First Fleet

by M Howard Morgan

  He continued to wait until all the rooms, bar one, had darkened. An owl hooted from the old barn, adjacent to The Vicarage. The wind ruffled the trees, and tossed the leaves, spiralling them into the night sky. Smoke whorled about the chimneystack, and he watched the smoke until it slowly dissipated. He thought about Mary, and what had become of her because of the animal inside the old house.

  Once again, he pulled the half hunter from his waistcoat pocket and he gleaned that it was not yet midnight. Candles still burned in one room, above and to the left of the kitchen. He saw the silhouette of his prey against the curtained window and without a sound he dropped from the tree and, crouching low by the wall, moved quickly and silently to the house.

  The window to the scullery was just ajar, propped open with a bar and with a good deal of effort, Jack forced his way through it.

  A cat lay curled on the floor by the still warm hearth as he crept past, its luminescent green eyes following Jack’s stealthy progress through the kitchen. In the hall he paused, hairs on his neck rising, as he thought he detected another’s presence. He held back his breath for several moments, motionless, his ears straining. Dismissing his fears, he moved as silently as the cat up the stairs until he was in the hallway on the first floor. He stood still, listening.

  The flicker of candlelight shone beneath a door further along the corridor, facing the rear of the vicarage. He moved quietly but deliberately until he was outside Barnwood’s room. The door moved ajar under a gentle push, and he saw a candle spluttering in its holder. A large holdall was by the bed and he realized that he was almost too late. The vicar was packing.

  Barnwood was on his bed, his back to the door, and with papers, clothes and small purses spread about him as Jack moved into the room. The vicar’s face was pale and his eyes widened, as he half turned at the sound of a footfall. ‘You!’

  It was the last word he uttered. Jack strode quickly to the bed, one hand tight on the cleric’s throat to silence any sound, pushing him down as the other turned the pillow over onto his bulging eyes. He knelt on the man’s chest and held him firm for a very long time. A low gurgling noise slipped from his mouth, bubbles forming between his lips, as Jack’s hand increased its pressure. The struggles were strong at first but slowly subsided, then ceased altogether, and Jack gradually released the pressure until he was certain.

  Removing the pillow, he stared at his enemy, his breath heavy with exertion, stared into those bloodshot, bulging, evil red eyes. He closed them with his thumb, returned the pillow to its place and picked up some of the papers. He opened the bag and saw some books; they were his books. Thinking for a moment, he decided to leave them.

  He breathed out slowly feeling sick, but empty. He did not regret his actions. The man had lost the right to live and preach to people. He had raped for the last time. His evidence, the flagrant perjury, had condemned Mary to effectively a life sentence of banishment, even death. His rape of Mary was his own death sentence. He had decided that; had made the decision that night, during his wild ride to Stroud.

  He placed the bedcover over the corpse, and placed the bag on the floor beside the bed. Glancing through the assortment of papers, he paused at one. Reading it quickly, he placed it in his coat pocket. The remainder he put in the bag, closing the strap. He looked around, then with a sudden movement he blew out the candle, and walked from the room, silently closing the door.

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he was suddenly aware of the form of someone else. His neck again bristled in alarm, and he reached for his pistol.

  ‘Have yous done for him, sir?’ Tom Clutterbuck was standing in the shadow of the stairs.

  ‘Bloody hell lad, you startled me.’ Jack’s heart was pounding such that he was sure it could be heard.

  ‘Well, have yous then?’ The boy repeated.

  ‘He died in his sleep, Tom. You believe that don’t you.’ Jack was not used to lying, but he was even less used to committing murder, he thought.

  The boy sniffed with derision, his disbelief plain. ‘I don’t care, sir. He was a bad ‘un right enough, wicked through an’ through, sir. I was sleeping when I heard yous coming through the scullery. Wot yous goin’ to do now though?’ The boy was calmer than Jack felt.

  ‘I must go away. There is nothing for me here now. I will go far away. Tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest.’ He had made that decision already, but now it was imperative. Murderer, he thought. Sweet Jesus. Now there was a witness.

