by William Hunt
Toby had taken all he could.
“I fancy you are the bigger swine than I, Rupert Valans!” He snapped. And forthwith Toby strode angrily from the drawing room. Never more would he return to Hardcourt Hall. Rupert remained alone, bristling with outrage at the received insolence.
Afterwards Rupert took to his quarters, and from his window, he coldly watched Toby gallop away down the hill past Home Farm. With malice aforethought Rupert vengefully planned to spike Toby’s guns by scuppering his wishes. And simultaneously dash the maid’s hopes into the bargain.
He would petition his father, the moment he returned from his morning ride. But unusually, he was late today. Needful of a diversion at this time, Rupert made his way to the automaton resting on a nearby table and wound up the mechanism.
Under the glass dome the dainty tune proceeded apace, and the doll performed exquisitely, whilst from time to time the little dog appreciatively wagged its tail. After a minute, the delicate symmetry of music and movement came to rest, and once more the doll stared ahead with unblinking fathomless blue eyes.
John and Charlie fled pell-mell along the Bristol Road towards Gloucester. And a busy road it was too. For today was market day. Flocks of sheep and cattle were being driven to town, presenting the fugitives with the chance to blend anonymously among men and beasts.
But not all traffic was incoming. Perchance the wagoner from Hardcourt had just completed a delivery of hay to the Bell Inn coaching stables in Gloucester.
Trundling back along Southgate Street, he spotted John and Charlie engaged in hurried conversation with a somewhat harassed cattle drover.
The drover jabbed his stick westwards and, following these perfunctory directions, the two men promptly set off down Blackfriars Road. The wagoner pulled his cart over to allow the passing cattle priority. He knew the drover well enough.
“Mornin’ Jacob,” the wagoner called out. Jacob nodded back, whilst walloping the rear of laggardly cattle with his stick. Cowpats slopped abundantly onto the streets of Gloucester at such times.
“Those two just now… What’s their game?”
“They seek the Port,” Jacob replied.
“Hmm!” The wagoner was puzzled. “What brings them there?” He wondered. Perhaps they were sent on an errand? Briefly he cudgelled his brains over the incident, but the ‘whys and wherefores’ eluded him and with fading interest, the wagoner tickled up the harness reins and continued on his homeward journey.
The peace of Hardcourt Hall was suddenly disturbed by shouts of alarm from a villager running (with fine disregard for propriety) across the pristine lawns.
His Lordship had been in a mishap. As the news resonated throughout the building, guests and servants spilled out onto the steps and mingled together in momentary classless consternation. All eyes turned in hushed expectation towards the entrance.
Then a tumultuous body of common people arrived en masse through the gates of Hardcourt Hall. For the French aristocrats the spectacle reawakened frightening memories and the family began to exhibit signs of panic.
“Ç'est la révolution venir ici?” cried Mlle Rosalyn clinging to her mother. Contessa Lisa made no reply, but stood ashen faced alongside her husband Comte Henri. And in breathless expectation they awaited the throng’s arrival.
Upon reaching Hardcourt Hall, the crowd parted revealing a dishevelled and confused Lord Arlingham lying prostrate and bloodied on a makeshift stretcher carried by four strong village men…
Appalled at such a shocking sight, a collective gasp of horror rose from the waiting onlookers, but Major Bullimore stepped into the breach and swiftly took command. Fittingly attired in full dress uniform, he was due to attend a regimental reunion of the Third Greys later that day.
“Make way!” he ordered, whereupon His Lordship was swiftly stretchered inside and made comfortable on a horsehair divan in the drawing room. On the opposite wall above the fireplace, Lady Catherine looked brightly down on her stricken husband…
“What has happened, Papa?” Rupert enquired in great agitation, but it was clear the Viscount was too unwell for lucid discussion. Rupert demanded a physician be immediately sent for. In the meantime, the head butler hastily poured out a goblet of brandy to revive his ailing master, whilst a servant carefully applied a makeshift tourniquet to the peer’s lacerated forehead.
