by William Hunt
Charlie baulked. “Gawd! I’ve got the collywobbles. Wait on, whilst I take a pee.”
Charlie stepped back into a side alley to relieve himself.
John meanwhile crossed over to the harbours edge. He could see the ship’s crew busy with the final preparations to cast off. John smelt the freedom in his nostrils. A short walk along the duckboards would see them aboard and away from England forever.
“Hurry Charlie!” he called impatiently. Now fatally exposed to view, John was spotted. Up went a shout, and before John could collect his wits, he was swiftly overrun and seized.
Major Bullimore was quickly on the scene, “Who is this man?” He demanded to know.
“Irish John sir! He’s one of ’em,” came the triumphant response. The Major gave a grim smile of satisfaction.
“Well done, stout hearted lads,” he congratulated his men. Then the Major contemptuously surveyed his captive.
“You’ll hang for your crimes, sir,” he spoke cuttingly.
“And so will your black hearted companion… Now! Where is the scoundrel hiding?”
John defiantly stared into the Major’s eyes.
“I think the scoundrel hides beneath a tri-corn hat and the red coat of an English officer.”
Major Bullimore was momentarily shaken by this riposte.
“Take him to the Barbican prison!” he ordered angrily.
“The rest of you, keep vigilant. His accomplice can’t be far off.”
All the time Charlie cowered inside the alley, a horrified witness to the capture of his six months companion. Paralysed with fear he stood stock-still. Then slowly – as the minutes ticked by – self-preservation re-asserted itself. Fearfully and unsteadily, he stumbled up the alleyway away from the docks, until he found himself walking the hard-unfriendly streets of Gloucester.
“Flood Ho!” The call rang out along the quayside. Planks were hurriedly removed from the exposed Severn bed. Minutes later the waters flowed upwards, and the muddy imprints of recent activity disappeared as the surging tide went past, slowly engulfing the quayside steps one by one.
Steadily the moored vessels took lift in the rising waters, but none higher than ‘La Vagabonde’. “Ils ne sont pas venu,” observed Paul. The ships master said nothing. Unbeknown to the rest of the crew he’d witnessed John’s arrest earlier. Something was very amiss, that much was certain. Better it was to be gone and soon. “Il est temps de partir.”
The trows led the way downriver, but the brig held fast until the right conditions prevailed. As high water was reached, the next stage of the arduous departure began.
With a line fastened to its masthead, the brig was bow hauled by gangs of shore men through the narrow eastern channel of the ‘Naight’ Islet’ just below the Port O’ Gloucester.
Once the troublesome islet was negotiated, the brig was taken no farther than the lower bend, and then uncoupled. Unsteadily, ‘La Vagbonde’ set course behind the flotilla of outward-bound trows… borne along by the ebbing tide.
“Plus jamais!” spoke out the ships master to nods of hearty agreement, whilst the brigs wheel was repeatedly trimmed from port to starboard by the crew hands.
“Sainta Maria etendre nos prieres.”
Charlie had so far evaded capture, but it was clear Gloucester would soon be done with him. Furtively, he made his way past the high timbered houses of Westgate Street, but the crowds made him uncomfortable. Somebody might recognise him and set off another hue and cry. Charlie shied away from the main thoroughfare and ducked down College Court.
Traversing blindly along this narrow corridor, he passed under St Michael’s gateway, until unexpectedly he burst forth into the spacious sanctum of the Cathedral grounds. A greater contrast to the workday streets of Gloucester could not be imagined.
Awestruck, Charlie gazed up at the Cathedral Tower overhead. He recalled seeing it from Windmill Hill. But this was no time for idle reflection. He had to make the brig. And in his fertile mind a plan was formulated.
If he crossed over onto the far bank of the Severn and intercepted the ship below Gloucester… With a bit of luck, the Frenchie’s might throw a line and haul him aboard.
After all, he still had the Frenchie money, didn’t he? That should be enough to sway the result in his favour.
Then the bell of Great Peter began to toll from the Cathedral Tower.
It quite made Charlie jump. As the sound of the bell died away; a flurry of King’s schoolboys in mortar boards and cut away jackets spilled out from their dormitories for break. With Christmas half-term imminent, the excitement was manifestly apparent. Amid the jovialities and youthful banter, the boys caught sight of Charlie and eyed him up with surprised amusement.
Charlie Rackford had blundered into the wrong place. In his dishevelled unseemly state, he stuck out like a sore thumb. He was ill advised to dally here.