  ‘Then I must come wiv you, I can help, sir.’

  Jack dismissed the suggestion immediately. ‘There is no question of that, lad. Where I am going will be hard and not for the faint-hearted. Thank you for your offer, but you never saw me here, is that understood?’

  ‘Oh, I understands all right, but yous be wrong, sir. I can help. I can’t stay here, not now. Takes me with you sir, please.’ Tom pleaded earnestly.

  He thought a moment more. If the boy were questioned, as he must be, would he keep his mouth closed? Eventually he would talk. I could not kill him, not even in anger. A murderer he was, but never a butcher of innocents. Perhaps the lad could be useful. At least he would be unable to answer awkward questions. He was the only witness, or at least the only one with knowledge that could convict him of murder.

  ‘Meet me on the Bath Road at Nailsworth at nine o’clock; bring a horse, but not Barnwood’s. If you are not there, I shall not wait.’

  ‘Thank yous, sir, thank you. You’ll not regret it, I swear.’

  He left The Vicarage by the kitchen door, and walked Humbert through the fields to Lampern House. The house was quiet, asleep, as he heard the clock in the hall chime the hour. Closing the door to his room, he lit a candle and searched his wardrobe for suitable, necessary clothes. A parcel of books he placed in a bag; some personal papers he wrapped in a canvas case. The box in the wardrobe held cash, and he emptied that into another leather bag.

  Glancing about the room, he collected a straightedge razor and lathering brush, a hairbrush, comb and a small pair of scissors. He paused at the door to his father’s room. Guilt stabbed at his heart. He carried the candle downstairs, and hesitated in the dining room. He added some items from the sideboard then moved through to the kitchen.

  From a strongbox, he collected his sword, regularly cleaned and sharpened by Neave. Quickly placing a loaf, some cheese and a bottle of port wine into his holdall, he squatted down and patted Ralph gently on the head. The dog rolled onto his back. ‘Take care, old friend. I will miss you.’ He whispered croakily, and left by the rear door. He did not look back.

  BILL BRICE WAS ASLEEP in a chair by the inglenook, when he heard a staccato of taps on the window. Ever alert to uncommon sounds he was instantly awake. Grasping the pistol he usually kept below the bar, he moved to the side of the window at the rear of the inn. Waiting, he heard it again. No mistake, he thought. Peering through a gap in the faded curtain, he was astonished to see Jack’s stern face. Moving to the door, he quickly unbolted it.

  ‘Do you know what time it is?’ He spoke gruffly, while reaching for a lantern.

  Moving quickly, Jack stepped inside and waved his hand.

  ‘Please do not light that, my friend. I have great need of your help this night.’ Brice closed and bolted the door.

  ‘Now what’s all this about then?’ he asked. Jack’s face glowed by the embers in the fire. Brice could see, knew instantly his young friend was in some trouble.

  ‘Bill, I need a bed for the night, where I have not been seen. Do you understand? I cannot return to Lampern, and will be away early in the morning. You must ask no questions of me, for I cannot offer any explanation to you.’

  Brice looked hard at him for a long time. His inclination was to ask a question. Several questions. He elected not to.

  ‘I have guests in the house tonight. You can sleep in the log shed. ‘Tis dry, and you’ll not freeze in there. I never saw you tonight. Do you need anything?’

  ‘Thank you, old friend. I will not
forget this. No, I have everything I need now.’

  Brice led him to the shed and closed the door behind him. He returned to his chair by the fire, but further sleep eluded him.

  He stared at the embers for a very long time.

  HIS FATHER WAS IN HIS rooms early. He knew he would be, because it was market day in town, and the Town Council was meeting in the George Inn later that morning. Henry Vizzard was a member of that council and had a number of matters to discuss.

  ‘Sit down my boy, what’s to do?’

  Jack struggled with his thoughts and decided that he could only come straight to the point. ‘I have to leave father. I have taken the King’s Commission and I leave this morning. I am here to say farewell. I am truly sorry but I must go. I am so sorry.’

