‘Mary George. You have been found guilty of a most despicable crime. You, through your counsel, have sought to impugn the character and reputation of a fine citizen, a man of God. It has availed you nought.’ His cold, unfeeling eyes flickered around the courtroom. ‘It is the order of the court that you will be transported across the seas to New Holland for a term of seven years. Take the prisoner down.’
Mary sank to her knees and sobbed. The gaolers gave her no opportunity to even look at Jack, pulling her brutally from the courtroom. She heard his voice, distant, as through a fog. His words faded in her ears as she descended the stone steps, concaved from centuries of use, leading to the depths of Gloucester Gaol, to the horrors that awaited her there, all hope now gone. She was lost for sure. She knew now the real meaning of despair. Total, pitiless, chilling and thought-numbing despair. To be transported for seven years. It was as a life sentence. It would destroy her. She could not hope to survive.
The tears racked her weakened body, as her crying echoed along the murky, damp, stained, stone walls of her prison. She tugged at the gaolers pulling her onwards to a cell, her struggles useless against the strength of two men.
The dozen or more shadowy forms within the cell did not look at her as she was thrown amongst them. The heavy wooden door closed loud in the silence, as she slumped on the cold, damp floor and cried salt from her eyes.
What would her dear father think now? How happy her father had been when first he had learned of the interest that Jack Vizzard had shown in her. He was the village darling, admired by all who knew him. Mary was a bright girl. In her short life, she had learned that she could better herself by hard work and with education; especially education. She had been schooled, oh yes, she had learned to read and write well enough. Her father had seen to that Of all his children, Fred George had seen early that his daughter was the one with a keen brain. The youngest in her family, she determined that she would not work in the mills or on the farms.
And her mother? Perhaps mother had been right. Mother had said that she had ideas above her station, but father wanted more for her, so encouraged and aided her studies. David and Richard, her brothers, had aged in front of her from the hard labour demanded in the wool mills. Frederick, her father, was now overseer at Marling’s Mill. Fred had been one of the first men taken on when Sir Samuel had acquired the mill. He was one of the better mill owners. Marling had helped. A local philanthropist, his money had established the small school and kept it running. She had enjoyed her schooldays.
She recalled those days with happiness, the small building with a single room, and a few rows of simple desks, each with its own inkwell. Only children from the village were permitted to attend, at a cost of a penny each week. Father always ensured that he paid the penny each Monday morning and spoke to her teacher every week. ‘Just to make sure I’m getting value for my money,’ he would say. She knew it was to enquire as to her progress, so he could help with any difficulty. Father knew and understood the value of an educated mind. She grew up in a small cottage in South Street that father had improved through his own labour, adding a lean-to kitchen at the rear, laying flagstones, replacing the broken or fallen roof-tiles, building a wall upstairs so that she could have a room separate from her brothers.
Mother had been pretty but that was long ago, she thought. Villagers said she was as pretty as her mother had been. The same fine facial features, the same thick hair, they said. Now mother was worn down by the burden of bringing three children into the world. Mother never talked much, always busy but fussing over her sons, as though she had no daughter. Mary had helped with the animals, had learned milking, and collecting eggs. Mother had always to kill a bird when necessary. That was not something that Mary would do. ‘Too squeamish’, mother had said, and in that, she was right.
Jack Vizzard had taken her heart the first time she had met him properly, that evening at The Vicarage. Her mind recalled the day with total clarity. He had called to meet Giles, his friend from boyhood. She had bobbed a small curtsy, just as she had been instructed – he so obviously a gentleman, she a mere housekeeper and an assistant on probation at that.
The Vizzard boys were both admired, perhaps a little envied by some villagers. Both were tall men, gregarious, spirited and generous with their money to any girl that took their fancy. Not that she ever had anything to do with either of them, or they with her. Others did of course, but Mary, younger than either of them, and separated by a barrier of class that had seemed insurmountable, had only watched them from a distance, even had she been inclined to talk to them. She could not do that; it was custom that people would keep to their own kind, although such a rigid view was not always taken of such things in country circles.
