the rising tide and to safety.

  He sat on the bank shivering and speechless. Such was his fright, the hairs on his head stood up on end… like the bristles on a besom.

  As the shivering under keeper donned his coat, Richard Amos beckoned them away. Their business with Peter Rastall was done. With a face like thunder, Jasper Ely grudgingly acceded, and without another word, the ‘would be’ enforcers of ‘Manorial and Kings Law’ departed.

  Peter Rastall remained behind. Silently, he contemplated the brown turbulent waters of the Severn surging upwards and onwards to Gloucester. In his thirty-five years, he knew the mischief these tempestuous waters could bring.

  How many had drowned? Or been flooded out of their homes? “Folk without number”, he reflected. But today the Severn brought deliverance. He trembled at the thought of how close he had been to disaster. What was to come, he couldn’t guess. But if God spared him and Jack, they would stay by Sabrina’s side for all of their days.

  Meanwhile Jasper Ely’s blood was up. Thwarted by Peter Rastall’s miraculous escape, he was consumed by frustration. With the bedraggled under keeper sent on ahead, Jasper Ely gave vent to his ire.

  “Why, that bloody ne-er do well has cheated us again,” he spoke bitterly to Richard Amos. “As God is my witness, we had him. A minute sooner, and the evidence would have been ours. Enough to damn the man to Botany Bay even.”

  But the bailiff now deeply troubled by the day’s events, drew the head keeper’s attention to the sight of George Bell led manacled along Buttermilk Lane under the close arrest of the newly arrived parish constable and the posse of keepers.

  In their possession was the incriminating evidence. The Flyer trailed along on a leash, whilst it’s erstwhile prey, the rabbit, dangled by tied paws from the barrel of the scattergun triumphantly borne aloft by the lately arrived (and rather damp) under keeper.

  “This goes hard, Jasper,” Richard Amos was moved to say.

  “He’s deserving of it. The laws broke!” Jasper Ely responded harshly. “Well, that’s as may be. But I don’t feel right about it and it’s a poor sort of a man that does,” Richard Amos retorted hotly. But Jasper Ely wasn’t listening.

  In silhouette, the distant fish hut caught his attention. “Well, Dick! See here, the day is not done yet.”

  Jasper Ely made his intentions clear to Richard Amos. He would search the fish hut as well. The exasperated Richard Amos was left with no option but to follow the zealous head keeper in the relentless prosecution of his duty.

  Upon reaching the deserted hut, the
door was forced and thrown wide open. The grey December light broke over the mean abode.

  “Hmph!” Richard Amos gave a contemptuous snort, “And what did you think to find here then?”

  The tiny rectangular cell offered no hiding place at all. It was the meanest of abodes.. The two pallets were shifted back and forth, revealing mere bare floor.

  Other than a pan of pottage resting on the ashes in the fire grate, a bundle of kindling by the hearth and two greasy wooden plates placed alongside a stone quart pot jar, nothing else of interest could be discerned.

  Except!

  “Hold fast! What’s this?” The ever-watchful Jasper Ely plucked out a thin book set alongside a candleholder in the wall recess.

  “Why tis a book? Here of all places too,” he noted, thumbing the pages. “What does it say?” wondered Richard Amos.

  Jasper Ely shook his head vacantly, “It’s full of fanciful words Dick.”

  In truth, both men’s literacy was rather basic. Tenancy lists, crops, animals and farm implements encompassed the outer limits of their comprehension of the written word.

  Jasper Ely pondered… undecided as to its importance or otherwise. Then he reached a decision and pocketed the little book forthwith.

  “We’ll let His Lordship be the judge of it,” he firmly declared.

  With no further satisfaction to be gained, the door was pushed to and Richard Amos and Jasper Ely departed, leaving little fish hut once more plunged into cold darkness.

  Books & Banishment

  Rupert’s actions that day came highly commended.

  “You have acquitted yourself in a correct and proper manner, my boy,” his father warmly congratulated his son. The heir apparent to Hardcourt Hall was making his mark for all to see.

  “Perchance you were most fortuitously placed to observe these transgressions. But is due process of law now permitted? Or do we show magnanimity in this case?” His Lordship wondered.

  Rupert replied swiftly and with complete certainty, “The man must suffer the full severity of law, and the families tenancy be revoked forthwith.”

  Lord Arlingham, unaware of Rupert’s vengeful mind-set, misinterpreted his son’s hard response as a manifestation of youthful zeal, which oft attends the first stirrings and exercise of power.

  “Fie boy… Once more you are leading the charge here.”

  But on the whole, His Lordship was minded that the man be punished in a lesser way: a term of imprisonment rather than transportation or the gallows even. A word with one of the JPs would suffice.

  Yet again, Rupert vehemently argued the case that leniency equalled weakness.

  “The parlous state of affairs in France surely dictates our actions here in England Papa… We must defend ourselves!” He vigorously concluded.

  “Hmm! Your counsel is duly noted,” his father acknowledged, “But first I wish to hear from Bailiff Amos and Keeper Ely before a final decision is made. Now if you please. Our guests will soon be arriving.”

  That evening, a pre-Christmas concert had been arranged at Hardcourt Hall. Already in place and warming up in the ballroom, an ensemble of hired musicians from Kings College Gloucester warmed up. Strains of Handel compositions emanated from horn, viola and flute, as the ensemble awaited the time to commence.

  On this particular occasion a number of Gloucester Corporation dignitaries and their wives were prominent at the December function… and with good reason. The air was heavy with formal political business.

  Lord Arlingham’s sympathies lay with the Tory party, and a certain Gloucester wine merchant had presented his candidacy to stand as a prospective Tory MP for the Parliamentary lower house in the coming year.

