Guardian Angel

by Brian John

  “Flights of fancy, sir?” roared Shemi, jabbing his finger towards him. “Have you ever been to Penydarren, or Cyfartha, or Dowlais? Have you waded through the shit in the alleys of the place they call China?”

  “I am chairing this meeting!” shouted the Lord Marcher, drawing himself up to his full height. He was certainly imposing, but not as imposing -- or as colourful -- as Shemi. “I have not given you leave to speak!”

  “Let him speak! Let him speak!” shouted the crowd, and at last Sir Mervyn had to sit down wearily.

  Shemi continued. “I do not need your permission, and I do not recognize your authority, sir! There are those who doff their hats to you in the street, and count it a great blessing should you purchase a loaf of bread from them, or provide a day’s work for them in your garden. Not I -- I am a freeman, and choose to defer only to those whom I respect. And you, sir, have done nothing to earn that respect! You have clearly not spent enough time in this place. If you had, you would know that the mountain which you plan to destroy is protected by spirits! One of these spirits is called the Nightwalker. How many of those here present have seen him?”

  “I have!” “I have!” “Last year!” “Just the other day!” “Last evening!” “This very morning!” came the shouts from all over the hall.

  “It is said that he is the ghost of some gentleman who many years ago committed some dreadful deed upon the mountain, and that he will place his mark upon any man who so much as takes a single stone from the slopes. A single stone, ladies and gentleman! How much greater then is the curse that shall fall upon the shoulders of he who should dare to build a railway upon the mountain.......?

  “Amen!” shouted the crowd, as if they were in the middle of a great revivalist meeting.

  “ ..... or hack a black quarry into its gentle flanks........?”

  “Amen! Amen!”

  “..... or take away the summit, the part closest to heaven, to make crushed stone, to sell for thirty silver pieces.......?”

  There was another even bigger roar, as some of the audience rose to their feet and the five MPs sank deeper into their chairs. I looked at Harry, and he looked like death. I had to grin, for here was Shemi, an avowed atheist, using the techniques of an evangelical preacher, and using choice references from the Bible to boot.

  “But these men are not content with that, ladies and gentlemen, for they want to dig into the very centre of the mountain, and to take out its bleeding heart!” The townspeople in the room roared, and clapped their hands, and stamped their feet. The wizard held up his hand and waited for silence. Then he started again, with his voice no more than a whisper but rising almost imperceptibly to the climax which we all knew would come. “My dear friends, take it from me that every stone -- every stone -- that has iron in it will be taken and crushed.....and burnt in the hellish fiery furnaces which these men plan to build on the sandy dunes where we have all played as children! The mountain -- this wild and lovely place, this sacred Mount of Angels -- will be levelled, and the high places made plain! The golden furze and the purple heather -- gone for ever! No place, in the world which these men want, for ravens or skylarks or buzzards! No place for our children to hide among the rocks or to gather bilberries upon a summer day! No place for the cutting of turf or rushes! No white grasses whispering in the wind, and no place to breathe. Ladies and gentlemen, no silence.......... no silence ......... and no peace.” There was another long pause in his oration, and complete silence in the hall. I noticed that even the Lord Marcher was holding his breath, as if he was bewitched. Then came the whisper again, and the crescendo: “Oh, dreadful, dreadful indeed will be the retribution visited upon those who would do these things, for they will surely be cursed to their dying day by the just spirits which guard this mountain. Let these men of vile intent repent now at their leisure, in their castles and their mansions, for, my friends, if they do not, they will surely repent in hell, in this generation and indeed to the sixth generation in the years to come! Amen!”

  There was thunderous applause and cheering from the crowd, and Shemi sat down. My old friend Amos, that beloved preacher and pastor, who used hwyl in his sermons as others used butter on their bread, would have been proud of him.