Looking at the wound, Major Bullimore guessed as to its origins. Taking Rupert to one side, he bluntly gave his frank assessment.
“I’ll warrant; my lord has been gunshot.”
“My father shot!” voiced Rupert in loud incredulity. Hearing this appalling news, the assembled guests maintaining a respectful vigil, broke into a cacophony of babble. That such a thing could happen in Gloucestershire was scarcely believable?
“Mon Dieu ait pitié de nous,” The Comte earnestly crossed himself and then looked on helplessly whilst the Comtesse Lisa and Mlle Rosalyn broke with protocol and retired fearfully to their quarters.
Major Bullimore could delay no longer. The assailed peer held vital information.
“How came this, my lord?”
“Armed knaves,” His Lordship replied wearily.
“I know them not, but they spoke of things I cannot believe,” he concluded cryptically.
Then listlessly waving the Major away, Lord Arlingham declined to comment further.
“What now Major?” Rupert urgently enquired of the cavalry officer.
“We need to know whom we seek sir!”
Major Bullimore strode outside, and called on those gathered below.
“Who is responsible for this wicked act?”
A cry arose from the crowd that left no room for doubt, “Charlie Rackford and John Hughes… They done it.”
Satisfied as to the culprit’s identity, Major Bullimore began to issue further instructions.
“Those stables hands among you. Saddle up – spread out – and ride hard. A golden guinea goes to him that brings us news of their whereabouts.”
Galvanised into action at the prospect of such a fabulous reward, the stable lads broke away, and raced off to Hardcourt stables.
Major Bullimore made a further proclamation.
“In the King’s name, I seek able volunteers to apprehend these wrongdoers.”
A forest of hands went up. The sweet scent of adventure and possible financial gain beckoned. Major Bullimore came among them, and selected those he thought fit for service, before making a further announcement.
“There’s a further reward to those that lay hands on these two. Now make ready a conveyance and arm yourselves.”
As the volunteers set about their tasks, Rupert joined the commanding officer and sought his opinion as to where the fugitives might be headed.
“Gloucester is a strong possibility,” Major Bullimore replied…
“Then, why do you not proceed forthwith?” Rupert demanded impatiently.
“We await intelligence from our scouting party before we deploy our forces. It is military procedure, Rupert.”
“And all the while these malefactors make good their escape?” Rupert bitterly complained.
“If we hear nothing within the hour, then Gloucester will be invested,” the Major conceded. Rupert retired in a huff and re-joined his father.
Time passed. The physician arrived and attended His Lordship. Fully aware of the apparent inactivity outside, Rupert fretted by his father’s side until at last he could contain himself no longer.
Angrily, he strode out to remonstrate with Major Bullimore, (who at that moment was gaining further valuable intelligence from the latterly arrived Jasper Ely and Richard Amos).
“My father has been shot, and you languish here at Hardcourt Hall, Major? I demand you take action, sir!”
“Wait! Look!” The cry went up as one of the stable lads sped through the gates at a hard gallop. He reined up alongside the expectant audience, and told of his encounter with the wagoner along the Bristol Road.
“The Port O’ Glouceste
r is where they be,” the lad cried exultantly.
“Good man,” congratulated Major Bullimore, and forthwith ordered the volunteers to board the awaiting cart. The cavalry officer befittingly and commandingly rode to the fore.
With hue and cry, the horse pair was whipped up to a trot and the volunteer militia headed off post-haste towards Gloucester.
But in passing, Major Bullimore flipped a golden guinea to the messenger lad, who snatched the coin effortlessly out of the air whilst still astride his lathered mount… To universal and noisy approbation of all present.
“HURRAH!”
“We’ll take these scoundrels never fear!”
The departing Major called out encouragingly, and raised his tri-corn hat to the now heartened and cheering well-wishers, (including the newly won over Rupert Valans, and (by now) a much bolstered Comte de Moritz).
