by William Hunt
Running Dogs
William Hunt
Austin Macauley Publishers
Running Dogs
About the Author
About the Book
Copyright Information ©
Bad News
Departure
Birthday
Reprisals
Consequences
Lords and Ladies
On Windmill Hill
Table Talk
A Bad Business
Time to Go
Over the Water
The Road WestSir,
That Boy
A Little Business
Ill Met
Blessed and Busy
Summer Holiday
The Mow
Spalpeen Boy
Inside the Fish Hut
Courtesy Call
August Moon
Happy Returns
Reprieved
The Fair
Scandal
Charlie and Politics
Mixed Messages
Point Made
Coursing Hares
Poaching and Visitors
I-Spy
The Law of the Land
Books & Banishment
Home Truths
Gloucester Calling
Farewell and Adieu
About the Author
The author has lived his seventy years in Gloucester and has an abiding affection for the River Severn and the surrounding Gloucestershire countryside which he oft frequented as a lad and still does today. This sense of location and history along with past anecdotal country talk overheard in Severn-side country pubs gave the author inspiration to write such a story, which otherwise would not have been possible.
About the Book
Amidst the turmoil of the French Revolution, two very disparate men are forced by dire circumstance to flee along the roads of Ireland and England in order to evade the law of the land. By chance, they are thrown together and form an unlikely alliance. An alliance which brings work opportunities on a Gloucestershire estate. To their consternation, both men find themselves inextricably linked by their former misdemeanours to those who presently employ them.
Copyright Information ©
William Hunt (2019)
The right of William Hunt to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528957564 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Bad News
The black-hooded chaise with its two occupants aboard bowled and bounced along the rutted lanes of County Wexford Ireland on a bright sunny May morning in the year of 1791. It was an early start for these travellers, and the grass lay hung with globules of glistening dew.
In passing, the carriage wheels and the pony’s hoofs threw up a spray of droplets, leaving the underside of the carriage shiny and wet. Whilst from time to time, the overhanging hawthorn bushes brushed against the hood, scattering showers of white blossom over the occupants, (as confetti at a wedding)… to the great amusement of one, and much irritation of the other.
“Easy now, damn ye!”
So rebuked, the driver stopped smiling, and thereafter (by way of the trackside camber) took the chaise wide of any further overhangs. The driver himself was a fashionably smart young blood, sporting a wide-brimmed hat, sleeveless long waistcoat and moleskin breeches. He steadied the reins with leather gloves, and all the while gave voice to a tried and tested combination of clicks, whistles and soft exclamations of encouragement to the pony.
The passenger, an older man, cut a far more severe figure both in dress and countenance. He wore a long dark buttoned up coat, and over his lap a draped rug was laid. He stared out impassively under his battered tricorn hat… seemingly oblivious to the bonny springtime scene that presented itself that morning.
This then was the middleman – Squireen Colm McDavitt. A man far happier to be indoors, holed up in his converted parlour he called his ‘office’, wherein he poured over leather bound ledgers and balanced the books of the estate he managed.
But today, a pressing matter of estate business had arisen. And in order these affairs be brought to a speedy and satisfactory conclusion, Squireen McDavitt had uncommonly sallied forth to pay a visit to one of the estates tenant farmers – a certain Daniel Hughes.
After a mile or so, the flat meadowland gave way to rising ground. As the chaise gained elevation, the pony was brought to a slow trot in order to accommodate the climb. Now, the hedgerows lessoned and yellow flowering gorse shrubs became more frequently encountered along the wayside trail.
Abruptly, the chaise burst through the tree line and onto the open hillside. And as great a change as ever could be envisaged presented itself to the eyes of the beholder.
From this newly won vantage point, the travellers could see for miles – and a grand sight it was too. The driver appreciatively took in the Wexford countryside below before briefly glancing toward the northern skyline where the sun’s morning rays lit up the eastern face of the distant Blackstairs Mountains.
Up here on the hillside, the farmlands lay criss-crossed with a patchwork of small stone walled enclosures. They were built this way for good reason. On these exposed slopes, the crops needed shelter from the constant blow of the south-westerly winds.
And it was these self-same winds that occasionally swept in a much-feared cloudburst. Then such a deluge might sweep away the precious thin top soil. It made sense to those working the land here, to maintain small plots, and further trench out the perimeter walls, allowing rainwater an escape route.
But in truth, these farmsteads teetered on the margins of sustainability. Anywhere else and such a place would be seen as fit to graze sheep only.
But Ireland at this time bore an ever-growing number of souls. And with it… came forth a great land hunger.
Farm holdings put up for auction were fiercely contested. In the desperate scramble for land (any land at all) people bid recklessly. Prices soared with ruinous consequences for all – saving those (mostly absentee) landowners and their grafting managers.