  It was clear at this stage that the Lord Marcher had lost control of the situation, and he turned to Jonas Harry for help. People did not know him, and because of his disability they quietened down, accorded him some respect, and gave him an opportunity to speak. He spoke in a very quiet voice, and it was clear to me that he was not capable of speaking any louder. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we have heard a good deal of invective here today, and that does not help us to assess, rationally and coolly, the merits of our proposal. This plan, if it comes to fruition, will be a godsend for the town and its inhabitants. I promise you that. There will be some disruption for a year or two, but nobody will suffer. Compensation will be generous. We have most excellent and reputable financial backers in the shape of the five gentlemen who sit with me here today, and others who wish to remain anonymous. I also dare to hope that Mrs Ravenhill will put her considerable resources behind the project. She is in possession of all the facts, and perhaps she will say something shortly. But whether you like it or not, ladies and gentlemen, and whether or not this excellent lady chooses to give us her support, this project will go ahead, since yesterday we have it on good authority that a Bill for the initiation of the project was enacted in Parliament.”

  There was a stunned silence in the room, and then a disturbance at the entrance to the hall. “Wrong, sir!” said a voice. It was my grandson John, who had been rushed to the meeting from Haverfordwest by Abel, having taken the morning train from Paddington. Everybody turned as he spoke. “I was in Parliament yesterday, and I can report that the Bill was rejected unanimously by the House on the advice of the law officers, on the grounds that it was deeply flawed according to the statutes, and inadequately supported by the necessary financial information.”

  Sir Mervyn, Jonas Harry and the five MPs looked as if they had all been hit by a dead haddock. The MPs had clearly told their confederates that everything in Westminster was fixed; but they had not reckoned with Daisy’s contacts. I had not been aware of it, but Daisy and George had written on the 15th day of June to John in London and also to certain contacts in the House of Commons, asking for a little help in delaying or killing the Bill, on any pretext that could be devised. George had suggested that according to the ancient statutes relating to the Barony, the correct procedures had not been followed; and he had sent a petition to this effect, countersigned by the requisite number of burgesses and certified as valid by Wilkins Legal.

  The mood of the meeting changed again, and everybody started talking at once. Then there was another voice -- this time it was Wilkins Legal himself. “I have in my possession, sir, a Business Proposal for the said Carningli Stone Company, which contains financial projections and details of funding arrangements which are grossly fraudulent. The document is signed by the seven gentlemen who sit before you in this hall. Should this project go ahead, I would have no option, on behalf of my client Squire Wilmot Gwynne, to institute legal proceedings against all seven.” He then pointed straight at Sir Mervyn and added: “That includes you, sir, notwithstanding your elevated position as Lord Marcher of the Barony of Cemais.”

  There was another great cheer, and the Lord Marcher aged ten years as we all looked at him. The Lady Marcher, who was sitting at the side of the hall, looked as if she might faint at any moment. Wilkins held up his hand and waited until he had silence. “However, my client instructs that if this project is abandoned forthwith, with written guarantees from all the gentlemen involved that they will never resurrect it in any shape or form, he will burn this document and take no further action. That, in my view, is a most worthy and gentlemanly act, and deserving of commendation.”

  Then there was another voice from the back of the hall. It was Donal, flanked by Twm and Ianto, resplendent in uniforms. I was a
mazed. What on earth were those two rough friends of mine doing in Newport? “Ladies and gentlemen,” said my Irish friend, standing tall and proud, and looking very handsome, “today I call myself Donal O’Connor, and tomorrow I might call myself something different. I have the honour of working for Her Majesty’s Government, here and in Ireland, under the instructions of the Prime Minister, to whom I report. I work for the Commission for Propriety in Public Affairs, set up by Lord Palmerston to eliminate corruption in government and in corporate matters. Recently it has been my pleasure to work with two special constables, Mr Twm Bevans and Mr Ianto Morys, who have been assiduous in their collection of evidence.”

  Twm and Ianto, looking very wonderful already in their smart uniforms, grew several inches as I looked at them, and gave radiant gap-toothed smiles to the assembled company.

