by Sara Fraser
Avoiding the lanes and beaten tracks, they pushed on through the thick woodlands and over the gently rolling hills, until, through a gap in the luxuriant golden, russet, and green mantle of leaves, they sighted on a hillside the long rising street of houses that was their destination.
*
Thomas Marston, the fat town crier and constable of Bishops Castle, Shropshire, felt greatly honoured by the confidence entrusted in him by the elegant cavalry officer who was sitting on the opposite side of a table in the bar parlour of the Three Tuns, a small inn near to the centre of the town.
‘Your very good health, sir.’ He lifted yet another glass of claret to his lips and sipped noisily, savouring the rich fruitiness of the expensive wine.
Captain William Seymour’s pale eyes were scornful as they watched the ruby contents of the glass being sucked into the bloated rolls of red flesh, but his lips moved and courteously returned the compliment.
‘Ahhh!’ the crier breathed his delight ‘A most excellent wine, sir, a most excellent vintage.’
‘Please! Allow me!’ Seymour lifted the bottle in front of him and, waving away the weak protests of the fat man, he refilled the empty glass.
The crier leant forward and whispered hoarsely, ‘But, Captain Seymour, sir, I do not understand why you do not wish for a hue and cry to be raised in this parish for these desperate men.’
Seymour’s thin nose wrinkled in distaste and he moved his head to escape the fumes of stale, wine-laden breath. Fighting down the impulse to smash his fist into the stupid self-satisfied face before him, he smiled and put a finger to his lips.
‘There are certain highly placed personages who wish this matter to be dealt with as discreetly as possible, my good sir. I regret that I have my orders and can say no more on the subject, except to tell you in strict confidence that your own part in it is being watched very closely by those who have your best interests at heart. I know that they share my trust in you to carry out my instructions in this matter to the letter. You will not find me, or them, ungrateful.’
He winked at the other and pulling a purse from inside his tunic he tipped several gold coins on to the table between them . . .
*
In the low-ceilinged, black-beamed taproom of the same inn, two of the three soldiers accompanying Captain Seymour were equally puzzled at his intentions.
‘Jase! I don’t understand the captain’s ways. Why the hell don’t he raise a hue and cry here? And what the hell are we doin’ here, anyways? We’re bloody miles from nowhere and anywhere they’re likely to be. It stands to reason they’ll head for Liverpool and try to find a ship,’ Trooper Macarthy shook his sandy head in hopeless mystification.
His friend, Trooper Timpkins, eased his large frame upon the wooden, high-backed fireside seat and looked glumly at his empty drinking jug.
‘I couldn’t arf do wiv anuvver jug of ale . . .’ he muttered. ‘Or small-beer come to that.’
‘Shut yer mouths, the pair on yer,’ Corporal Ryder’s throat pained him greatly and he could still only croak. ‘You may rest easy that that barstard in theer knows what he’s about. If you warn’t so bloody bone-’eaded, you’d ha’ cottoned on to what he means to do already.’
‘Oh, should we now? I suppose you’re in our noble captin’s confidence, are you, Corporal dear?’ the Irishman jeered. ‘Well, if that’s the case, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to tell us two stupids what it is the bloody madman means to do.’
The corporal held up a hand warningly and jerked his head towards the fourth member of their party who was squatting on his haunches by the door; a short, weather-beaten man with the shaven head and ragged clothes of a convict whose wrists bore the chafed sores made by manacles.
‘Wait a minute,’ he croaked, then turned and beckoned to the man. ‘’Ere, Smith, get over ’ere.’
The short man started nervously and bared uneven yellow teeth in a grimace intended to be an ingratiating smile. He shuffled to the table.
‘Yus, Corporal? What is it, Corporal?’ His lips drew back in the momentary rictus once more.
‘Gerrout round to the stables and check the ’orses,’ Ryder croaked at him. ‘Give ’um a rub down while you’m theer.’
The man nodded and knuckled his forehead in salute.
‘I will, Corporal, I will.’
Head down, he shuffled from the room.
Once satisfied they were alone, Ryder spoke rapidly to the others. ‘Seymour had that little gutter-rat in his tent wi’ him for an hour afore we left the camp larst night . . . His name’s Jackie Smith, him and Turpin Wright was gooin’ to be hung together in Shrewsbury.’ The corporal tapped his head with his grimy fingertips. ‘I know me old throat’s bin buggered up, but me bleedin’ headpiece is still workin’ all right. It’s as clear as bloody daylight what the captain means to do.’
