The heavy oak door of Jack’s room creaked as he entered, but only the sound of deep breathing reached his ears. His candle threw dancing shadows across the room, and cast a huge silhouette behind him. He crossed to the large bed, using the candle to light the wick of the oil lamp on the table beside it, and firmly placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. The body stirred as he gently shook him.
‘Wake up please, Master Jack, wake up. There’s trouble and you be wanted.’
Jack was awake. ‘What is it? Who is that? Oh, it is you, Neave. What do you want? My God, it is not yet light.’ Through the window that Jack always left ajar, with the curtains drawn back, stars still sparkled, between clouds that drifted slowly across the face of a half-moon. He rose sleepily onto one elbow.
‘There’s a boy downstairs, sir with urgent news that you must hear for yourself. I’ll fetch a cloak for you, but you best be getting dressed for you must go quickly I’m thinking.’
The urgency in Neave’s voice struck Jack and he was up, pulling on a pair of black breeches and a woollen shirt from his trunk. Grabbing a leather jerkin, he was off after Neave’s candle, already his mind in turmoil.
‘What’s happened, Neave? Have we been robbed?’ Neave was moving quickly down the stairs with Jack close behind. He led him to the scullery where Tom Clutterbuck was chewing on a piece of bread and cheese, with a small tankard of light beer in front of him.
‘Here’s Master Jack, Tom. Now you tells him wot you just told me.’
Tom Clutterbuck stood up, swallowed hard and looked at the tall figure of Jack with rabbit’s eyes.
‘Sir, it’s like I told Mister Neave, sir. Nan tells me to tells you there’s been a commotion at The Vicarage and the charley’s taken Mistress Mary to the lock-up, sir. That’s all I know, sir... and my Nan says for you to come quick, sir.’
Jack needed no second telling. Running for the door he called to Neave, ‘Hurry and help me saddle, Neave.’ He stopped, looked down at his feet, realising his boots were missing.
‘Leave it to me, sir. Here’s your cloak. I will saddle up Barley while you find your boots. Will you want me to come with you, sir?’
‘No! Just get him ready as quick as you can. This cannot wait man!’
His boots were in the boot-room, adjacent to the scullery. With half a dozen rapid steps, he located them. Pulling them on, he returned and studied the youth. He picked up a loose piece of cheese from the platter in front of Tom, looked at him, a quizzical expression on his face. The boy blinked and stopped eating. He decided the boy had spoken the truth, that he knew nothing more. Pouring some milk into a cup from the pitcher on the table, he drained it in a single swallow. The sound of Barley’s hooves moving skittishly from the stable galvanised him to action, fastened the cloak about his chest, and strode quickly outside.
Jack’s imagination was running as fast as his legs were. The village charley was an Old Bragg from the 28th Foot and had fought with Wolfe at Quebec. Jack remembered how the old man had kept him enthralled as a boy with the story, often re-told, of how the regiment had been in the van of the ascent of the Heights of Abraham, before the battle, and how he had seen Wolfe fall. The youngest general in the army, he had said. What in God’s name was he doing with Mary?
The lane was awash with water as Jack took his horse at a fast canter to the village and The Vicarage. He had not ridden so fast since that first day on the common when they had watched the sun slide down over the Forest of Dean and the Severn.
The lamps were alight in in the windows of The Vicarage as he slowed to a stop at the door, and Eliza Clutterbuck limped out at the sound of hooves on the drive. Jack saw tears on her cheeks and jumped down, running as soon as his feet touched.
‘Where is she?’, he demanded. ‘What happened here tonight? Tell me now!’
‘Oh sir, she be taken to the lock-up in Stroud. The vicar says he caught her stealing some books, sir. Says he found them in her room, sir. He was mighty drunk, Master Jack. Been drinkin’ hard all evening he was and Lord he was howlin’ and shoutin’ and throwin’ things about.’ Eliza Clutterbuck sobbed.
Jack was no longer listening, but already mounting and pulling Barley round so hard the animal cried with the pain of the bit. He galloped down to the Bath Road, almost causing the animal to fall.