  Donal continued. “For the last two years I have been following with great interest the business dealings of this gentlemen, namely Mr Jonas Harry of Plas Glas, Mumbles, who in spite of his disability has been a devious and determined opponent. He is, ladies and gentlemen, a common criminal. He has consistently misrepresented his profits for the avoidance of tax, and has broken the laws of the land in the conduct of his businesses on no less than fifteen occasions according to my latest count. He operates mostly in this country, out of an office in South Kensington, but he keeps his funds in France. Conspiracy, fraud, blackmail, intimidation, assault and false accounting are included among his crimes. I have a witness statement as to his methods from the orphan called Merlin Ifans, only ten years old but beaten up without mercy by the man who now stands at the back of the hall, one Iago Woodward, who works for Mr Harry.” At this, there was an ominous growl from the townspeople in the hall, and I thought that I would not like to be in that particular thug’s shoes when the meeting ended. I looked at him. His face was pale, and there was fear in his eyes. Donal pressed on. “Then I come to Mrs Susanna Ravenhill. This frail lady who sits before you, and is newly come to this district, had to suffer gross intrusions of her privacy as she was spied upon and hunted down over the course of a year or more, simply because Mr Harry thought she was a friend of Squire Wilmot Gwynne. Take note that her only crime, ladies and gentlemen, was to be a casual acquaintance of a business rival. We have in our possession a letter written by Mr Woodward to Mr Harry, dated 25th March 1855, making it clear that they actually considered the possibility of murdering this innocent and harmless elderly lady, who was herself a grieving widow..........”

  There were gasps from around the hall. “Then, when Mr Harry and his colleagues realized that Mrs Ravenhill was in possession of a small fortune, they sought to suck her into their mad project, since they needed further backers. The Lord Marcher even invited her to the Castle last evening, and wined her and dined her, in their attempts to convince her to buy a substantial shareholding.”

  “Disgraceful!” “Bastards!” “How dare they!” and “Outrageous!” came shouts from the hall.

  “That is a gross misrepresentation, sir!” said Jonas Harry, but his voice was so weak that hardly anybody heard him.

  “The good lady sits with these scoundrels before you today,” said Donal, “as they anticipate a positive announcement from her. I hope to God that she has not already been led astray and has paid good money for worthless shares, for if she has, I fear she will never recover it. I hope that through my modest intervention we have saved her from making a dreadful mistake.” He caught my eye, and I smiled. “Now then, the bad news for Mr Harry is that if I institute proceedings he will probably be incarcerated at Her Majesty’s pleasure for the rest of his natural life. The good news for him is that because the Commission is a new body, and not yet familiar in business circles, the Government is prepared, in its wisdom, to allow amnesties to miscreants who will agree with me on how their tax debts will be settled, how their affairs will be regulated in the future, and how their finances will henceforth be reported. I require written confirmation of your willingness in this matter, Master Harry. Before this assembled company, do I have your agreement to a signature?”

  “Sign it, Harry! Sign it, Harry!” shouted the crowd. He looked even paler than he had done at the beginning of the meeting, and his eyes had the look of a cornered rabbit about them. “I will sign it, sir,” he moaned. “It appears that I have no option.......” At that, there was a further great cheer in the hall.

  Then there was another voice, which I heard with great surprise. It was Rose’s husband Henry. “One last word, sir, if I may. My name is Henry Evans of Trefelin, and I bring a message from the new owner of the Plas Ingli estate. He wishes it to be placed on record that he will not allow any wayleaves across his land for any industrial purpose; nor will he allow any interference with his common land rights or those of his tenants; nor will he allow any interference with his fishing rights on the estuary, which might be occasioned by any interference with the course or the flow of the river, or with any structures that might be placed in the river or adjacent to it, or which might be occasioned by the release of noxious substances into the river water. He has also purchased, on this very day, three properties on the Parrog waterfront, and a further three properties on land known as Mountain East, located in a row along the contour and somewhat above the castle. He says that he will in no circumstances offer these for sale to any other person or company, and will insist on the maintenance of all his rights of access and all other rights attached to those properties, including the right to live peacefully and without outside disturbance. That disturbance will include dust and explosions connected with quarrying operations. Again, he says that he will absolutely forbid any crossing of his land by roadways, tramways or overhead cables designed for any industrial purpose. Shall I continue, sir?”