“Get out of it, Charlie,” he muttered to himself. Then spotting St Mary’s Archway, he quickly removed himself from the ironic gaze of the schoolboys… And passing swiftly underneath the arch, he left the walled Cathedral precincts behind.
Now Charlie made all haste along Leather Bottle Lane until he espied the castellated gateway tower of Westgate Bridge. That must be the Severn crossing… Surely.
Charlie merged with the noisy caboodle of farmer’s carts, coaches and unsold livestock, and headed off down Lower Westgate Street towards his goal. With any luck soon, he would leave Gloucester behind for once and for all.
Nearby, a frustrated Major Bullimore regrouped his command along the quayside to consider their next move. All the nearby inns and taverns along the quayside had been invested to no avail.
A new tactic was needed here… But what? Consulting his timepiece, he noted that it was near midday. At this time of year, the light would begin to close in a few short hours.
“Vigilance men”, Major Bullimore urged once more, and prepared to dispatch scouting parties to scour the city streets and alert the turnpike houses.
Charlie had made it across Westgate Bridge. From the causeway road he glanced over towards the ‘Port O’ Gloucester’. The brig was gone.
Anxiously he scanned southwards, and joyfully espied the tall twin masts of ‘La Vagabonde’, peeping over hedgerows, seemingly and miraculously floating across the meadows as if in a dream.
“There’s my beauty,” he gasped delightedly, and promptly scrambled down off the causeway. With his eyes intently affixed on the distant moving masts, he set off in pursuit.
But as he travelled the pastures picking his way through flocks of sheep, his stocky and lowly figure was spotted from the quayside.
“I see him!” a voice called out. Heads turned en masse and a cry of recognition rose from the ranks of the Hardcourt volunteers. Huzzah! That was Charlie right enough.
At once Major Bullimore commandeered a moored skiff and mustered his men aboard. With oars plied the skiff was rowed to the opposite bank in double quick time.
The major was first ashore: “Jump to it,” he barked to his men, who hastily slipped and scrambled up the muddy bank after him. Brandishing his ceremonial sabre, Major Alan Bullimore led the way, and the hunt rapidly closed in.
Charlie was not far off from the brig now. On the near horizon, "La Vagabonde’s topsail and masts veered sharply south, but no matter. He doggedly tracked the course of the ship along the riverbank itself.
One more bend to traverse, and he would be in plain sight of his goal. Charlie’s resurgent hopes lent strength to his tired legs (he’d been on the run for hours). With a final spurt, the fugitive rounded the bend.
There she was… The French brig… Up ahead.
Abruptly, Charlie stopped dead in his tracks… Stunned… Beaten.
Sabrina had saved her cruellest trick for last. Perversely, she parted company below and above Gloucester. Charlie stood stranded on the promontory of the lower parting that was Alney Island. Two hundred yards downstream ‘La Vagabonde’ drifted further seaward along the wider
confluence of the Severn… beyond all reach.
“Frenchie! Frenchie!” Charlie yelled out despairingly.
The crew stood transfixed, watching the receding figure waving handfuls of assignats at them. Finally, Charlie knew he was lost and flung his worldly possessions high into the air.
A gust caught the French paper money, which blew and scattered to the four winds. Moments later, retribution closed in, and Charlie too was overwhelmed.
“We have them both! Dammit!” Major Bullimore exulted triumphantly. But on the brig a different re-action set in.
“SALAUDS!” Paul, ever the hot headed one, rushed his musket up from the hold and, levelling the barrel atop the stern bulwarks, brought the gun sights to bear on the figure of Major Bullimore. His officers’ red uniform marked him out in any language.
The ships master moved fast. As Paul pulled the trigger, the gun barrel was knocked skywards. A click was followed by a loud explosion as the musket went off. The musket ball rocketed high and harmlessly over Alney Island.
Alarmed faces from the shore turned towards the brig. Quick wits were needed now. The ships master grabbed the musket from Paul, and waved it over his head in celebratory style.
“Bravo, Bravo!”
The other crew members took up the call. “Bravo, Bravo!” They cheered from the deck. Major Bullimore gazed distractedly at ’La Vagabonde. Unsure as to what interpretation be placed on the mixed messages emanating from the vessel. But the immediate business in hand warranted his full attention to the exclusion of all else.
“Bring him along!”
