First Fleet

by M Howard Morgan

  ‘You tease me Mary. Most obviously you can ride, and ride well at that!’ Jack was breathless as he dismounted, and not only with the exertion of keeping Humbert, his father’s favoured hunter, on track. He walked toward a wall where the ground fell away. Mary had kept up with him and rode with a natural ability. The knowledge pleased him. He was enthralled by her; her beauty, captivated by her vivacious energy, her patent joy of life. He delighted in her company.

  ‘Better than a London lawyer, I have to say,’ she said, equally breathless.

  It had taken all her concentration to ride Barley, who had wanted to move ahead of the older, larger horse. She had been nervous when he had suggested this afternoon’s excursion, because although she had lived among horses all her life, and loved them, her background had never permitted her to own one herself. She had learned on horses owned by Dick Caldwell, the farmer her father was friendly with. Exhilaration sparkled in her eyes.

  ‘Look at that, Jack, is it not beautiful?’

  Mary had joined him by the low dry-stone wall, guarding the precipice of the escarpment, above the great river that meandered through the flat farmlands in the wide valley below, and was taking in the view. A pair of geese sailed noisily overhead, squawking to each other, as if engaged in some esoteric conversation of their own, heading towards the marshes at Slimbridge, a dozen miles south on the River Severn.

  The late afternoon sun was slowly dying, as it completed its declivity with transient pools of colour – deep oranges, reds and purples, all spreading like spilled paint across the western sky. A dense mist was filling the valley below, the trees across the river seemingly like galleon sails on a silken sea. The warm afternoon breeze had all but died and the air was becoming still and cooler.

  ‘It is – but there is something more beautiful for me to look upon.’

  His voice dropped as he held her hand, and he felt his voice quiver slightly. He moved a little closer to her, seeking a response, some confirmation, an acceptance.

  Mary’s heart beat a little faster, her emotions now spinning. ‘Please, don’t speak more... I am confused enough.’

  She looked at this man and a sense of desire, of longing came on her, such as she had not experienced before. How can this be, what is happening to me, she wondered. She kept her eyes directed to the valley below. A silence grew between them until one had to break it. Of course, Jack spoke first.

  ‘You sense it too then? I wondered if it was only I. I barely know you and yet... perhaps I do.’

  Again, his voice drifted as his eyes moved back across the valley. He cursed to himself at his hastiness, his lack of subtlety, and his inherent impulsiveness. This girl attracted him as no other had. He could not explain it as simple lust. This feeling was more, different, unfamiliar but exotic. He felt intoxicated and had to swallow hard before he felt able to continue.

  ‘I came here often as a boy and still do when I need peace and time for myself. Whenever I do it feels as though I am the only person alive. Today though, Mary, today I feel more alive than ever before. That can only be because of you. I felt it the moment I first saw you.’

  He looked away, eyes dropping as though looking at the sheep scattered along the fields far below.

  She hesitated, not knowing how to answer, trying to make reason of her emotions.

  ‘Jack – this is not right my dear. My father... works in a mill, whereas yours is a man of influence and wealth. We are of different worlds. In truth, nought can come of this.’

  This thought had already made itself to his mind.

  ‘Ah, but all men are created equal, Mary. The Americans have declared it so and that also is my opinion. You must not think it should be otherwise.’

  He continued talking, his mind going back to his days at Oxford and to the teachings of the jurists that he had studied there. All the time his eyes were seeking hers, his hands holding hers. She listened keenly, knowing that he was knowledgeable of the world, a philosophical man, with empathy and compassion for the labours that most men had to face daily, just to put bread in the mouths of their children.

  He believed, as did one or two other enlightened men, that prisons should not merely provide a means of punishment, but give encouragement to inmates to reform.

  She had heard tell that Jack Vizzard was regarded by many as a gentle man, with a sharp brain, given perhaps to romantic notions and impulsive ways. His father had swelled with pride when discussing him with Mister Marling some days ago, so her own father had related to her.