  “No, no, I think we have probably heard enough,” moaned the Lord Marcher. “It would appear that our project is dead in the water, for a multitude of reasons.”

  There was another resounding cheer from the audience, inside and outside the hall. Sir Mervyn had a look of resignation and weariness on his face, but he managed a feeble smile. He held up his hand and continued. “And pray, Mr Evans,who is this formidable new land-owner about to bless us with his presence?”

  “His name, sir, is Master Brynach Morgan, my father-in-law and son of the late Mistress Martha Morgan.”

  rrr

  Reconciliation

  When the announcement was made to the effect that my son had just purchased the Plas Ingli estate, I fear that I collapsed, and had to be resuscitated and carried home. I have to this day no recollection of anything else that happened in the public meeting called by the now-defunct Carningli Stone Company. That does not matter too much, since by all accounts the meeting then broke up in disarray, with crowds spilling out onto the grassy verges at the side of the church, and with a chaotic party started spontaneously on the streets. It went on, so they say, into the small hours, with Shemi providing entertainment in the form of magic tricks.

  I am told that there was much talk in the town for days afterwards about this mysterious lady called Mrs Susanna Ravenhill, who had been saved from a dreadful fate -- and possibly bankruptcy -- by the sleuthing and timely intervention of Donal O’Connell. It was put about that my collapse was down to lack of air in the stuffy hall, tight corsets, and a realization that I had almost been dragged down by villains. That was good enough, by all accounts, to satisfy everybody. Only a few knew of my own role in the downfall of Jonas Harry and his colleagues, but I did not mind about that, since all I wanted anyway was a low profile in the neighbourhood, and a quiet life. I was utterly amazed that, through some strange coalescence of good fortune and good planning by my friends, I had been spared from speaking a single word at the meeting. Daisy and Betsi both teased me without mercy afterwards, when we were alone, saying that it was the first time in my two lives that I had gone through a whole meeting without interfering and causing trouble. Looking back over the years, I think they were probably correct.

 
On the very next day, by all accounts, there was a long meeting in the Castle, attended by Wilmot Gwynne, all of the directors of the Carningli Stone Company, and Donal O’Connell and Wilkins Legal. I am not party to exactly what transpired, but I have it on good authority that various documents were signed, that certain binding commitments were made, and that the company was formally wound up by all the shareholders. The Lord and Lady Marcher then went off to their distant estates in a huff, vowing never to visit Newport again. They would be back, of course, but the arrogant and condescending Sir Mervyn had been brought low by Shemi’s verbal assault and was now also widely suspected of corruption. I could have confirmed that, since I knew the details, but thought that nothing would be gained by revealing them. The other directors of the company, considerably out of pocket, disappeared back to London and the peace and quiet of the House of Commons. Patty saw them leaving Newport in the Lord Marcher’s coach, with faces as black as thunder.

  Iago Woodward and Silas Reynolds left town in a hurry, and will probably never be seen again. The other three members of Harry’s gang stayed behind -- they were at least loyal to their employer, who would, in his increasingly pathetic state, have been quite lost without them. He was now a broken man, and I could not help but feel sorry for him. Donal would not allow him to retreat to his palace on the Mumbles where he might lick his wounds; he wanted extended interviews, since his investigations were not yet complete, and part of the amnesty offered to the miserable fellow was based upon full revelations of all his shadowy business contacts. That would take time. So Harry moved into the Black Lion for a few days, having by all accounts been evicted from the Castle. Twm and Ianto, thoroughly enjoying their new-found status, made sure that he did not escape. Without his power and his mad dreams he seemed to have shrunk in size, and he became very morose. I suspect that he was also bankrupt, since whatever Donal’s charitable intentions might have been, they did not extend to the forgiveness of financial crimes against the state. The man had to recover all his monies from France, and he had enormous bills to pay. Donal told me that the sum total of his unpaid invoices was about twice that of his assets.