by William Hunt
Fergus took no offence and smiled affably.
“Yes, talking treason was always a weakness of mine.”
And then almost as an afterthought, he rummaged inside his bundle, and withdrew a slim rectangular dark brown object.
“Here take this. Where I’m going I won’t be needin’ it.”
Thereupon Fergus tossed it into John’s lap. John picked it up, and for the first time in his life, held a book in his hands. After scrutinising it for a moment, he shook his head in mild regret.
“But I cannot read, not even my name,” he was bound to admit. Fergus was not in the least surprised.
“I didn’t think so,” he replied. “You’re holding it the wrong way up.”
"Is it the holy book of scriptures I have? John asked in respectful tones.
“No, it is not,” Fergus remarked impatiently, and tapped the book with his forefinger, “the clergy won’t suffer such writing –whatever their persuasion.”
“Then the devils in it!” John anxiously crossed himself, and handed it back.
Fergus retrieved the book and began waving it under John’s nose. “Words of wisdom are written here,” he exclaimed fervently, “Republican France gives hope to all men. The book tells us so.” Fergus gazed at John with an almost saintly expression.
“Learn to read and you will discover the truth for yourself Fergus advised,”And afterwards, all will become clear." John so persuaded gingerly took back the book. But now it was time to resume their Journey.
John’s respect for his travelling companion superior wisdom and learning was further enhanced when he discovered Fergus was also able to decipher the occasional milestone.
“See here,” Fergus announced after they’d paused alongside a particularly impressive stone slab with a list of names and numbers as long as your arm.
“Only another fifteen miles to Cork now.”
“How do you know?” John looked in bafflement at the black lines and squiggles set before him.
Fergus ran his forefinger across the milestone and explained what it all meant. John was none the wiser, but much impressed, decided he too must learn to read one day…
From this calculation, Fergus reckoned they should arrive by late afternoon. Buoyed up by the prospect, the two set out determinedly. Finally, after a good five hours slog, and with barely slackening pace, the tiring wayfarers made fall their destination.
Cork was bigger than anything John had seen before, and after pausing to draw breath, they took in the sights. Fergus O’ Donnell was quick to point out the Union Jack ensigns of the Royal Navy ships moored up in the bay.
But crowded along the quayside wall of the river Lea was a myriad of smaller craft, with all manner of cargo being handled in and out of their holds by the dockside labourers.
And for the brief erstwhile friendship… it was the parting of the ways. Fergus O’ Donnell took advice that ‘The Sally-Anne’ sailed for America on the evening tide. And she lay, just now, moored off the headland at Cove. He must embark on the waiting ferry, or miss his passage.
Fergus looked hard at John and made him a tempting offer.
“Will you not come with us, John? I’ve fare enough for two in my purse.”
“I cannot Fergus,” John replied regretfully. “I mean to return home soon.”
Fergus O’ Donnell shrugged off his disappointment. “Then I’ll say goodbye… and good luck in England now.”
They warmly shook hands, and Fergus O’Donnell was gone. John found himself alone once more. But there was no time to dwell. He needed a berth to the mainland and soon.
Cork was a busy place but tip full o’ beggars. And John could see if he wasn’t careful, he would soon be ‘spent out’ and end up the same way.
Unfortunately, he found that the last passenger ship to England had departed on the morning tide, and no further sailings to the mainland were expected that week.
Disconsolately, John paced the quayside, until at last he was driven to try his luck with any craft that might take him aboard.
Over and again his request received short shrift, as one crew hand after another dismissively waved him away. Then one of them made a suggestion.
“If it’s England you want. Try the Frenchie’s. Their Bristol bound.”
“French?” queried John.
“Next berth… The brig… See?”
John perceived a knot of men gathered on the quay alongside a twin-masted vessel waiting to unload. John took what heart he could, and apprehensively approached the foreigners.