‘Well, gerron and tell us, for the love o’ Christ!’ Macarthy burst out impatiently.
‘I’m agoing to, ain’t I, if you’d gi’ me half a chance,’ Ryder croaked indignantly. ‘Turpin Wright’s got a load o’ stolen rhino and suchlike hid away somewheer about these parts, and he’s got some old cronies from his thievin’ days ’ere abouts as well . . . Seymour means to ’ave his cake and eat it. He knows bloody well that he faces a court martial, even if he manages to catch Wright and the other bastard, because the colonel hates his guts, so he means to get hold o’ the rhino and slit the gizzards o’ Wright and his mate. Then he’ll be off to Ameriky or some such place and live like a bloody lord.’
Timpkins’ heavy brow furrowed with the unaccustomed strain of thought. ‘What happens to us then, Corporal?’ he growled.
Ryder hawked and spat on to the brick floor in disgust. ‘What allus happens to poor silly buggers like us?’ he croaked bitterly. ‘We’ll goo to the halberds, whatever he does, and mark my words, the Drummer’s Daughter ’ull drag the life from the three of us. Then we might get lucky at that,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘we might only be strung up like that bleedin’ informer we got wi’ us,’ he finished gloomily.
‘Wait now . . . hold on a minute. How the bloody hell do youse come to know so much?’ the Irishman questioned doubtfully, and suddenly sat back slapping his hands upon the table top. ‘Did the captin tell youse his plans then?’ he jeered.
‘No, you thick Paddy bastard!’ The corporal lunged across the table and grabbed Macarthy by his tunic collar then jerked him forward until their eyes were only inches apart. ‘While you and that bloody wooden-yed there was sat pissin’ your britches aworritin’ what was going to happen to you, I was outside Seymour’s tent listening to what passed between him and that bloody gallows-rat, Smith. Do you doubt me, cully?’ he finished threateningly.
The Irishman shook his head and placated the corporal, patting his arms. ‘No, Corporal dear, no. I believe youse, honest I believe you.’
‘Good!’ Ryder spat out, and pushed the trooper back into his seat. ‘Now,’ he went on, ‘there’s summat I wants to know from you two. I got a few ideas of my own about that rhino . . . and about Captin Bloody Seymour. What I needs to know is if you’m awillin’ to join me?’
Macarthy pondered for several seconds, then grinned.
‘I’m wit you,’ he said.
‘And you?’ Ryder turned to Timpkins.
‘Ahr, I be,’ the big man rumbled.
‘Good!’ The corporal’s hard face showed his satisfaction. ‘You just wait for me to gi’ the word. I’m sick to death o’ taking orders and being kicked from pillar to post. I wants me a bit o’ soft living for a change.’
‘Jasus Christ!’ the Irishman exclaimed delightedly. ‘We’ll all be able to go to Ameriky and live like bloody lords.’
‘That might well be so, Paddy,’ the corporal hawked and spat on the floor once more. ‘But I’ll get more joy in settling wi’ Seymour when the time comes . . .’
Chapter Four
Once a week there was a market in the town and it was being held this day. Jethro and
Turpin Wright lay high up in a densely bushed coppice of young elms and for more than an hour watched the steady stream of country folk passing along the road beneath them: ploughboys and farm labourers in elaborately embroidered white smocks, breeches and high-low boots, their unkempt hair and ruddy faces half-hidden by floppy, broad-brimmed bullycock hats. They laughed and joked in their soft rustic burrs, as they eagerly anticipated the flagons of rich brown ales and porters awaiting them in the town. Then a trio of haughty journeymen-gardeners with short jackets, feathered cocked hats, and blue aprons about their waists, keeping their own company, for they were men of exotic skills when it came to the growing of rare plants and flowers. Rough-looking drovers, numbered leather badges strapped to their arms, thrashed their recalcitrant cattle along a straight path and cursed horribly in a dozen different dialects when the beasts baulked and slithered, trying to escape the sight and smell of a gang of slaughtermen, whose high legshields were thick with the blood of dead animals and whose red-striped waistcoats and scarlet fisher caps made a glaring advertisement of their trade.