  She sighed inwardly and shivered visibly. ‘What is it, Mary? Are you cold, yes, you must be. Come, it draws late and I have talked enough.’

  ‘No, wait. For a while at least. I love to hear you talk so. I could listen to you all day. I fear my own life is dull in comparison.’

  She put a hand up to silence his protest.

  ‘It is true, my father and mother have both worked so hard for me and my brothers but could barely manage enough to have me learn to read and write when I was young. Now I devour all manner of books. That is in part how I come to be working for the vicar; he has so many books in his library, some quite rare he tells me, and I hope to improve my position with his help.’

  Her eyes flickered, as though challenging him in some way. Only with an education, she thought, can I hope to improve myself, become more than a servant to others. To find some purpose to her life. Secretly she harboured a desire to teach, hoping to find employment as a private governess. For that, she had to have access to books, more than her dear father could ever hope to provide.

  ‘But, Mary, you must feel at liberty to borrow all you wish from our house. Most are treatises on law and casebooks of course, but father has a large collection of other works, as I do. We are not lacking in books!’

  He knew that the library was well-stocked, reading being one of the interests he had inherited from his father. Indeed, Charlotte too held a passion for books and was writing a romance herself; she had been for many months, but so far had not permitted any eyes but her own to see it.

  He was delighted that she wanted to read. It was something he could help her with and an excuse if one were needed, to spend more time with her.

  ‘In fact, if you would care to join us for luncheon next Sunday, you could browse at your leisure and select some then.’ He watched as an array of emotions played quickly over her face.

  ‘I... that is to say, do you think I would be welcome at your home?’

  ‘It is all arranged dear girl. Father is agreed and is expecting you, and Charlotte, my sister, cannot wait to meet you herself. I do hope you will say yes.’

  He regarded her anxiously, fearful that she might be too frightened to accept, thoughtful that she might feel dismayed at the prospect of dining at the ‘Big House’, as Lampern was commonly known in the village.

  She reached a decision.

  ‘Jack, dear, if the vicar has no other duties for me, I should be pleased to come.’

  Inwardly she had doubts, knowing that some would consider her impertinent, and looking above her station. She worried too, how his family might receive her, and of course, she would have to borrow some pretty dress to wear. Charlotte will be there and surely to be attired in the latest fashions. His sister, she was aware, was one of the most sought after young ladies in the district, and regarded as the arbiter of taste and fashion, regularly attending soirees and balls in Cheltenham and Bath and the large houses of the area.

  If she could find a pretty dress, and prepare her hair, she should look presentable. Mother would help, but would fret and fuss about the reason for the invitation. My God, she thought, what have I agreed to?

  ‘Good, that is settled then. I will collect you at twelve, no wait; I have a better thought.’ Again an impulse, he thought. ‘May I suggest that I accompany you to church? My friends, Giles and Louise, they are betrothed, are to attend and perhaps they might join us for lunch too.’

  The presence of Giles and his fiancée might divert his s
ister’s attention a little, he thought, as she would want to impress Louise, being eager to secure an invitation to their wedding, which promised to be a grand affair.

  ‘Oh, well, I am really not sure.’

  Her father brought her up as a God-fearing Christian, and she attended the parish church every Sunday, but recently her attendance had lapsed as her duties at The Vicarage increased. She viewed with some anxiety the thought of taking a place in the pew reserved for the Vizzard family, positioned as it was immediately beneath the pulpit, with the Reverend Barnwood’s drink-sodden face leering down at her. She could say nothing of her fears about that man however. He was a respected personage in the community and was on very friendly terms with the Dean of Gloucester Cathedral.

  ‘That may be possible.’

  She finished meekly with a lack of conviction, and with a smile that did not entirely reach her eyes.