She had spent those first weeks at The Vicarage learning her duties from Mistress Clutterbuck, the housekeeper, avoiding the vicar, who often appeared to be ‘in his cups’, as Eliza Clutterbuck would say.
‘Please, don’t do that,’ he had spoken gently, she remembered. ‘I cannot see your face if it is staring at my boots! May I ask your name?’
Her hair hung about her face, with natural waves, a soft copper shroud, framing a small face, with high and obvious cheekbones. Her smooth skin, unmarked by any blemish, glowed with health. Above those cheeks, large and bright eyes of hazel, with minute flecks of the palest green, looked on the world with interest and intelligence. Her mouth, wide and with full lips, opened, revealing straight, clean teeth. She was too nervous to smile properly, and felt that she must be presenting an extraordinary view.
‘Mary, sir, Mary George... sir.’
‘Well Mary George, I do not expect any person to bow or curtsy to me, as I do not bow to others. It demeans me as it demeans others. I am John Vizzard, but my friends do know me as Jack; and I would have you know me as a friend, Mary. You will be my friend, will you not?’ He had spoken gently, smiling, sensing her nervousness, wanting her to feel at ease.
She had blushed; she always did when addressed by a man, and one so obviously and carefully taking in her appearance. She was struck by his directness and bold manner, and by his piercing blue eyes, boring into her own. She found it unnerving, felt colour rise to her cheeks and gabbled something incoherent, her tongue tied, dry and large in her mouth, and fled for the sanctuary of the kitchen, Jack’s soft laughter pursuing her.
She closed the door to the kitchen, her heart sounding loud in her ears, and busied herself in the larder.
Giles Mountjoy appeared at the top of the stairs, having heard something of the exchange. Alerted by Jack’s expression, a mix of amusement and admiration, he glanced towards the kitchen door, firmly closed from curious eyes. Deftly adjusting the stock of his shirt, and fastening the embroidered buttons of his waistcoat, he stepped quickly down the stairs.
‘What is this, Jack? Has she spurned you so soon?
‘Where, pray, did that vision of loveliness spring from?’ Was all Jack could manage, his eyes still directed toward the closed kitchen door, from which emanated the sound of crockery being washed and stacked to dry.
‘The lovely Mary?’ Giles replied, understanding perfectly the meaning of Jack’s question. ‘Yes, she is a bit of a beauty, is she not? Great Uncle Richard was obliged to find another housekeeper since old Clutterbuck fell and broke her wrist. It’s been, oh, more than a month since she arrived and the old place is the better for her coming, I don’t mind saying.’ He grinned, a wide, slightly smug expression on his face. ‘
I shall be loath to move from here, but find that I am obliged now to find a place of my own. Fear not my friend, I am not straying, quite the converse, for Louise and I are to be married next July and that is why I wished to see you.’ He paused. ‘You will assist me at the ceremony, will you not? Say you will, Jack, for I can think of no better man to be at my side on that day!’
Jack stared at his friend, taken aback at the news. ‘You know I will, of course. It would be my honour to do so. My heartiest congratulations to you, my dear man. W
ell done, Giles, hah... this is excellent.’ He proffered his hand and grasping Giles’ right hand with both of his, shook it vigorously and with obvious warmth and affection. ‘Very well done indeed, Giles. This calls for a celebratory drink. Come, I hear The Ram calling, and a bottle of something special to drink, I fancy. You can give me all your news, and I must also tell you something of mine.’
3
FRIENDSHIP
Jack recalled that evening many months later. It had been drizzling; a fine, misty fall of rain, entirely typical of the season. They had walked briskly to The Ram, the village inn, and a favourite of theirs whenever circumstance found them together. A small roadside tavern, at the lower end of the village, adjacent to The Old London Road, it was popular with villagers and travellers alike. The thatch was worn in places, but still waterproof. The ridge, quite recently reformed, displayed a pair of peacocks, skilfully fashioned from local reed harvested from nearby Sharpness, the trademark of the local master thatcher, Will Peacock. Tendrils of reddened leaves covered most of the walls.