He heard the incomprehensible talk and almost convinced himself to look elsewhere. Nevertheless being so driven, he cut across their business and introduced himself.
“My name is John Hughes. Can I board to Bristol? I will pay.”
The conversation ceased, and the crewmen steadily regarded him. It was clear from their faces that they did not understand. But one of them did.
Unlike the others who were dressed in loose shirts and trousers, he wore a short, blue double-breasted jacket and a red bandolier tied round his head. He was also a little older. This was the ships master.
And the response John received from this man was no different to what had gone before.
“Our business is wine,” came forth the terse reply, and thereafter he turned his back on John, and resumed conversation with the crew.
Desperation lent itself to ingenuity. Mindful of Fergus O’Donnell’s recent discourse on the great hopes Ireland might have of France, John rummaged for the little book and brandished it under their noses.
“I am a friend of France,” he spoke loudly.
At this most unexpected turn of event, the ships master curiously took hold of the little book. It worked wonders. He broke into a broad grin.
“Nous avons un republican ami.”
“C’est Bon,” called out the crew approvingly, and the book was passed round. Now John was the centre of attention… That much was obvious.
During the discussion that followed, the ships master let it be known of John’s intentions. When he’d finished, the crew voiced affirmation, and nodded most encouragingly.
One the crew-hands, especially, was most vociferous in his support of the (now perceived) fellow republican. The others laughed at his rowdy outbursts, and referred to him as Paul.
Handing back the book, the ships master spoke in a friendly way to the awaiting John.
“Very well you may board mon amie. France will need all the friends she can find I think, but for now there is work to do.”
The off-loading of wine barrels commenced. John watched and, whenever he could, willingly gave a hand. The wine barrels were winched out of the vessels hold, and rolled along gangplanks onto the wharf. The barrels were big and heavy, and the whole operation was a slow laborious business.
Not all the cargo went ashore. A number of barrels remained destined for Bristol. Once the quota to Cork was fulfilled, the brig’s hold was battened down and John was beckoned aboard.
His offer of money was rebuffed by the ships master.
“You will work.” John was told. “We have no room for idle passengers.”
It seemed that they were to embark on the evening tide, with a number of other craft including the ‘Sally-Anne’. But first the French brig had to be towed out into open waters.
Several long boats with burly oarsman made ready and a hawser was attached to the brig. Taking the strain, the oarsmen dug deep and steadily inched the brig off the quayside wall and out into the River Lea..
Gaining open water past Blackrock Castle , the head wind began to blow and the crew scrambled aloft, unfurling sails on both masts and setting the guy ropes taut. Up ahead the ‘Sally-Anne’ veered off on her south-westerly course to America. John watched regretfully, and with all his heart wished Fergus O’Donnell well.
Then as the brig passed close to the ships of the Royal Navy, a few choice remarks burst forth from the French crew. John didn’t know what, but from the derogatory tone of
their voices he could guess. Nobody aboard (including himself) liked England which ironically was their next point of call.
The ships master took the helm, and set a course in direct opposition to the now fast disappearing ‘Sally-Anne’. He noted John gazing in wondrous trepidation at the swell of the sea and the billowing mainsail, and he called out laughingly.
"Welcome aboard La Vagabonde".
Over the next few days, John turned his hand to whatever task was required of him. His first duty was a spell on night watch, which was greatly appreciated by the rest of the crew (now able to gain an extra few hours’ sleep).
A lantern was lit and set forrard to show ‘La Vagabonde’s position’. From time to time the signal was answered by the twinkling lanterns of other passing ships in the night.
Throughout the crossing, a fishing line and sinker was towed aft, and periodically the fish taken (usually mackerel) were hauled in.
Once Paul fetched a musket from below, and shot a gull hovering overhead..
“Voila!” With a thump the bird dropped onto the deck. John’s next duty was to get plucking. It would make a change from mackerel.