  Even as he suggested it, the thought struck Jack that he was being rash again. To escort Mary to church was to excite gossip. Tongues would wag; he knew that. She was the daughter of an overseer only, now employed at The Vicarage as a housekeeper, and he the favoured son of a respected and wealthy lawyer. His father might be prepared to accept Mary, as a guest in his house, but to see her on his arm and sitting in the family pew was another matter. And Charlotte of course, would have more than a few words to say on the matter. What would mother have thought?

  To the devil with them, he decided.

  8

  The advice

  The following morning Jack rode up to the common alone and exercised Humbert for several hours, riding north among the gentle limestone hills, his mind full of thoughts. For once it was more of a pleasure than a duty to visit Sir Robert. The old man would be a help at this time. He had always found him to be a counsel in times of uncertainty. The old Elizabethan house with its twisted chimneys stood welcoming in the morning sun, the driveway fresh with new stone chippings from the quarry owned now by Sir Robert. A muster of peacocks strutted on the neatly cut lawn at the front of the great house, as Jack rode to the large oak doors.

  ‘Is the General expecting you, sir?’ The young servant, Jack did not recognise the man, enquired politely.

  ‘Probably not, in fact. I was to see him last week and sent my apologies. Vizzard is the name. John Vizzard,’ he answered in response to the unspoken inquiry.

  Taken to a large drawing room he was invited to wait. He paced slowly about the room, casually studying the artefacts of a distinguished soldier’s career. He recalled Sir Robert’s service in America, where at one time, near the conclusion of the war, he had commanded a brigade, which included the Second Battalion of Marines.

  The door opened behind him as a strong bass voice sounded loud to his ears.

  ‘Home at last, young Jack! How is it with you my boy? Come, come take a chair and tell this old bugger all. Too early for a glass is it?’ The whiskered face beamed in welcome as Robert Pigot moved to a large mahogany chiffonier and quickly poured from a flat-bottomed decanter, holding the glass toward Jack. ‘Madeira. Quite a good one actually.’

  Jack grinned, accepting the glass, and raised it in salute to the old general, who looked as fit as he did when commanding the 28th in America.

  ‘I am well, Sir Robert, thank you.’ He sat in the leather winged-chair, crossed his legs and sipped at the wine.

  ‘I felt bound to apologise in person for failing to see you last week. Father insisted on hauling me to a trial.’

  The old soldier was reliable, discreet, an avuncular figure. Sir Robert had watched Jack and his brother as they turned from boys to men, taught them something of military ways, and in the process had become a close friend to both.

  ‘Indeed, indeed. Saw your father on Friday in fact. Told me all about it. He looks well. Obviously delighted to see you back under his wing. He was full of it, Jack, quite the old Henry. He needs to laugh more I would say. So, my boy, and how may I be of service this time? What have you done that requires my advice? You only visit when some disaster threatens your sanity, or poor Henry must be protected hah!’ The smile was wide across the soldier’s wrinkled face.

  ‘I admit the truth, of course. This is indeed a matter that I would rather remain...confidential, if you please, Sir Robert.’

  With no further prompting, Jack outlined his plans, telling the older man his feelings, sharing his thoughts in a way that had proved difficult with his father in the past. More recently, he had visited the gaols at Tyburn and, since coming home, Gloucester. He knew that the stench of those places would live with him and he talked of these concerns to the old general. He had seen the utter despair on the faces of men, women and children, thrown together with no separation or distinction for their crimes. Boys living with homosexual rapists, factory workers with murderers, prostitutes with housemaids, all of them cast together in one homogenous mass that bred only further degradation and inhumanity. He wished for a better system of criminal discipline; one that banished the use of fetters, where health was substituted for disease and contagion; one where the prevention of crime was allied to individual reform.

  An hour passed as Jack explained his change of heart, how he felt unable to continue with the practice of law, of his meeting with the marine captain in London, of his investigations in Chatham, his meeting at The Admiralty, his waiting for confirmation of his commission, the complete plan unfolded as the general listened carefully.