Within Irish polite society, however, such economic states of affairs were referred to as a ‘seller’s market’. At dinner parties and social functions, whenever the discourse so moved to this particular topic (as it invariably did), Adam Smith and his remarkable book ‘The Wealth of Nations’ was often quoted as the fount of wisdom on these matters.
Among the convivial company, someone was always on hand to satisfactorily explain how ‘market forces’ (as described by Adam Smith) worked marvellously for the benefit of all…
But to those on the receiving end of this onerous mechanism, the whole business was contemptuously referred to as ‘rack renting’.
And that very morning, the implementation of ‘market forces’ was to be enacted out on a windblown hillside farm somewhere in County Wexford. With dire consequences for all concerned.
Now Squireen McDavitt became intent and jabbed his finger toward a number of dwellings set below the summit of the hill. The dr
iver nodded, and with a gentle pull of the reins guided the pony off the main track and through a gap in a stone wall that lead on to their destination.
Distance lends enchantment to the view we’re told, and from afar the little hamlet appeared ‘picturesque’. But as the visitors drew nearer, an altogether meaner reality became apparent.
Several mud-walled cabins lay clustered together amidst tiny allotments housing pig-pens. Nearby stood the more sturdily built stone farmhouse. All the dwellings were windowless and thatched. The farmhouse alone was blessed with a solitary chimneystack.
Outside the farmhouse, a single figure could be seen humping turf clods from a mule cart and stacking them out to dry for later use as fuel. In those days fires burnt in the hearth all year round, (whether possessed of a chimney or not).
Alerted to the approaching company, the man ceased his labours and came to attention. It was the tenant farmer himself – Daniel Hughes.
The chaise shortly arrived and pulled up alongside the waiting farmer.
“Good morning to you Squireen McDavitt sir,” ventured the farmer with a brief salute of his forefinger. He was a robust looking man in his early forties, and his tone was respectful, if somewhat enquiring.
Squireen McDavitt ignored the salutation. Instead, he brusquely ordered his assistant to task, “I want a full inventory of all assets on this holding mind. Anything of value at all… Do ye hear me now?”
The assistant nodded, and deftly snatched a leather satchel from the chaise (containing: a ledger, quills and a bottle of ink) before setting off on his audit.
As Daniel Hughes watched and listened, his face fell.
“Why, what can the matter be, sir? What troubles are these?”
The lone farmer in his rough workaday linen shirt, patched-up leggings and worn-down boots (that looked fit to be thrown into the nearest bog) stood in stark contrast to the well-dressed young man who strode past him on urgent estate business that morning.
With a satisfied air, Squireen Mcdavitt gave quiet contemplation to the events he’d set in motion. Then (almost as an afterthought), the squireen remembered the patiently waiting tenant farmer.
As he turned and gazed down upon Daniel Hughes, a small fleecy cloud scudded across the sun, sending a fleeting shadow racing across the hillside and darkening the light of those souls underneath. It foretold the briefest of portents. Bad news was come to the farmstead.
Squireen McDavitt leant forward with an inquisitorial frown, “Daniel Hughes?”
“I am that man, sir.”
“Hmm… My books tell me ye took up this holding September last.”
Daniel Hughes nodded in the affirmative, “I did so mind, Mr McDavitt sir.”
Squireen McDavitt looked thoughtfully at him… Then…
“Now list here man. There’s back rent owed”.
“To be payin’ after the barley crop is harvested sir,” Daniel Hughes promptly replied. “Why there was a shakin’ of hands on it, as I recall.”
Just then, the squireen’s attention became focussed on the high ground above the farmstead. There amid the stony outcrop, a rectangular patch of some two acres had been cleared, and drill furrowed with potato seed. Now the cultivated ground sprouted with shy tender little leaves that grew in straggling rows.
“Who said you could do that?” Squireen McDavitt indignantly demanded. Daniel Hughes sought to make light of the issue.
“Ah! Just a morsel of bare land cleared, sir. Where’s the harm now?”
“Pschhaw!” Squireen McDavitt snorted angrily. “You pay no dues and further think to farm where you fancy… D’ ye take me for a fool? Is that it?”
Daniel Hughes replied in placatory tone, “Not at all, Mr McDavitt sir… Never!”
Seeking to defuse the squireen’s bellicosity, Daniel Hughes attempted to inject some humour to the proceedings.
“The ground was doin’ nuttin’ at all, sir. Why we shifted enough stone, as would build a castle atop the hill for old Fin M’Coul himself,” he concluded with a forced laugh.
Unimpressed, the glowering McDavitt responded with a sweeping gesture of his hand.
“These are Lord Arlingham’s estates, man. It’s not for you to decide where and when it is to be extended – never mind building castles for Fin M’Coul. Do ye hear?”
Daniel Hughes relapsed into grim faced silence whilst McDavitt loudly upbraided the farmer for his temerity on this matter.
Meanwhile, the unexpected arrival of the chaise had not gone unnoticed. The further antics of the prying assistant began to draw those (farmhand) cottiers from their labours. Equally curious womenfolk gathered outside their cabins.