A chimney, the mellow brickwork spalled and flaking, the mortar in need of re-pointing, poked impudently from the cente. Wisps of wood-smoke wrapped around the wrought iron weather vane fitted to the top; a long-horned ram, cleverly made by the village blacksmith when the inn was his property, some years ago.
Bill Brice had bought the inn on leaving the Navy many years before, and turned his hand to brewing. He called his beer ‘Old Spot’, after the local species of pig. The Ram had a large room used by villagers on a Saturday evening, where they would stand and drink his cider and home-brewed ale until the landlord threw them out, either when they became too drunk to stand, or the coins in their pockets had gone. Bill was not a man to give credit to mill workers.
A smaller room, Bill called it ‘The Gunroom’ and kept it in a more comfortable state, was for the use of some of his more ‘genteel’ customers. A large blue ensign decorated one wall, and a miscellany of naval artefacts gathered dust on shelves and sills around the room.
The mellow, golden, sandstone walls extracted centuries before from the local Cotswold Hills, displayed the staining from smoke of many years. Traces of straw on the flagstones forming the floor, gave evidence of the farm hands who had been drinking earlier. A thin layer of tobacco smoke hung beneath the beamed ceiling, swirling each time the door opened, allowing the cool, damp autumn air to swoop in. Talking quietly in a corner, a pair of local wool merchants nodded heads towards them, in silent acknowledgement as Jack and Giles entered.
‘Good evenin’ young sirs and what’ll be your pleasure, Master Jack, Master Giles? Bill, the landlord called to them. We’re not seein’ so much of you lads now’s you’re all grown up an’ gennelmen an’ all!’ His eyes moved quickly from one to the other. ‘What with you, Master Giles taken up wiv my Lord Ducie’s daughter, and you Master Jack, off to London in all your finery!’ Brice stood, legs apart, as though still on a rolling deck, a beer-stained cloth over his left arm and his mouth a wide grin.
‘Off to the cellars with you, Bricey’. Jack waved him away. ‘You won’t catch us sniffing around your cider press this time.’ Jack laughed at the memory of the time ‘Old Bill’ had caught them once, when they were still quite young boys, helping themselves to his cider. He had sent them home with a slap from the back of his hand. ‘Tonight we are celebrating an engagement and have need of something finer than that cow’s piss you pass off as cider.’
Jack and Giles sat by the window overlooking the lane as the first of the mill workers started drifting home, coat collars turned up against the drizzle, with caps pulled low over tired eyes. A few, those with coins in their pockets, entered the inn. Others, most of them, glanced wistfully at the inviting warmth inside, then continued on to the cottages, scattered about the hills surrounding the village.
Brice snorted but answered their joke. ‘I have just the thing for you lads - a bottle of the best port to be had in Bristol.’ He limped away to retrieve the bottle, chuckling as he walked, the left leg never free of pain. Now there is a fine kettle of fish, he thought. Two fine lads-the best in the valley, as proud of them as if they were his flesh and blood. The pleasure on his face was real enough.
Giles leaned forward. ‘She has made me the happiest of men, Jack. To think she has accepted me, and his Lordship has given the match his blessing.’ Giles leaned back in the chair, a broad smile on his face. ‘I have never wished for more, and still wonder at it, I don’t mind telling you.’ He looked for signs of doubt in his friend’s face, but saw none and was relieved at that.
‘’Tis wonderful news Giles and I am glad for you, very glad for you both, and that’s the truth. Perhaps I too, should now look a little harder for a mate. Possibly even the lovely Mary - or is she just for a hay barn on a summer evening, hmm?’ Jack was teasing, and Giles well knew it.
‘Hah, now that’s a thought, Jack. No, I do not believe so. She is a good lass... the only daughter of Marling’s overseer, by the way. Quite educated as well, I understand. Her only known friend is Mistress Wallace, the old schoolteacher. Talk is that she has ambition that one. Village gossip has it that she would wish to become a governess, but the truth is that none really know her. Keeps her own company mostly. Do you know the family? A brace of boys as well, work with the old man. She’s pretty as you like but I don’t think she takes to a certain Captain in the South Gloucester Yeomanry!’