‘Come on my friend, we must cover the road quickly.’
He urged the horse on turning north into the driving rain that lanced into his face. The black sky was already lightening to grey to his right as he rode on, his mind racing with fear and foreboding. Even as he galloped, his mind reflected on the boy. Thinking of his young face, he now realised that there had been something unsaid; some signal, a subtle warning perhaps. Now he understood what had happened tonight. Anger arose in him, welling up in his throat so that he roared aloud, the wind of his ride pulling the sound from his open mouth. Hooves splashed water as Jack drove the animal harder through the growing rain, spattering mud. His muscles tightened and he leaned further forward, knees clenching the horse’s back tighter, cold rain lancing his face, his eyes, his neck.
He passed through another village, noticed a pair of weavers walking slowly across the green. They stared as he galloped by, but he did not care. His brain rapidly measured the time already elapsed since she had been taken, praying that he would reach Stroud quickly.
He saw the gloomy outline of Dudbridge Mill approach on his left as he dug harder with his heels, a fallen tree blocked his path and he hauled the animal over it, and then the image turned over as his body flew over the head of Barley and his back hit the ground, expelling the air from his lungs.
There was only darkness.
12
A Crime
In the carriage, Mary shook with cold and fear and growing anger. Her feet, she realised, were tightly bound with a cord, and her left wrist strapped by a leather belt to the hand of the thief-taker Barnwood had handed her over to in Stroud. He had stayed behind seeking the magistrate, giving harsh instructions to Dick Cahill to stop for nothing, and to see she was taken to Gloucester gaol as fast as could be managed.
Her head hurt and if she could have seen it a large purple mark had appeared on her cheek where Barnwood’s fist had hit her. A dribble of drying blood remained on her chin and there was a sharp pain in her left side, which caused her to wince with every movement. Her right eye was closed and swollen and pain pierced her head. She felt so very cold. Her only hope was that Eliza had been able to get a message to Jack. She needed him now. He had become the most important person in her life, and she ached to see him. Pray God he came soon, she thought.
The carriage crawled up Painswick Hill, sliding sidelong in the mud as the horses strained against the driving rain, nostrils flared and hooves scrabbling for footholds. The thief-taker leaned out to shout at the coachman; some obscenity that Mary only half heard. It was getting light now and she could see the face of her escort. He had a clean scar running down the right side of his face, starting where his eye should have been. The man grinned at her, enjoying every feature of her dishevelled and bruised body. She looked away, feeling nausea rise in her throat.
The journey seemed to be but the present part of some dreadful continuing nightmare. The evening before had passed in much the usual routine. She had served dinner as normal to the vicar and his guest. His guest was Mister Philp, owner of the butcher’s shop in the next village. They were both drinking quite hard before and during the meal, and afterwards had played cards.
Mary had worked in the kitchen with Eliza Clutterbuck, sewing a new shirt from some material given to her by her mother. She was making it for Jack, although she had worried that it was of inferior quality to those he usually wore.
Eliza had retired to bed at about 10 o’clock, just after Mary had taken another bottle of Madeira in to the vicar and his friend. Both men had been loud and red-eyed, the vicar gazing at her with ill-concealed lasciviousness. She had hurried from the room.
She put the sewing aside and start
ed reading a book borrowed from Jack’s father. It was an absorbing tale of nonsense by someone she had not heard of, Jonathan Swift, and the story of a land of very small people. She became entranced by the story and oblivious to the laughing voices of her employer and his guest.
Shortly before the long-case clock in the hall chimed mid-night, she climbed wearily up the stairs to her small, uncarpeted attic room, undressed quickly, and changed into a heavy cotton nightgown and blew out the candle. As she settled into her bed, she was aware of voices on the drive at the front of the house and the sound of a horse walking out into the lane. She drifted away into a confused dream in which Jack appeared as Gulliver and she as the Emperor.