  Submitting himself for endorsement by his peers, the wine merchant presented Hardcourt Hall with a case of claret from Bordeaux.

  “Arrived on a French ship only yesterday,” the prospective candidate proudly stated. The claret was well received and further revived local hopes that Gloucester might challenge the Port O’ Bristol in the future.

  “For once, some good comes in a shipment from France,” His Lordship remarked to the party.

  “The brig departs on tomorrows tide, my lord.”

  “And I for one will not detain them,” Lord Arlingham wryly commented to the sounds of laughter.

  Just then a footman informed His Lordship of a waiting delegation in the reception chamber. Lord Arlingham broke off from the partygoers, and shortly met up with Richard Amos and Jasper Ely.

  “And what news of my son’s bidding?”

  His Lordship was informed that acting on the instructions of The Honourable Rupert Valans… A George Bell from Moorend was subsequently arrested and taken by parish constable to Gloucester County Gaol… where he was charged with poaching a rabbit and having in his possession a running dog contrary to Manorial Law… He was thereafter bound over to stand trial at Gloucester Quarter Sessions next. The evidence proved conclusively, that the man was guilty beyond all reasonable doubt.

  “I see,” said Lord Arlingham, “Then, he will be justly punished for committing his offence against us… But we are not without clemency. I will attest the man’s previous good character, and reduce his sentence to incarceration… However!” His Lordship emphatically added. “Upon his release from Gloucester prison, he is banished from Hardcourt for all time.”

  Richard Amos deferentially enquired as to the fate of the remaining Bell family. “As to that,” His Lordship decreed, “If the copyhold obligations to the estate are honoured, they may stay… for the while.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Satisfied with the outcome, Lord Arlingham brought the matter to a close. “That will be all,” he said and contemplating the (soon to be served) dinner, made to leave.

  “There is one more thing, My Lord,” ventured Jasper Ely, awkwardly.

  “Be quick!” was the terse response.

  “We had cause to carry out a search of a nearby abode…”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “And we found this…”

  Lord Arlingham took possession of the little book. Then quite unexpectedly his demeanour changed. For several seconds he froze, staring fixedly at the front cover.

  “DAMNATION!” Lord Arlingham swore, “Damnation to the man. He lost us the colonies. And now he is sowing his republican mischief… UPON THIS VERY ESTATE!” He shouted in a towering rage.

  “Who are the people from whence this came?” He demanded to know.

  “Passing labourers, held over for work on the marsh, my lord,” explained Richard Amos.

  “Good, God!” Lord Arlingham spoke in astonishment… That these written sentiments could be harboured by such lowly types demonstrated just how great England’s peril had become. Why Rupert had been right all the time.

  “Remove these Malignants from Hardcourt immediately!” he ordered, “Now I say! NOW!”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Richard Amos and Jasper Ely quickly departed from an incandescent Viscount and Peer of the Realm. His reaction was beyond anything either had ever witnessed. How the printed word could raise the man to such wrath was a marvel to behold.

  John and Charlie trudged home tired and muddied to the fish hut in the rapidly fading December light. Too beat to make the Forge Inn for a quart, and a crust. Tonight, they would simply drop onto their palettes… and sleep in their coats and boots.

  They were but a short distance off, when Charlie urgently nudged John. Activity was fairly buzzing outside the hut, and a bonfire lit. Instantly their weariness fell away.

  “Holy Mother… Our burning beds,” John crossed himself. Then the pair was spotted. Work ceased, and all eyes fell on them. There was nothing else for it but to press on regardless.

  What passed for worldly possessions had been stripped, dumped outside and thrown on the bonfire. Richard Amos stepped up and delivered more hard news.

  “I am ordered by Hardcourt estate to see you depart forthwith.”

  “What for? What
have we done?” Asked Charlie disbelievingly.

  “Disloyalty to England,” replied Jasper Ely.

  “Eh!”

  “French republicans. That’s what you are. His Lordship said so after he read what we gave him.”

  Charlie cottoned on instantly, “They found that bleedin’ book of yours, Johnny.”

  There was one last card to play.

  “But we claim parish settlement. Its law of the land,” asserted Charlie.

  “Not so,” countered Richard Amos, “A complaint was lodged against you when first you came. The churchwardens noted it down. You have no rights here.”

  “Get back to your own parish and let them feed you,” growled Jasper Ely to general murmurs of agreement.

  “What about our wages owed?” John cried indignantly

  “Be gone!” Jasper Ely threateningly warned, and as he spoke, the under keepers closed in ready to deal with any further argument. So compelled, the pair suffered themselves to be placed under close escort, and force marched to the Hardcourt parish boundary. Thereupon they were roughly jettisoned into the cold dark night.

  “Away now!”

  Blindly, John and Charlie pressed on awhile, but bereft of an alternative option, they circumspectly crept back into Hanging Covert on Windmill Hill and secretly watched the activity taking place below. The orange glow of the bonfire reflected on the waters of the Severn, and threw the beleaguered fish hut into sharp relief.

  Then the men took up their oil lamps and departed. Tomorrow they would return and knock the fish hut down for good. Time passed, the bonfire faded, until nothing more than a dull-red light feebly glowed in the winter darkness.

  Stumbling down Windmill Hill, the two made it back inside. Now it was just an empty cold brick shell. From the dying embers of the bonfire, John retrieved a smouldering taper. Thankfully, the candle in the recess was still there. John lit the candle, and thereafter brought his attention to bear on the brickwork at the base of the hearth.

  “What are you doin’ now?” queried Charlie.