  ‘I understand your concerns, Jack. I will say this; it will suit you my boy. I always saw you as a soldier and a good one too. Let me see what I can do to hasten matters along. I know one or two influential people – some who have not forgotten my own service. There is a another concern is there not? I see it in your face. Let me hazard a guess. Henry of course, you are worried about your father!’

  ‘Indeed that is so. Since George left, he seems to have aged, and I know his expectations of me, Sir Robert. He has always demanded, this sounds churlish and ungrateful, but he demands excellence and with George gone he will... has already made clear that I am to join his practice.’ Jack extended his hands in a gesture of regret. ‘It is his dearest wish, and here am I set upon a course that will deny him that. He will be severely wounded.’

  ‘Ah, yes of course. Doubt that I can help you with that old chap. Not your confessor after all, but I will keep an eye on him. Fine man, your father, not military but a good man nonetheless.’

  Jack left feeling that he had an ally.

  OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, Jack found himself visiting The Vicarage daily. He watched Mary gathering vegetables from the garden that Eliza Clutterbuck and her grandson had tended so carefully. He talked to her over the dry-stone wall in the orchard. He persuaded her to walk up to the common one evening and they talked until late. They rode again several times during the week that followed, often over Selsley Common, sometimes to Rodborough; once as far as Gloucester. He showed her the Cathedral, with its exquisite cloisters. They walked around King’s School, where he had started his education, and they talked and talked, sharing childhood experiences, learning more of the other, as they came more together, fell deeper, deeper in love.

  One evening he was able to spend time in The Vicarage, as Barnwood was in Gloucester, under the watchful eye of Eliza Clutterbuck. He read to her and she to him, from books borrowed from The Vicarage’s library. He found warmth, a comfort and simple pleasure in her company.

  She listened to him, enjoying his resonant, modulating voice, entranced at his reading. From time to time, she asked him to explain a word she did not know. He did so happily, not in a patronising or superior way, but with obvious pleasure at teaching. He delighted in her passion, her obvious joy of books, and her quiet laughter at his occasional wit.

  The cheese and bread that Eliza Clutterbuck placed on the table went largely untouched as they read and talked to each other, quite oblivious of her. Eliza dozed in a chair until Jack finally, reluctantly, left The Vicarage. He walked home with her face before him and she fill
ed his dreams that night, as she was to do so for many more.

  The following day, a Sunday, he collected her early, meeting almost clandestinely at the orchard wall. They walked slowly through the fields adjoining the village, until they came to the stream that wandered carelessly around the undulating pastures. They sat on the bank of the Ewelme, the brook that bubbled through the meadows, watching the cows flick their tails, chasing the flies. He removed his boots and stood in the clear gurgling water.

  ‘My oath, but this is a beautiful morning, Mary.’

  She had borrowed her mother’s best calico dress and sown a green hem to it, with a wide-rimmed, straw bonnet, fastened with a ribbon of the same green. Mother had said, with more tenderness than was common with her, that it matched her eyes.

  The sun was now well above The Bury, a rounded hill rising a thousand feet and overlooking the village; and was melting the mist that still drifted among the hedges. Some sparrows were busy nearby, and a boy whistled to his dog as he walked along the lane on the far side of the hedge.

  She threw a large round pebble into the stream, the splash reaching his face.

  ‘None of that if you please m’lady, else I will have to duck you under, and that would ruin your pretty dress!’

  Mary laughed, knowing that he had no intention of any such thing.

  ‘Why, sir, I could not resist the temptation! You look far too smug standing there. Is it not cold?

  ‘Now you mention, yes it is. Help me out of here if you would, I best get my boots on and make our way to church. Father would not thank me for arriving late.’

  Mary picked up a fallen branch and held it toward him. Jack eased himself back to the riverbank, and sat back against the stump of a beech tree, as he quickly dried his feet with some grass and brittle leaves. He pulled on his boots, stood and straightened his breeches, and looked across at her smiling features, the sun adding sheen to her hair and causing her to incline her head.