Jack knew his friend well enough. He guessed that Giles had possibly tried and failed with this girl. He had succeeded with many of the girls in the district. If this one had resisted his advances, she was worth taking an interest in. He found himself thinking about her, a vision in his mind of a tall, copper-haired young woman, with high cheeks, a wide and full mouth, and those large, innocent eyes that for a moment had met his own, and struck something within him. He was about to ask a question of Giles when Brice returned with a dark blue bottle and two glasses.
‘There you be, boys, a drop of fine stuff an’ no mistake. Here’s health to you both, but if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to my work.’ He placed the bottle on the worn oak table, passing the glasses to eager hands. He made an odd clucking noise with his tongue, and winked at them both, before returning to the other room.
The evening passed, the two men enjoying each other’s company. Oil lamps were lit and Brice placed a flickering candle on their table, casting oversized shadows that danced on the walls. Giles became exuberant and told tales of murderers, highwaymen and villains of various description. Jack knew that the peaceful valleys of Gloucestershire were not as they were in his childhood. The flourishing woollen mills of the Five Valleys of Stroud were attracting some undesirable people, men and women, and crime in the area had become as much a problem as it was elsewhere.
Magistrates had charged Giles’ company of yeomanry with the task of seeking out the more notorious, dangerous and active criminals. A gang of footpads, and a highwayman, known as ‘Galloping Dick Fergusson’ had been working the Bath Road, between Chippenham and Bristol, and reportedly along the Cheltenham Road. Giles had spent most of the summer months looking for him, with never so much as a glimpse of his coat-tails.
‘The gaols are overflowing, Jack. There is plenty of work for you here my lad, and several good causes for that liberal mind of yours. I do not begin to comprehend the law, that is your domain, but it seems to me that one may be hanged for sneezing in a public place, if it happens to be Shrove Tuesday!’ Adopting a more serious tone, he asked, ‘Are you to join your father in his practice, or is it back to London for you?’
The glass in his hand halted on its way to his lips. ‘You will not be surprised to learn that father has asked me to join him, of course, and I had agreed. It is his dearest wish, you will know that.’ Jack disclosed the news Giles expected to hear, knowing that he would be aghast at the truth.
‘But that is simply excellent, and another reason to celebrate!’ Giles eagerly interrupted, happy that Jack had decided to return.
‘I confess, I was curious about your ... how shall I put it... your unexpected return.’
‘Wait, for that is not all the news I have to tell this evening. The remainder may give you less cause to celebrate. The true reason I am home is to bid farewell to my father and sister, for I am to take the King’s commission and become a marine. You must, I implore you Giles, say nothing of this for the moment. I beg you. I have yet to finalise my plans and affairs, and cannot speak of this to my family until the deed is done.’ Jack paused to observe the reaction his news had on his friend. Seeing Giles open-mouthed, he continued quickly. ‘My heart is no longer with the law, Giles – it is a false idol and now brings me but little satisfaction. There is too much injustice and I cannot continue with it, in all conscience. The judiciary create more mischief every day. There is need of great reform, but I fear it will take years to come about. My father will not understand of course, but my mind is now resolved of doubt. It will be a hard business for him, I know. I have some affairs of my own to attend to, but it is the deck of a Man o’ War and some foreign adventure for me – that’s what calls, Giles.’ He rocked back in his chair, eager to note his Giles’ reaction.
‘But why not the Navy, Jack? Your brother...’ Giles’ voice tailed away, knowing that subject was a raw point with the Vizzards.
‘Ah yes, dear brother George. I miss him right enough, and I pray we meet again. It is strange and saddening that we have had no word at all.’
His father would rarely talk of his eldest son. To Jack, his brother George had always been his companion and an inspiring friend. There was no scrape that he would not get into, no girl in the village who had not fallen for him, and nothing that he could not achieve, or so it had seemed to the younger Jack. The manner of his leaving had wounded him, as much as it had their father.
First Fleet Page 2