There were milkmaids, yoked across their sturdy shoulders like oxen, their overskirts rumped above their knees to display green gowns. Their pink faces flushed and sweating beneath flat be-ribboned hats from the weight of burnished copper cans full of cream and milk. Old women and young girls carried huge wickerwork baskets laden with vegetables, eggs, herbs, cheeses, and butter. Hucksters, cheapjacks, and packmen, canvas tuck-packs bulging with gew-gaws and fripperies, hurled insults when wagoners driving their team of bullocks and shirehorses, straining to haul the heavy carts over the deep ruts, forced pedestrians into the roadside ditches. Not even the proud yeomen farmers on their thoroughbred hunters, clad in costly broadcloth, high-crowned beaver hats, and polished leather gaiters, could make the lordly wagoners give way. It took the gentler persuasions of the bevies of pretty, giggling, calling girls in their bright fresh aprons and saucy poke-bonnets to do that.
Occasionally a carriage full of the wives and daughters of the richest farmers would lurch by, the effect of fine horseflesh, shining paint and harness, fashionable gowns and feathers nearly always ruined by the spectacle of a yokel coachman, pressed into service from the farmyard for the day and still bearing the dried dung of pigs, sheep, and cattle thick upon his boots and clothes.
Turpin Wright nudged Jethro. ‘We’em in luck,’ he whispered. ‘It’s market day. You’ll not be noticed in this mob. When you gets into the town, turn right at the church and make your way to the top o’ the hill to the town hall. You can’t miss it, it’s got a clock tower. You’ll hear the blacksmith afore you’se got half-way up the hill. He’ll be shoutin’ and ravin’ fit to bust.’
‘Why?’ Jethro questioned innocently. ‘Is he a man of anger?’
‘You could say that,’ Turpin told him. ‘He’s one o’ them ranters . . . a bloody ranting preacher . . . But don’t let that fool you, boy. He’s a regular Newgate Knocker, a real up and downer that one, and as wide as the ocean. He wears a beard and calls hisself George Jenkins. If you’m in any doubt, ask for Hellfire George, they all knows him around these parts. Get him on his own and tell him that Turpin wants to do a bit o’ business wi’ him . . . But mind! Goo careful! Say nothing about what bloody state I’m in or wheer I’m hid. I’ll lie low here ’till you comes back. If it’s dark, whistle three shorts and a long.’
Jethro nodded his understanding and without any more words he slipped through the coppice away from the road. He moved around its flank and stepped into the procession behind a small flock of sheep, baaing and bleating plaintively as the crook-wielding shepherd and his pair of wiry black collies chivvied them along.
Turpin Wright had spoken truthfully. Jethro heard the ranter before he was half-way up the town’s hilly main street, pushing his way through the market-day crowds.
‘Hearken, sinners! Hearken to one who knows. Does not the psalmist tell us that HE shall come down like rain upon the mown grass . . . That HIS enemies shall lick the dust!’ The deep bass voice thundered above the heads of people and animals, but they ignored it, being too busy haggling, chaffing, laughing, and greeting each other, to notice the threats of eternal damnation that the tiny dark-clothed preacher, his minute face hidden by a bushy crop of fierce black bristles, hurled at them.
Hellfire George stamped one small buckled shoe upon the wooden box he stood on, until the thin wood cracked and began to give way.
‘Consider the Book of Jeremiah, you spawn of godless heathens!’ Again the sonorous tones burst from the crop of whiskers. ‘Does not the blessed Jeremiah tell us . . . Amend your ways and your doings!’
‘AMEN!’ ‘AMEN!’ ‘HALLELUJAH, BROTHER!’
Around the wooden box were grouped a party of converts clad in sombre clothing. The men with heads bared and their meek women wearing plain white scarves to hide the vanity of clean, brushed hair from the sight of their grim God.
‘Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots? Jeremiah asks us that . . . I also, George Jenkins, ask that . . . and I tell you, No! No! They cannot change except through the will of the Lord God most high!’
A man in the forefront of the crowd lifted both arms heavenwards and with eyes screwed tight-shut and head jerking uncontrollably began to croon unintelligible gibberish.
The little preacher’s red-rimmed eyes widened in ecstasy.
‘LORD BE PRAISED! BLESSED BE YOUR NAME. AMEN. AMEN.’
He pointed at the man. ‘Look there, brethren. The Holy Ghost has entered our brother and he speaks with the tongues of angels!’