Under close escort Charlie was marched away. Moments later, the promontory was deserted. Only the French paper money snagged in the branches of osiers, and strewn over the muddy Severn banks gave any clue of the passing commotion.
Back aboard Paul was reprimanded in no uncertain terms.
“Vous Imbecile!” Cursed the ships master. “Auriez vous notre navire saisis?”
The crew concurred and Paul was chastised all around. Now was not the time. They’d never get away to open water. La Vagabonde was steadied, and her course set by line of sight to that of the nearest downriver trow.
Slowly the brig sailed away from Gloucester, until the Cathedral Tower alone remained visible from the ship’s deck. For a long time, its lofty presence stubbornly persisted on the northern skyline, before it too finally disappeared from the ships view.
“I never known such times,” Richard Amos said to Jasper Ely when their paths crossed the following chilly December day.
“Why there’s a double hanging at Gloucester soon,” he added sombrely. “Charlie and John’ll be first up on the drop of the new prison Dick.”
“Hmm… That Irish John was a handy reaper,” Richard Amos remarked regretfully.
“Ah! It’s the grim reaper awaits them now,” observed Jasper Ely with ironic prose.
“But list here, Jasper. There’s more.”
“Oh?”
Richard Amos cocked a disdainful glance towards Hardcourt Hall.
“I had to tell the maid Melody to leave her employ at Home Farm. And it was as bad a day’s work as I’ve ever done.”
Richard Amos paused in painful recollection of the events before continuing with the explanation.
“Rupert has taken charge now his father’s laid up. And it was at his bidding that she be sent away.” Richard Amos shook his head sadly. “I never believed a young”un could be so cruel to the maid. What with her father locked up in gaol?"
The hard-faced keeper was not overly sympathetic.
“She was headed for a fall, Dick. We all saw it coming mind you.”
“Well, the Bell family will be packin’ up and seeking Alms at Gloucester now. There’s no one left to support them at Hardcourt.”
The two men took stock of these developments. But the turmoil of the last few days rolled on unabated, as Richard Amos was yet to further testify.
“And it doesn’t stop there, Jasper. The Portlock boy has gone off to soldier I hear. Took a sudden notion, and headed out to enlist this very morning. The squire and his wife barely had time to bid him farewell. And there he was… Gone!”
Jasper Ely looked up in surprise, and then framed his thoughts accordingly.
“England will need him soon enough Dick. Didn’t the Reverend Rudhall warn us on All Hallows?”
“Maybe so, Jasper! And I don’t doubt the Reverend Rudhall will be quick to offer up prayers to Jeffrey Vernon Valans this Sunday. But God strike me down right now if I can’t see souls more wanting of salvation, than is ever needed by them as bides high on hill at Hardcourt Hall.”
“Amen to that,” Jasper Ely conceded, and both men parted ways.
Farewell and Adieu
The first night out from Gloucester, La Vagabonde found its way to Bollow Pool and there met up with the waiting pilot. The nearby lights of the Salmon Inn beckoned, but the French crew decided that after the earlier turn of events, discretion was the best policy and remained aboard.
The brig thereafter anchored uneasily alongside the local trows. Its bulky presence loomed large in the darkness, and attracted much comment, (mostly unfriendly) from the local alehouse drinkers.
The next morning, a further lift of the tide took the flotilla round the horseshoe bend and into the ever-widening mouth of the Severn.
Finally, the freshwater basin was navigated, and La Vagabonde was done with the services of the pilot ship. Rigged up under full sail, the brig began to make fair progress seaward into the Bristol Channel.
The humour of the ship’s master and crew returned. And caution was thrown overboard with the slops. Up till the present moment the Fleur-de-Lys ensign flew from the brigs main mast, in order that the local ships not be offended or antagonised in any way. But as the brown waters of the Bristol Channel gave way to the blue Atlantic sea, a change of policy was demanded by the crew.
Now with La Vagabonde making seven knots, Paul hauled down the Fleur-de-Lys, and in its place ran up the French Tricolour.
A cheer rang out from all hands. Glad to be freed from the constraints of a hostile foreign land. In Gloucester they had witnessed the first shots fired, from an (as yet) undeclared war that could not be far off coming. They would return no more. It was too late the day.
The French brig ploughed past the headlands and sailed out into the open waters of the Atlantic seaboard, beyond the rim of England’s shoreline. Destined to a far-off place where perchance lay the hopes and dreams of another world to come … Better than the one that had gone before.