But then Jack’s face mutated; the thick dark hair replaced by thin and grey wisps over a balding pate, his youthful smiling face now old and blotched; it was grotesque, twisted, leering, with enlarged watery eyes and smelling of alcohol.
The face of the dream spoke to her: ‘now my precious Mary, ‘tis time to reward your benefactor for all his kindness to you.’
The voice and the face were real. She suddenly felt very afraid. He was leaning over her, his breath short and fast. She tried to rise but her shoulders were held down, the coarse woollen blanket thrown over her head and hands fumbled with her nightgown. She struggled but the blanket entangled her like a fish in a net. He fell on to her and she screamed, her voice muffled in the folds of blanket. Hands pulled at her gown, a knee forced her legs apart. His fingers found her intimate place, and quickly he thrust himself, his hardness probing and pushing. Writhing and wriggling against his weight failed and earned her a sharp slap on her hip. She gagged, her tongue filling her mouth, the revulsion bringing bile to her throat, and she vomited into the blanket. The thrusting pierced her, she sobbed, terror constricting her vocal chords.
He shuddered and coughed, a rasping spluttering drunken cough, as his organ exploded within her, and she seized a half chance to free herself. Struggling now like a cornered animal, she kicked with her knee, catching his loins and leaving him gasping with intense pain. They fell together onto the floor and her hand felt for some other means with which to defend herself, finding the night pail. It was in her hand and she swung it, the heavy porcelain struck the side of his face, the contents splashed them both. He roared with pain and then she too felt pain as his fist hit her hard in the face. She clawed at his face, reaching for his eyes. Another pain in her side as his fist struck her ribs. He struggled to his feet, clutching the side of his face.
‘You whore,’ he spat at her, ‘you filthy whore. My head is broken!’
She pulled at his ankles and he fell back. It had to end and she clambered up, grasping the chair as a stab of pain, like a knife in her ribs, made her stop. Then she saw the door and ran, ignoring the pain. A scream of abuse followed her and the pail clattered against the wall as he followed.
Eliza Clutterbuck’s bedroom door was ajar, and she stood, open mouthed, with an oil lamp in her left hand. Mary noticed this as she cried, ‘Help me, please, help. He’s mad, he’s mad.’
He was behind her screaming at Eliza, and she fled down the darkened stairs. She reached the door, but he was on her before she could withdraw the bolts. He pulled at her hair, spinning her round, and slapped her hard across the face. She kicked at him and fingernails scratched at his face. He let go, howling with rage. The door to the scullery was open and she ran. Clutterbuck was calling to someone and Mary screamed again for help: ‘Jack, please get Jack, please.’ She was sobbing now and again he reached her. Some plates were on the table and she threw one at him, others scattering to the floor, adding to the noise.
‘Harlot... whore, you daughter of Satan,’ he hissed at her. ‘I will have you.’ His hands reached her and she clawed for his face once more, but his hands grasped her wrists and stopped her. There was mist in her eyes and salt that stung. His fist hit her again and she fell, her head striking the cold, stone floor.
When she awoke, there were voices. She did not recognize them and could not understand the words. A woman was crying somewhere and she realized it was Eliza Clutterbuck. A voice said something about feet and she felt cord tighten about her ankles. There was the sound of iron scraping on stone and her hands were pulled tightly together. Her brain started to work and she thought it best not to move. The crying continued.
Rough hands lifted her and carried her on the shoulder of the strange voice. ‘Leave her to me, reverend. I knows wots to do,’ the coarse voice said.
Then she was out in the cold wet night and dropped into a carriage. The force pushed the air from her lungs, and pain destroyed resistance. She could smell a horse and heard its hooves. The iron rimmed wheels moved and it was out in the lane, another horse following behind. She fell into a dark pit of silence, free of pain.
JACK WAS ACHING IN every bone and wet through. He looked hard as blackened beams came slowly into focus.
‘He’s coming to.’ A voice he recognized. ‘Jack lad, it is I, Giles. You were thrown from your horse and we thought you were gone. Can you hear me?’