The man’s gibbering became a torrent of high-pitched screams. His distorted face empurpled, his mouth frothed while his entire body shook. Two women began to weep loudly and flopped to the ground to lie face downwards, arms stretched sideways like human crucifixes.
‘HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! PRAISE GOD! PRAISE GOD!’ The ranters lifted their heads and bawled out their joy, tears streaming down cheeks, sobs choking throats.
‘OH LOVELY JESUS, I THANK YOU. OH LOVELY JESUS I THANK YOU FOR THIS DAY’S TENDER MERCY.’ Hellfire George’s thunder drowned all other exultations. ‘I THANK THEE JESUS FOR BRINGING THESE WEAK, SINFUL, UNCLEAN WOMEN TO THE FOOT OF THY THRONE . . . FOR WASHING THEM IN THY BLESSED BLOOD, AND FOR LETTING THEM JOIN WITH US, YOUR NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS.’ ‘AMEN BROTHER! AMEN TO THAT’, a man bellowed, and sank to his knees and hammered his forehead against the cobbles.
‘Theer surry, it’s as good as a bloody play, bain’t it?’ a ruddy-faced ploughman laughed at Jethro’s side. ‘Them silly buggers does this every week. It’s as good as a play to watch the bloody loonies.’ He leered lasciviously and jerked his head at the female ranters. ‘Mind you, surry, theer’s one o’ they wenches I ’uddent mind sharing my bed wi’. I’d gi’ her summat as ’ud make her pray to the Lord all right.’
Jethro looked across at the woman the ploughman had indicated. Taller than her companions, she wore a bright yellow kerchief on her head instead of the white of the others, and its glowing colour framed her dark handsome face and thick coils of chestnut hair. Unlike those about her, she was not praying and shouting exultations, but instead appeared sullen and ill at ease, and her full lips were pouting in disgust as she stared at the spectacle of the women lying on the ground.
Jethro nodded. ‘Aye, she’s a rare pretty one, master,’ he said and not wishing to continue the talk, moved nearer to the ranters. He halted to stand behind two farmers bargaining over a young calf which one of them led on a rope.
‘Thee shanna!’ the one with the calf stated vehemently. ‘Thee shanna gi’ me that.’
His companion’s heavy face was red and greasy with good living.
‘That I shall.’ He was equally vehement.
‘Thee shanna!’
‘Then theer’s no more to be said, surry.’
‘Tek it then! And may you roast in your own fat, you old sod!’ The calf’s owner cursed good-humouredly, well content with his bar
gain.
The greasy-faced one laughed uproariously and spat on his horny palm. The other did the same and they brought their palms together with a resounding crack.
‘’Ull thee gi’ me some luck wi’ it?’ the buyer asked.
The seller grinned and nodded. ‘’Ere, you bloody robber! ’Ere’s a shillun’.’ He tossed the coin in the air for the other to catch.
‘Ahr, it’s a good ’un!’ Greasy Face bit the coin. ‘Come on, I’ll wet thee throat wi’ this.’
The pair moved away, dragging the sad-eyed, squealing-frightened calf behind them.
There was now a clear space between Jethro and the wailing group of worshippers. He stared at the tiny-bodied preacher who, sensing Jethro’s gaze, looked over his disciples’ heads and met the young man’s eyes. Hellfire George’s eyebrows lifted in silent question, and he nodded as if to ask whether Jethro was a worshipper.
Jethro gave a slight shake of his head, and with his lips mouthed silently, ‘Turpin Wright.’
The preacher’s eyes became wary, and flicked about quickly to see if anyone had noticed the interchange. He winked at Jethro and then started to whip up the flagging emotions of his flock once more.
‘Fear the Lord God! Honour the King of Heaven!’ he roared.
‘AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!’ they rejoined.
‘BE VIGILANT, BRETHREN! BECAUSE YOUR ADVERSARY . . . THE DEVIL! YES, SATAN HISSELF! THE DENIZEN O’ THE PITS OF HELLFIRE AND TORMENT! LIKE A ROARING LION WALKETH ABOUT, SEEKIN’ WHO HE MAY DEVOUR.’
The worshippers groaned loudly and yet more women threw themselves to the ground as human crosses, while their menfolk raised their arms on high and babbled wildly in senseless tongues.
‘I come among you to lay hands on you in the name of Him who is the mightiest of all kings.’