Running Dogs

by William Hunt

  “An excellent notion my lord,” responded Squire Portlock with obvious enthusiasm, and thereafter the two men re-joined the company in anticipation of the table talk to follow.

  For a good year hence, Rupert and Toby’s joint venture abroad had been meticulously planned out. And soon a definite departure date would need to be set. But as events rumbled on across the English Channel, a growing sense of unease had of late cast a shadow over the proceedings.

  So far no one had directly articulated their concerns. But His Lordship was fully cognisant of the underlying disquiet that attended the preparations.

  With this in mind, now seemed an appropriate moment to address these (as yet) unspoken misgivings.

  Having gained the full attention of the party, His Lordship began a resume, outlining the details of the Grand Tour so far planned… with France necessarily featured as the first stage of the journey.

  “I think we are all aware the Comte will be unable to grant Rupert and Toby the hospitality of the Chateau Royale. By itself the denial of one venue would be no hardship… but there are wider implications to consider here…”

  At this point, Lord Arlingham broke off from further comment, and he subsequently assumed an enquiring air… The topic was formally opened for debate. Johanna Portlock needed no second bidding and promptly came off her mark:

  “Well, I’m bound to say my lord, the events in France are most alarming. We hear of constant disorders taking place in that land. Time and again, we read in the Gloucester Journal of one disturbing event after another…”

  “May I say, my lord,” voiced her supportive husband, “Both my wife and I are most uneasy with this business”. The squire subsequent nodded graciously in the direction of the Comte, but the words that followed were blunt:

  “And delighted though we are to make the acquaintance of the Comte and his family… Their presence here affords us no confidence whatsoever.”

  Now it was out in the open. Major Bullingham (never a man to mince his words) joined the fray with customary directness:

  “Comte de Moritz, it is time to speak frankly to us. England has opened its doors… Tell us how it was sir… A full explanation if you, please.”

  The Portlocks readily endorsed the major’s sentiments with affirmative nods, and all attention became intently focussed on the French aristocrats.

  Pointedly Lord Arlingham remained silent. And his reticence signalled the discourse free rein to go where it may.

  A hushed silence fell across the drawing room. For so long that day, the conversation had been polite, entertaining and frequently offset with amusing (and harmless) anecdotes. But now as the late afternoon ebbed away, a more forthright dialogue was now demanded.

  Facing the glare of an inquisitional scenario, the self-possessed facade of the French aristocrats momentarily faltered, and the family were temporarily embarrassed. Nevertheless, the Comte swiftly recovered his composure and rose obligingly from his seat to meet with the expectations of those around him:

  “Very well… It shall be as you wish. We are your guests. And understandably an explanation is owed. We shall proceed from the beginning I think … It is now two years since the great disorder overtook my unhappy country.” The Comte solemnly observed.

  “At the time we were confounded by the sauvage happenings in Paris. We anxiously sought – as did everybody else – for news. Who then ruled France? Post horse messengers rode out like fury to convey the insolent usurpation of His Majesty King Louis’ divine authority by the so-called Assemblée nationale. Once it took a full two days riding from Paris to reach the Chateau Royale. But in the course of that summer, those dispatch riders seemed to have grown wings and raced through our region with the latest communiqués in just over a day…Quite unbelievable.” The Comte remarked with a lingering expression of baffled disbelief.

  “Then our fears were realised. In no time the outrages fermented in Paris burst into the surrounding provinces. Neighbouring Chateaux suffered attack and land was seized. And all the time we were powerless to prevent it.”

  “But the king’s militia? Where was it sir?” The military minded Major Bullimore was at pains to know.

  “The actions of the Jacqueries were lèse-majesté of course,” agreed the Comte. "And our first task was to issue in the king’s name, a summons to arms of all those eligible for military service, both from our estate and the nearby Ville-Royale"

  To the amazement of the listeners, the Comte related how the call went unheeded. In spite of earnest protestations from the local mayor and clergy, the villagers and townspeople banded together to prevent such mobilisations taking place.