John discovered the brig’s home port was Bordeaux (wherever that was), and the cargo was claret. It seemed that port was the favoured drink in England, but the French wines met high import taxes.
“We do not trade so easily with that country,” the ships master explained, “But the Ladies and Gentlemen of high birth… Well! They cannot go without our wine.”
So, whatever the trading laws, the rich made an exception with the Bordeaux claret, and willingly paid the surcharge to secure the wines for their cellars.
Paul was most vociferous in his denunciation of such people, “Vers le bas avec l’aristocratie. Vive la republican vin!”
At the sound of these ringing republican sentiments, a cheer rang round the brig. The ships master looked on and smiled quizzically, with the merest hint of disapproval in his mien.
But now the mainland coast of England could be seen on the low horizon to the east. Soon they would arrive at the mouth of the Bristol Channel and English waters. Late tomorrow they should (all being well) reach the Port O’ Bristol.
Close to the shoreline La Vagabonde dropped anchor and the mainsails were swiftly lowered. John took his place on watch for that final evening. And alone with his thoughts, he contemplated what the fates might bring once he stepped foot in this foreign land.
At first light, La Vagabonde weighed anchor and hove past Lundy Island – shortly to be intercepted by a Bristol Channel pilot boat. After a brief haggle over the fee, the pilot boat led the way in.
By day’s end the French brig and its company had successfully navigated the mouth of the Avon and sailed up on the evening tide to Bristol.
On reaching their final destination before returning to Bordeaux, a congratulatory flow of claret was tapped from one of the barrels set aside for internal consumption. There was a clinking of mugs and cups all round. And amidst the bonhomie, John tasted wine for the first time and thought it’s good.
“What will you do now mon amie?” The ships master enquired of John. John shrugged. He had no idea. Then Paul called for: “A salut au republican, John,” and everybody drank the Irishman’s health.
Basking in the glow of friendship from this most unexpected quarter John for the moment was blissfully happy. On the morrow, he would part company from his French companions and venture forth in England.
Later that night when all was quiet, he knelt alone on the deck of La Vagabonde and offered up a silent prayer to the ‘Holy Mother’. That by her ‘Divine Grace’, she would grant him sanctuary in England; until the time came for him to return to his family in Wexford for the harvesting… As he’d so promised them.
The Road West
Charlie Rackford was ill-prepared for his unexpected flight from Redriff. Driving blindly onwards, he toiled through the livelong day, until dog weary he sought respite at the Spread Eagle coaching inn.
In return for periodic refills of ale, he was permitted a corner side settle, where he sat tight and rested up.
As he eked out the last of his coppers, Charlie’s mind turned to the uninspected package that had lain snugly inside his jacket pocket since the Dover Street escapade.
But coaching inns were busy places. Wayside travellers constantly arrived and departed the whole time. Finally, at a late hour, quietude descended on the inn.
By the dim glow of an oil lamp, Charlie surreptitiously drew out the package and broke open the red wax seal. Groping inside the wrapping, he drew forth a neatly folded leather wallet which contained a letter and much to his great delight, what seemed to be a wad of denominated bank notes.
“Oh, Charlie boy! Your troubles are done with!” he chortled with glee. Then his face fell. On closer inspection the notes bore no resemblance to anything he’d ever seen before. Unable to decipher the printed wording – nor yet identify the unfamiliar design – a disgruntled Charlie turned to the letter in the hope of gainful understanding.
Unfolding the document, his attention was immediately taken by a white swan motif set within a yellow escutcheon stamped atop the page.
Underneath: a brief hand-written communiqué.
Sir,
Be pleased to accept forthwith our remittance of fifty assignats in five livre notes. Made payable to land-agent Delorre for undertakings on our behalf.
Your Obedient Servant,
Arlingham.
Charlie struggled with the translation… Servant- Arlingham… What did it all mean? Idly, he scanned the folded waxed paper. The addressee caught his eye: Mr J Bagshaw – Dover Street
Fishing out his wanted poster, he compared the two names. They were one and the same. But that was hardly surprising, was it? And he was still no wiser as to the worth of the paper notes, so tantalisingly held in his grasp.