  Henry listened to these words with disbelief. His face reddened and he exploded. ‘You have done what, Sir? I’ll not have it, by God. Damn it, I will not, Jack. One son to the King is enough; I will not lose another!’

  15

  Departure

  The boy was waiting by the old signpost at the crossroads on the Bath Road at Nailsworth when Jack arrived at a quarter past nine o’clock. He was holding the reins of a young horse that looked too large for him. A small sack was by his feet, containing all he possessed in the world. His eyes were red, tears having left tracks on his face. People passing by took no notice. He was just another street urchin, the responsibility of none. His clothes, though old, were clean and tidy. A leather waistcoat covered a plain white shirt, tucked into dark stained pigskin breeches, and a long black woollen overcoat hung loosely from his narrow shoulders. His fair hair, usually untidy because of a double crown and although brushed, was in need of trimming with a widow’s peak curling down his forehead into his eyes.

  “Mornin’ mister Vizzard, sir. I am ready as you can see. Thought you might ‘ave changed your mind and taken a diff’rent road.’ His young face registered his relief and broke into a broad grin at Jack’s approach.

  Tom was fourteen years old, rising fifteen, and raised and cared for by his grandmother, Eliza Clutterbuck, his own mother having died when he was only five years old. He had never known a father.

  ‘Well, young ‘un, I see that indeed you are, and do you know where we are bound? Jack had told him nothing of his plans last night. He searched for doubt in the boy’s face and saw none.

  ‘No, sir, but I knows it will be an adventure, and there is nuffin’ to keep me in the valleys now. I knows I can trust you sir, and teach me things.’

  ‘We are going to sea, Tom. I am to become an officer, a marine officer, and we are away this morning to Portsmouth. You will be my servant and will join the Corps as a drummer. I know they are looking to recruit young lads. We will see the world, Tom and it will be a very long time before we see Stroud again.’

  ‘I knew it had to be somethin’ like it after what happened. Where is Portsmouth, sir, and how long will it take us to get there?’

  ‘It is in the county of Hampshire, Tom. On the south coast. It is an important Naval port, probably the biggest in England. The marines are there, and also in Plymouth, and in Chatham. Have you heard of those places, Tom?

  The boy shook his head. ‘No sir, I been to Stroud, and Gloucester too, but never been to Bristol, and that’s a big place far away from here.’

  ‘Well, Portsmouth is much further than that. We have a long journey my lad, I reckon on four or five days, perhaps longer.’

  Tom pondered that for a moment, before speaking again. ‘What will become of Mistress Mary, sir, if I may ask?’

  ‘Ah now, Tom. I really do not wish to talk of her, for she is lost to me for sure. I have nothing to offer her now, even if she were free. We must be going, so follow me.’

  He looked about, almost furtively, but trying hard to appear a carefree gentleman at leisure. His thoughts turned to his father, and the tearful parting, the trembling figure sagged in his chair. He felt wretched and anguished. Outwardly, he showed calm and confidence.

  They rode on through the day, with Jack mostly silent, until they approached Bath in the evening, there finding rooms at a tavern on the Warminster road. They attracted scant attention from the publican, the inn being a popular resting-place with travellers, and there were several that night. A foppish young naval officer attempted to engage him in conversation, but abandoned the effort when Jack proved taciturn. He did not sleep well, even after a satisfying meal of roasted pork, batter pudding, cabbage and potatoes, washed down with several tankards of ale. All consumed with the hunger of a man who has spent the day in the saddle, with no more sustenance than fresh air and dark thoughts.

  Tom proved to be an agreeable companion. He kept up an almost continuous tirade of stories, some of people Jack knew, keeping him amused and diverted. He was mature for his years and the more he talked, the more confident he became. Once he almost spoke about Barnwood, and then became quiet before changing tack and spoke instead of experiences more pleasant.