  “Alas!” remarked the Comte ruefully. “It was widely believed that such militias would be used by the king against the revolution in Paris itself.”

  “Well, there’s a rum do and no mistake…” uttered the major with a perplexed shake of his head.

  “And how did you proceed Henri?” enquired Lord Arlingham, (no less engrossed than the rest of the audience). Although he’d prior knowledge of his cousins’ erstwhile predicament. The detailed revelations now being aired were altogether new to him.

  “Ah! Such confusion as you could not imagine, my lord.” The Comte wore a grave countenance. “In the end, we decided to remain within the confines of our Chateau. With our guns primed and loaded, we prepared for the worst.”

  But to everybody’s great surprise, the days passed without incident. Slowly and tentatively, the aristocrats resumed their usual routine. Had things returned to normal? Not quite. Subsequently, they learnt that portions of the estate had been expropriated in the name of the revolution.

  And now the villagers watered their cows and sheep in the ornamental ponds that stood directly outside the Chateau. Hearing this, the Gloucester audience spontaneously broke into gusts of incredulous laughter. Such an absurd state of affairs, their minds could never have conjured up in a month of Sundays.

  “And yet,” the Comte observed, “When we ventured outside, the villagers bowed, and correctly addressed us as before.”

  To emphasis the point, Comtesse Lisa related how she overheard a shepherd chastised by a passing villager for allowing his flock to stray too close to their Chateau windows… “In case we might be resting.”

  The listeners exchanged baffled glances at the topsy-turvy relationship forged between master and servant, and waited expectantly for further elucidation.

  “The harvesting came and went,” the Comte recounted in a matter of fact manner. “But our steward – a good man by the name of Jacques Villiors – advised us to forego collection of our crop-rent that year of 1789.”

  At this juncture, in order to press home his narrative, the Comte adopted a more confidential and intimate tone. “It was a matter of biding our time you see. At the right moment, His Majesty King Louis would surely use his veto to abolish the Assemblée nationale, and the old order would be restored.”

  Begging the pardon of the company, the Comte broke off for a brief sip of wine before re-commencing, “The following year came the moment we had long awaited” he recalled exultantly. "By the king’s guidance, those Parisian rascals were moved to grant restitution for the violations of our ancient seigniorial rights. Naturally we wasted no time in seeking restoration of our land stolen from us the previous year.

  “What happened next,” the Comte related in sombre tones. “Will remain with us for all of our lives. The Comtesse and I were taking our ease indoors – just as now – when a servant entered, his face as pale as alabaster. He urged us to look outside; we did so… Mon Dieu! Advancing on our Chateau came forth a host of people – a hundred or more,”

  Comtesse Lisa at this point interjected to say that mercifully, Mlle Rosalyn was away at St Peter’s Covent at the time, and subsequently spared what was to follow.

  And by the bye – Comtesse Lisa – upon catching sight of the long winding procession with pitchforks flails and rakes held aloft. Could not help but be strangely reminded of a g
igantic woolly caterpillar advancing upon them.

  The Comte resumed the narrative, “We were taken by surprise. There was no time to prepare a defence of any kind. We watched and waited in silence. Then the outer door was wrenched open, and men, women and children came tumbling into our chamber… We were face to face with these creatures. I have never before encountered such wild malevolence. Our Chateau was violated.”

  Now the demeanour of the company became stern and indignant at the thought of such an affront to civilised society.

  “And what brought about this appalling intrusion?” His Lordship enquired concernedly.

  “They sought the estate scrolls, my lord,” replied the Comte plaintively. "Precious writings of duties and taxes owed to our lands… I began to remonstrate. We were entitled to just restitution of our seigniorial dues and corvee. Had not Paris so decreed?…

  It was the women who led the mob. They were truly frightening creatures. “The assembly speaks for no one here,” they cried. “We are the voice of France. Now tell us and be quick. Where do you keep these things?”