Charlie grew weary and forthwith stashed the contents away. It had been a long day and he was too tired to think anymore. Thereafter, he fitfully dozed and alternatively nursed his quart pot into the small hours.
At mornings call, a rather plump maid busily swept round the tables, whilst her little child looked on with wide-eyed curiosity at the sleeping Charlie Rackford slumped against the settle.
The landlord roughly roused Charlie with a shake. Did he wish for more ale? When Charlie replied, “No,” the landlord brusquely ordered him off the premises.
Outside the courtyard was in full swing. Stable boys mucked out, whilst the ostler prepared a team of horses in readiness for the arrival of the first coach of the day.
Charlie stiffly passed under the Spread Eagle archway and onto the main thoroughfare. Blinking, he shielded his eyes from the unforgiving summer morning light.
Adrift in the world… and hung over, Charlie Rockford’s morale was down in his boots. For a brief moment, he toyed with the idea of taking his chances back on the London streets he knew.
Then he recalled a Psalm from his Catechism classes in Redriff: “He opens a place in his heart for the down and out. He restores the wretched of the Earth.”
Charlie was beaten and demoralised. Maybe he should just hand himself in to the authorities and have done with it all.
But only the day before he’d passed a gibbet. And dangling from that gibbet… was the corpse of a flyblown malefactor. Abruptly, Charlie came to with a start. The prospect of such a fearful fate gave him the necessary incentive to press on regardless.
“I ain’t bleedin’ wretched,” Charlie muttered indignantly to himself. And without more ado, he stumped off determinedly westward.
Much later, Charlie happened on a turnpike. A flock of sheep had just been ushered through the gate, after which, the gateman strolled back to the tollbooth. But not before he took an overly long glance in Charlie’s direction.
Charlie was further disconcerted to see the gateman point him out to a very officious-looking gentleman in a black knee-length coat that reached down to his white silk stockings. Char
lie was under scrutiny.
A million unanswerable thoughts cascaded through Charlie’s mind. Were they on to him? Had they seen the handbill? But it was too late to turn back. The thing to do now was play the innocent. To run off would be a dead giveaway.
As he drew nearer, the gentleman took leave of the tollbooth and made towards him.
“You there!” he called out loudly.
Charlie played dumb and kept walking. Now the gentleman deliberately blocked his path through the turnpike gateway. Charlie took a deep breath and stopped. Fight or flight – Which was it to be? The gentleman stood akimbo with legs astride and critically looked him up and down.
“Can you give me some road mending this day?”
Charlie found himself pushing a wheelbarrow. Others were breaking stones into aggregate. Up ahead yet more workmen were shovelling the resultant aggregate into potholes that seemed to go on for miles.
This particular stretch of road had been a bone of contention for some time from passing travellers. Especially, vociferous were the complaints from the coaching companies to the turnpike trusts responsible…Complaints that had so far had fallen on deaf ears.
Finally, a passing mail coach broke a wheel in a pothole. And to loud remonstrations from coachmen and passengers, the turnpike company had been forced to take immediate action that very day.
With the mail coach jacked up, and the spare wheel about to be fitted. The self-same turnpike official, who’d co-opted Charlie onto road mending duties, was now engaged in a heated argument with the coach driver and the guard.
“These damn potholes have there since the spring rains washed ’em out,” the coach driver expostulated. “We’ve seen ’em enough times, haven’t we Cecil?”
The guard, a thin fellow in an overly large black and red livery coat fully supported the coach driver. “Gettin’ bigger each time we passed,” he concurred.
The turnpike official shook his head in denial before addressing the coach driver with an air of injured innocence. “Now see here, Jarvis. That’s fanciful talk. Why, those potholes are but a recent occurrence.”