Together with arms linked, the male heads of the two Aristocratic families responded with gusty unison. The clarion calls of the hunting fraternity rang out loud and clear from the steps of Hardcourt Hall on that December morn of 1791.
“TALLY HO…!”
Gloucester Calling
The French business at Gloucester was nearly done. The day before La Vagabonde’s cargo of wine barrels had been manhandled out of her hold by dockside workers, and transferred at a run from ship to quayside steps along bouncing duckboards that straddled the Severn’s muddy foreshore.
Since lightened the brig had been turned and now faced downriver. All that remained was to wait upon the morning tide.
With time in hand the ships master and crew de camped to the Mermaid Inn on the comer of Quay lane, to fortify themselves before undertaking the return journey.
They needed it. None had ever negotiated such a difficult stretch of water before. All drank to a safe voyage out of the Bristol Channel. Only then would their collective ease return.
To add to their discomfort, the navigation pilot had gone ahead to attend his craft moored downriver at Bollow Pool. There he promised to rendezvous with La Vagabonde and guide them round the eight-mile horseshoe bend of the Severn.
“Just follow the trows past Stonebench,” the pilot advised the ships master. And all would be well. The French compliment certainly hoped so.
But now John and Charlie breathlessly tumbled down Quay lane and finally stood on the waterfront. Boats aplenty lined the Severn, their furled white sails luffed in the chill December wind… But one stood out from all the others.
La Vagabonde’s bulky hull rose high above the wide beams and shallow drafts of the local craft moored up alongside. There could be no mistaking the French brig with its Fleur-de-Lys ensign fluttering from the mast.
With hope rekindled, John and Charlie made rapid progress along the quayside wall towards the object of their quest, but on reaching the brig, they were dismayed to see no one aboard. A passing dockworker saw their predicament, and directed them to the Mermaid Inn.
“If it’s the Frenchie’s you want, mates, try over there.” No hard work to find this place. Over the entrance hung a garish sign depicting a flowing red haired naked woman with her hands crossed over her breasts. Below her midriff, she sported a turquoise green fishy tail.
John and Charlie made their way to the tavern. Inside, the bar floor was covered in sawdust, and the room was blue with tobacco smoke.
Dockworkers imbibed the first of the day’s liquor intake… Some already worse for wear. But of the brigs compliment there was no sign.
Then amidst the hubbub of noise, came the sounds of voices raised in song from behind a side door.
“Danson La Carmagnole.”
“Viva le son Viva la son’ du canon.”
A pot man waylaid the two newcomers.
“Hear that Frenchie lingo?” He spoke disapprovingly. “Be glad to see the back of ’em.”
“Uh… We come with a message,” John explained ingenuously.
“Humph! Do you now?” The pot man snorted.
“Well, no trouble mind,” he warned. “There’s been some already.”
The pair approached and listened for a few seconds to the joviality within. Then, John tepidly knocked on the door. The singing stopped abruptly. After a few seconds, the door was challengingly flung wide open. Momentarily, there was a tense standoff… after which those inside burst out laughing in huge surprise.
"Ah! Un sympathique visage enfin."
The pair crossed over the threshold. John hailed each and all in tum, and then introduced Charlie who kept warily in John’s shadow. Nevertheless (to the great relief of the hard-pressed fugitives) both found themselves readily received.
And most welcoming it was in that little back room. Unlike the Mermaid bar with its dull pewter quart pots, rough cider and even rougher company, the table was replete with a bottle of brandy and glass goblets that warmly glinted in the firelight.
But what caught the hungry eyes of John and Charlie was a half-eaten joint of mutton and the remnants of a bread loaf. Their pressing need was quite apparent.
"Ici. Manger". Paul pushed the meat dish across the table, and all watched with ironic smiles, as the ravenous pair gobbled up the leftovers.
"You would take Eau-de-Vie?" The ships master invited and poured out two measures of brandy. John and Charlie hastily threw back the drink, but unused to such potent liquor, spluttered and coughed to further merriment.