  At this point, the Comte, clearly unsettled by the recollection, paused whilst regaining his composure.

  "All respect for our position – our dignity had vanished you see. And then a great hubbub arose. One of the servants had betrayed our office. They returned with the boxes that held our ancient and precious estate records. Now a terrible shout of exultation echoed through our Chateau:

  “Here our burdens are writ. Let the flames devour them”. And to sounds of repeated cheers, the vellum rolls were thrown onto the fire and burnt in our presence."

  Now the listeners could contain themselves no longer. Angry voices began to issue forth across the drawing room of Hardcourt Hall.

  “A despicable act!”

  “Monstrous people!”

  The Comte was greatly reassured by the outward display of support from the English guests and proceeded to round off his story far more confidently than when he’d begun:

  “Mercifully, once the senseless acts of destruction were completed, these animaux seemed satisfied and marched away with shouts and songs. Naturally, after such an experience, you can understand how dangerous our situation had become. We began to make preparations to depart from our Chateau, and so to these shores we have voyaged…”

  The Comte concluded his narrative. Thereafter, the silence was broken by Major Bullimore hastening to make amends.

  “Entirely, the proper thing to do, Henri,” he said, now addressing the Comte with warm familiarity:

  “I for one was quite unaware of your ghastly plight. Please do forgive me if I seemed somewhat discourteous earlier.”

  The Comte de Moritz graciously bowed in response. “But of course, major.” And thereafter the French aristocrats basked in the newfound glow of convivial kinship. However the Comte added a cautionary note to the proceedings. “All this happened a year since, but I cannot swear to the safe passage of Rupert and Toby through France. My country is on a great unknowable journey. How it will end… who can say. But whilst the king lives, we may yet hope for a restoration of our time-honoured ways.”

  At this juncture, Lord Arlingham and the Portlocks exchanged meaningful glances. The frankness of the occasion had done little to allay their general disquiet. On the contrary, it had compounded them.

  But the quandary of decision-making was for the moment postponed by the timely arrival of a footman informing the party of Rupert and Toby’s return.

  The two young men, still flushed with the excitement of the afternoons events were cordially welcomed back, and thereafter, all further talk of weighty matters was put to one side for the time being.

  Nevertheless, the ordeal so vividly described by the Comte de Moritz had left an indelible mark on the psyche of the French aristocrats.

  On one occasion, they were returning with Lord Arlingham from a visit to Gloucester, when their carriage encountered a number of farm-workers approaching from the opposite direction.

  The track at this point narrowed, and was set down in a gulley. There being no room for manoeuvre, the driver was obliged to pull up in order to allow the labourers passage through.

  Touching their hats and forelocks with respectful salutes, and greetings – “My lord” – The rustic throng filed closely by on either side of the carriage.

  But at the halt, Lord Arlingham could only marvel, as he witnessed the reaction of the French party to this (apparently) trifling event. The Comte’s posture stiffened to a ramrod, and his countenance became stony. Whilst the Comtesse Lisa and Mlle Rosalyn shrank from the windows – and seeking mutual comfort – clasped each other to their bosoms – their eyes averted – and wide with fear.

  A Bad Business

  Across the western skyline, the fading light presaged the end of another day. At such times, the lamplighters went about their rounds on the streets of the rich where little children peeped inquisitively through upstairs windows at the scene below.

  Sometimes (if they’d been good)-and under the close supervision of a nursemaid. The children were allowed to stand on the top doorstep and watch the routines of the men reaching up with their poles to light the oil wicks.

  The lamplighter slowly pushed his barrow and ladders along to the lamp posts, and occasionally climbed aloft to re-fill the lamps with a tin can of ‘whale oil’. Hard won on the high seas, it was a costly commodity, and only the affluent classes could afford such luxuries.

  So, London shined fitfully here and there. The orbs of street lighting provided illumination that brought comfort and security to those with the means to pay.