  The boy had worked at The Vicarage, helping his grandmother, and at Dick Caldwell’s farm. He tended the vegetable garden, and knew how to milk cows. However, he had no prospect of learning a trade. There was none to pay for an education, or apprenticeship, or to place him in work in the mills, not that he wanted any of those things. He would have run away with a travelling fair rather than work in such places. Tom enjoyed the outdoors, had learned how to sleep rough and catch rabbits, to ride horses, and to fish and shoot.

  At the inn he had taken care of the horses without prompting, and when Jack retired for the night he was surprised to find that his bedding had been carefully arranged and his riding boots cleaned, his cloak brushed clear of mud, and a jug of water placed by his bed. Tom slept on a worn mat, covered by a blanket, by the side of Jack’s bed, listening to the incoherent murmurings from Jack’s troubled sleep, before he too fell asleep, dreaming of becoming a soldier.

  Tom woke him at dawn, shaking him gently. ‘Mister Jack, sir, it is time to be up. I have some breakfast for you.’

  Jack sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and stretching, as Tom handed him a plate of toasted bread and cheese and from somewhere the boy had found a tankard of cider.

  ‘The ostler is about and I have had him ready the horses. I reckoned that you would want to be on the road afore long.’

  ‘Thank you, Tom’, he said and swung his legs out of bed yawning and stretching his long legs, ‘you are indeed proving useful, and yes I do want to be gone. We have another long ride ahead.’

  Jack nibbled at the bread and cheese and shaved quickly, pausing only to drink the cider, which was cold and good. He looked at his face in the small mirror. Blue eyes, cold as the sea, looked back. The face of a murderer, he thought. Best get used to it, Vizzard; you will see that each time you shave, and be reminded of your own ruthlessness every day. It was a revelation to him, that he was capable of such a callous savage act. He cleaned the razor and packed it away in his bag. The room paid for the previous evening, they left as soon as Jack had completed his preparations.

  The air was cool and clear as they left Bath behind, with the first light frost painting white the grass and the hedges along the road.

  They rode steadily, pausing every hour or so to rest the horses. Tom kept up his animated chatter, seemingly content to receive only the odd grunt or acknowledgement from Jack, who was pre-occupied with his own thoughts.

  Barnwood’s body will have been discovered and surely the finger of suspicion will have fallen on him. Only Giles will have known his intentions, why else would he have followed him? That was something he regretted. To take him into his confidence would have been foolish. He resolved to write to him, to explain his abrupt departure. They would question him for sure, but Giles would give nothing away, would he?

  He felt he was safe enough for the present, but would be happier when he reported at Portsmouth barracks. Happier still to be outward bound on a frigate. He was not due there for another month but judged they would accept h
im nonetheless. He had considered using an alias, but his commission from the Admiralty prevented that.

  They had to stop at Midsomer Norton because the boy’s horse had lost a shoe. They lunched at an inn while a farrier replaced it.

  ‘Mister Jack, sir,’ Tom said when the landlord had served some cold tongue, bread and ale, ‘I am very pleased you took me with you, sir.’

  Jack was a little taken aback by the comment. ‘You may not be so happy once we are in the service, lad. It will be a hard life for you. Tell me, Tom, why did you want to leave the village?’

  Tom sighed, having explained this already when on the road. ‘I should’ve stayed, I knows. Nan will be having a terrible time of it, but what could I do there? We have no farm and wiv no dad to help me I would be in the poor house, or in the mill. That’s not fer me. Once you did what you did sir, I knew you would have to go, and I thought you and me could help each other. I might have done the same sir, ‘cos Barnwood, well he was a right bad ‘un, sir. I ain’t told you all, but I knows fings about him. Tom squinted against the rising sun. ‘He used to go after the girls in the other villages, I used to foller him like.’ Tom looked side-ways, seeking to gauge Jack’s mood.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jack knew what the boy was saying, but some compulsion made him ask the question.

  ‘He used to sneak off with some of the girls in the mill at Dudbridge, and he was in Stroud and Gloucester a lot too, sir. He never wore his proper clothes though, sort of disguised hisself as a gent of business, if you like. I saw what he did wiv ‘em. He used them wickedly, then he would beat them sir, if you take my meaning.