Tools were downed and tasks abandoned. Thereafter, a steady drift of people closed on the two protagonists… in order they might better know its meaning.
Among them was the farmer’s wife, Molly, with children at her feet and babe in arms. At that moment, the Hughes’ eldest son John – fresh from repairing a nearby stone wall – joined with his mother and siblings.
The crowd huddled behind Daniel Hughes and listened intently. The squireen, unfazed by the array of those newly arrived, continued berating the farmer… Finally, he got to the point of his visit.
“Hughes, I’m here to collect. If ye wish to keep this tenancy, I’m wanting on this day payment of back rent owing.”
Noises of incredulity and indignation rose from the gathering, but McDavitt (now in full flow) mercilessly drove home yet more bad news.
“And from what I’ve seen today, that plot you have taken upon yourselves to extend and enjoy… will surely bear the estate another fifteen shilling man.”
That was the final straw. Daniel Hughes exploded, “Enjoy? For the love of Christ! Enjoyment, is it?”
Struggling to maintain composure, Daniel Hughes summoned up what reserves of inner strength he could muster… Thereafter, he spoke calmly and in measured tones.
“Squireen McDavitt, we need every last spadesful o’ farm land for crop yield – else we cannot pay the rent… All we did was to clear a patch of stony ground for a sack load of tatties to fill our bellies next winter. I ask you, sir… Is that so wrong?”
A murmur of approval rose from the gathering. That was fair. Daniel Hughes paused, allowing the hubbub to subside, before concluding his earnest plea.
“And now the plantin’s been done. Grant, we bide here till harvest time, sir? When the barley’s gathered in – we can settle up – and no one’s the worse off. What say you now?”
To an impartial observer, it would appear the farmer had presented a reasonable case. A case to be met halfway perhaps? But the squireen wasn’t listening.
McDavitt leaned over his rested arm and replied in a slow patronising manner as one addressing a simpleton.
“Do you not understand my position man? I have to manage this estate on behalf of Lord Arlingham. Now his lordship’s clerks expect a fair price from such acreage… And if I don’t give satisfaction… somebody will be found who can…”
At this point, the assistant-his audit now completed-and with several little barefoot children hard on his heels-returned to the chaise. He stashed the satchel and mounted the carriage seat. With reins in hand, he awaited instructions. That was the signal for Squireen McDavitt to cease further parley with the farmer.
“Enough! My patience is done. … Do ye have it – or no?”
The downcast Daniel Hughes was forced to come clean.
“No sir, we cannot pay.”
“Then hear this” the squireen loudly declared. “All assets and chattels on this holding will be seized in forfeit of payment owed to the estate.”
Disregarding the distressed cacophony loudly emanating from those whose lives he had just ruined. Squireen McDavitt proceeded to issue a dire warning to all present.
“On no account must any possessions, tools or livestock be removed from this holding. All are now impounded.”
There was a further broadside to follow.
“A court o
rder will be served here tomorrow. You must go. The farm is to be taken back, and the tenancy re-let… To them more deservin’,” he concluded venomously.
With the business done, the middleman tersely waved on his assistant. The chaise duly circled the yard and rolled away down the farm track.
On second thoughts, McDavitt decided that he was not quite finished after all. Not yet. Holding on to his tri-corn hat, he stuck his head round the carriage hood and bellowed out a parting shot to the onlookers:
“Take nothing mind ye!”
Within a minute, the most unwelcome of visitors had departed, leaving the stunned gathering silently staring at the empty spot where a few moments earlier their lives had stopped.
One of the cottiers finally gave voice:
“I heard a farm was up for cant. I never thought it to be this one.”
“Ah! Isn’t that the way of it all,” spoke another. “Whilst we work hard on it, the very land is sold from under our feet.”
Now the throng gave over to bitter invective, and the soul of Colm McDavitt – together with the absent English landowner Lord Arlingham, (on whose behalf, the middleman purportedly acted) – were both cursed to hell and back.
One of the women wondered whether they might not hide the pigs. “They’ve all been counted woman,” retorted an exasperated cottier. “Did you not see the man just now?”
Molly urgently shook her husband’s arm.
“Cannot we find help from the law courts, Dan? Father Cochlan will speak for us, I’m sure.”
At this suggestion, sounds of derision rippled through the gathering. Daniel Hughes responded with dark sardonic humour.
“Now there’s a grand thought Molly… that we should summon Squireen Colm McDavitt to the courts of New Ross. And who might the presiding magistrate be? Why none other than ‘Kieran O’Neil’…”
The mention of this name was greeted by further scorn. Daniel Hughes paused a second before driving his point home.
“And when he’s not passing judgment over us all – without fear nor favour, I might add. Is oft to be found partaking of wine at Squireen McDavitt’s home no less… How could I, a poor papist farmer, be so full of myself as to spoil their friendship and put a strain on their loyalist sashes?”