His eyes swam as tears covered his pupils; he saw clouds. ‘Yes, my God where am I? He murmured, his head and sight slowly clearing the pain and mist. He sat up and saw that he was in a small dimly lit room, a weaver’s cottage, with a frightened old man looking at him. Doctor Steele was there beside him.
‘You seem to have nothing broken young man, as far as I can tell, but you have given us all quite a fright, I can tell you.’
‘Mary... I was on my way to Mary. What time is it?’ He fumbled in his jerkin for his fob watch but could not find it.
‘Nearly noon, old chap,’ Giles spoke softly. ‘She is gone to Gloucester and your father away to talk to the magistrate. He is very concerned and I am to send word as soon as ever I can as to your condition.’ He turned to speak to a trooper at the door. ‘Martin – go now, find Mister Vizzard, and report that he is well and we will follow shortly.’
‘I must be gone. She is in trouble Giles.’
‘We know all, Jack. Neave was very troubled and woke your father. He questioned young Tom quite severely, scared the poor lad out of his wits, and then sent Neave to find me. We found you on the road and brought you in here.’
‘Then I must go to her. She will have need of me now.’ Jack moved from the rough horsehair mattress that he was lying on. He hurt but could walk. He sat for several moments, gathering strength. ‘Come with me please, Giles. I fancy I will have need of your help.’ He accepted the flask proffered and drank fully, the spirit burning in his throat. He coughed.
With a mumbled word of thanks to the weaver and his wife he left the cottage, mounted the horse that Neave had ridden and the two set off for Gloucester. Jack was deeply troubled. There was business to settle with the vicar but that would have to wait until he had heard Mary’s story. Of her innocence, he was in no doubt. What had happened that night he suspected, but of Mary’s perilous situation, he was already certain. The gaol at Gloucester was not a place any gentle person could view with anything but fear. And Mary was a gentle person. Sweet Jesus, what had gone wrong? Jack kicked his heels and pushed the horse harder. His back and head ached.
Giles copied him, understanding his friend’s need for greater speed, but keeping an eye on him just the same. He had talked to Clutterbuck and had wondered how to tell Jack of what he had learned. He decided that it would be best to hear Mary’s account, but then he would have to stay close to Jack. His friend would like as not take a whip to his uncle and that would cause more problems than it would solve. If all he had heard was true, he would do the same, he thought.
They arrived at Gloucester some hours later, entering the city through the South Gate, horses spattered with mud and tired after the hard ride. Jack and Giles rode to the castle by the Severn, and entered the gaol. Leaving their horses with a stable-boy, they quickly made for the Keeper, finding him in the castle tower, his corpulent form bent over a worn table checking a list by the light of two oil lamps.
The man was proving to be obstructive. He had dealt with several ‘toffs’ before and was not a man easily swayed from his duty by pleas or threats.
‘I am mighty sorry gents, but I has me orders. The prisoner is being seen by a lawyer now and I can’t go letting any more folk in.’
‘For God’s sake man, the lawyer is my father and the prisoner is my friend, how many times must I say it.’ Jack was losing patience fast and Giles interrupted.
‘Leave this to me old chap,’ his authority taking charge. Jack moved aside, breathing hard to control his anger, and did not see the transaction between Giles and the guard, who very quickly, with a practised hand, pocketed some silver coins.
Giles led the way down the worn stone steps that were damp and cold. They heard voices and entered a small room on the left side of a tenebrous corridor.
‘Oh Jack, Jack.’ Mary could say no more but rushed to him and buried her head in his chest, sobbing, her fragile control evaporated at the sight of him. He held her tightly, making reassuring sounds that he felt to be inadequate. He guided her back to the chair, his arm about her shoulder, as his father rose and placed a gentle hand on his son’s arm, taking him aside.
‘It is a bad business my boy, very bad indeed and will require all my skill to obtain her release, if indeed that be possible. Giles, would you please stay a moment with Mary? Jack and I have to talk to the Keeper.’ Henry gave Giles a knowing look and escorted Jack from the room to the comparative privacy of the corridor.
First Fleet Page 8