Recovering themselves and much appreciative of their hospitality, the purpose of their visit became clear. John (with certain omissions) explained their plight to the ships master.
“So, the little republican book got you in to trouble?”
The ships master passed on the received information to the crew. There were noises of indignation, but also that of great sympathy. Then John got to the point.
“Can we sail with you to France?” he asked with bated breath.
Charlie caught the look of surprise on the ships master’s face, and guessed it was time to throw in the cash incentive.
“See, look!” Charlie spread the French notes over the table, “We can pay.”
There was a stunned silence, followed by cries of astonishment.
“Avez-vous vu autant d'assignats?”
“Nous sommes en Bordeaux de’j’a?” Paul joked.
"Cetait rapide." “Ils cherchent passage sur La Vagabonde.” The ships master told the wondering crew. The next question was inevitably forthcoming.
“How come you by this money?”
Charlie shook his head, shrugged and smiled vacantly into space. Amid uproarious laughter, the ships master further informed the crew that Charlie found the assignats nestling within a fairy ring of magic mushrooms. “Sont ils pas compatriot republicans?” Paul asserted.
And here all were agreed. There must be fraternity with Irish John and his friend Charlie. In this their hour of need.
The ships master bowed to the consensus of opinion, and told the anxiously waiting pair the good news.
“Very well John… You may board La Vagabonde once more. Charlie also. But we journey far, and passage to Bordeaux must be paid…”
Eagerly Charlie offered up the wad of assignats to the ships master, who brushed the proffered money aside.
"Now is not the time, Mon amie," he spoke sternly before adding a cautionary proviso of his own.
“Soon the excise-men will search our ship. Only when they depart, may you may come aboard.” Then he issued his orders to the crew.
“Finir le cognac. La Vagabonde attend”.
With a final salutation, the goblets were downed and suddenly John and Charlie found themselves alone. It was a precious moment of quiet introspection.
Charlie broke the silence, “I never once did go on water, Johnny boy.”
But John reflected on the extraordinary power of the little book given to him by Fergus O’Donnell. Aristocrats raged, and Frenchmen cheered at the sight of it.
“Whatever did that book say I wonder?” He muttered to himself. Charlie shrugged ind
ifferently.
“Who cares, not I… What I say is farewell… Here!”
Charlie poured out the remaining splash of brandy into their goblets. They drank. This time it went down more easily. Fortified, the two men took silent regard of each other, and with the first stirrings of hope they had known in their hard lives, departed the back room of The Mermaid.
Soon, they could board the brig, and sail away from all their sorrows, to a faraway place over the horizon, where neither had ever been before. And both in their hearts… had always wished to go.
Time never passed more slowly. The two fugitives loitered discretely on the quayside and waited. Finally, after an age, the excise men duly appeared from the Custom House, led by an official gentleman dressed in high hat and blue frock coat with red borders.
One by one the vessels were meticulously inspected, until it was the turn of ‘La Vagabonde’. The brig was singled out for special attention, and a lengthy investigation ensued. John and Charlie’s faces grew taut with waiting. Would these excise men never let up?
Along the Bristol Road the pursuers drove in hot pursuit. Once in Southgate Street the cart came to a halt, and the volunteers spilled onto the road. The chase was now to proceed on foot.
Major Bullimore dismounted and marshalled his men to order before resolutely leading the way down Quay Lane… towards the Port O’ Gloucester.
“Arrest the villains the moment they are espied,” the Major commanded.
Charlie and John unaware of their peril waited on. But soon there was a hubbub. The incoming presence of the pursuers began to impact on the workaday quayside.
Heads turned – fingers were pointed. And a systematic inspection of the dockside taverns and inns commenced.
A short way off, the excise men finished their rounds, and disembarked from ‘La Vagabonde’. Soon the way would be clear to go aboard.
“Praise be to the blessed Mary!” John intoned. “Now is our time, Charlie.”