  But as the lamp-lit streets of the wealthy gave security in one sense, they inevitably drew (as moth to flame), those elements they sought to deter in the first place.

  Such are the contradictions of society.

  After the lamp-lighters departed, the household servants saw to it that the basement windows were securely boarded up, before placing full toilet buckets on the front steps for collection by the night-soil men. Thereafter, the front doors were shut and bolted; and all was locked down for another night.

  Time passed. The stillness of the deserted street broken only by the fitful and flickering glow from the wicks of the glass encased street lamps. Suddenly there was intrusive movement on the street. Two bare headed men appeared, attired in grubby white neck mufflers, ill-fitting frock coats and woollen stockings pulled up from their black buckled shoes to their shabby knee breeches.

  Walking swiftly and closely together, they systematically checked the front entrances of each residence. Their attention specifically focussed on the side iron gates set into the perimeter railings that lay on a landing below the front door.

  Then in a twinkling, the two men disappeared from street view. A lapse in security saw them gain access past an unlocked side gate. Down the steps they tumbled, until brought to a halt outside a boarded-up basement window.

  Hidden in the shadows from the streetlights, the two men listened intently for a minute or two, before becoming satisfied that no activity was taking place on the other side of the basement window. At this time of night, it was safe to assume that all were abed – not least the servants – whose usual quarters lay in the attic of the two-storey Georgian buildings.

  Carefully, the tools of the trade were fished out of the burglar’s jacket linings. First up was a jemmy which shortly levered off the window boarding from its hinges.

  Next a wooden-handled chisel was produced, and carefully punched with the palm of the hand until a gouge between the window-ledge and the sill allowed the jemmy purchase.

  Breaking the inside window catch proved to be difficult, but a hollow metal tube extension gave extra leverage for the jemmy to finish the job. Finally, the window catch snapped with a muffled bang. Instantly both men froze – ears cocked. It might be time to leave in a hurry.

  With no response forthcoming, the two men (much reassured) carefully inched the sash window up. But just before they embar
ked into the dark interior, the older burglar took hold of the others arm and whispered oft repeated advice… as in mantra form.

  “Remember Billy – In like a ferret. Out like a rabbit.”

  Billy became tetchy. “So, you keep sayin’,” he muttered irritably. Moments later both were inside, and after a minute or two, their eyes became adjusted to the darkness.

  In the event the basement turned out to be the household laundry-room. The two burglars would have to venture further afield, if their efforts were to be rewarded that night. Conveniently, the embers in the fire grate gave light for their pocket oil lamp to help them find their way around.

  Stealthily, tip toeing up the basement stairs; they arrived in the hallway entrance, partially lit by the street light shining through the decorative coloured glass inset at the top of the front door.

  With no time to waste, the burglars slipped in to a room adjoining the hallway, and gently closing the door behind them, the lamp was held aloft to see what they’d got.

  Things were different here. This room sported an office desk, a bureau, cabinets, and the decor throughout was most tastefully refined. But Charlie Rackford and Billy Dadge weren’t about to admire the scenery (at least that’s what Charlie thought). Now was the time to get to work.

  Drawers were swiftly rifled. Silver knifes (for opening letters), snuff boxes and ornate paperweights were among the goodies hurriedly swept into a canvas bag brought for the occasion.

  Whilst rummaging through one drawer, Charlie’s curiosity was momentarily taken by a white package which he swiftly pocketed. That was enough for tonight. Charlie signalled to Billy.

  “Out like a rabbit, mate,” Charlie softly spoke the buzzword once more. But Billy saw things differently. “Why, it’s a Palace we ’ave ’ere Charlie,” Billy replied, spellbound by the surroundings. “Such lovely things I’ve never seen before.”

  Charlie shook his head vehemently, and jabbed his finger towards the door. Billy smiled, “No mate, not at all,” and to Charlie’s horror, Billy proceeded to light up the wall lamps. The room became obscenely bright. Mercifully, the curtains were drawn… It was every man for himself.