by Sara Fraser
Hellfire George’s red-rimmed eyes stared bleakly at Jethro.
‘I bin wondering who you might be,’ he said with hostility. ‘Thee doon’t have the stamp of a lag. I bin wonderin’ how you come to be wi’ Turpin ’ere. Be you one o’ the flash boys who broke from the convoy?’
The young man shook his head. ‘No, I wasn’t in the convoy. I’ve never been a lag in my life.’
‘Then who and what be thou?’ the ranter demanded to know.
‘That’s not for you to worry about,’ Jethro answered levelly. ‘I mean you no offence, Master Jenkins, but I prefer to keep my own counsel.’
‘What thee prefers to do, be neither ’ere nor there, young man.’ Hellfire George’s voice was menacing. ‘When thee comes ’ere to my padding-ken and sees things that only the flash boys oughter see, then I wants to know all about thee. I’ve no fancy to be giving shelter to informers and the like.’
Jethro’s temper, strained by lack of sleep, rose.
‘The insults that come from your mouth are too bold for your tiny body,’ he told the other angrily. ‘I’ll not be accused of informing by you or anyone else.’
In his excitement he stepped forward. The ranter, thinking he was in danger of attack, swung the sledgehammer in threat.
‘I’ll bust that pretty face o’ thine,’ he warned. ‘I’ll break thy bloody skull! Big as thee might be, I’ll break it!’
‘Give over, the pair on you!’ Turpin Wright jumped in between them. ‘Hellfire speaks fair, Jethro.’ He put his hand against the younger man’s brawny chest. ‘He’s a right to know what sort o’ coves he’s ashelterin’.’
He swung on the ranter. ‘I’ll tell you who this is,’ he said forcefully. ‘This is Jethro Stanton. He’s from the town o’ Redditch, back in Worcestershire, same as I be meself.’
He grinned at Jethro’s surprised face. ‘Oh yes, Jethro. I’m an old pointer lad, from the needle-mills just as your Dad was . . . His Dad was a great man,’ he told Jenkins, chopping the air with his hands to give emphasis to his words, ‘he was a captin o’ the Luddites, was Peter Stanton, and I knew him well. He was bloody well destroyed by the government’s spies, murdered together wi’ his mate, Batten the prizefighter. Peter Stanton ’elped me more nor one in different ways, and bad bugger though I may be, I don’t forget friends nor favours. I’ll swear for this lad ’ere, as a straight ’un. As straight as a die!’
After a momentary hesitation, Hellfire George lowered his hammer.
‘That’ll do for me, Turpin,’ he boomed. ‘Now get thy arms on to that anvil and I’ll quit them bracelets for thee.’
The wrist fetters proved tougher to strike off than the ankle-iron and while the blacksmith struggled with cold chisels and hammer to the accompaniment of Turpin Wright’s curses and groans, Jethro’s thoughts dwelt on the chain of events that had brought him to this thieves’ den in the company of rogues and convicts. The memory of his father burned across his mind, fanned into a flame by the words of Turpin Wright.
Peter Stanton, a man who all his life had fought for the oppressed masses of England’s poor, who had finally been driven to join the Luddite movements which, in the north and midlands, dared to challenge the might of the ruling classes. Peter Stanton paid with his life for his beliefs. Government agents had murdered him six months before, and the grief that Jethro felt was still raw and all pervasive. He had loved his father deeply, for there had only been the two of them for many years. Jethro’s mother and two baby sisters were buried together in a pauper’s grave far away in distant Ely. Jethro shook his head, driving the bitter memories from his mind.
‘Someday, when I have learnt enough, and experienced enough of this world and its ways, then I shall avenge all their deaths,’ he promised himself. ‘But at this moment I must think only of how to escape the noose that is dangling above my own head.’
Sarah had risked a peep through the hole during the altercation between Jethro and her father. She appreciated what she saw.
‘My! But you’re a pretty fellow!’ she thought, staring admiringly at the young man’s fine physique and handsome regular features.
She remained crouched by the wall until a triumphant exclamation from her father told her that the task of freeing Turpin Wright was completed. Then, gathering her skirts about her knees, she glided silently away.
Turpin stood up, rubbing his bleeding wrists and cursing softly at the pain of abrased and bruised flesh. The ranter looked at him speculatively.
‘Thou’rt gooing to be needing clothes, Turpin,’ he mused aloud.
‘Ahr, and proper food and rest for a few days as well,’ the convict retorted. ‘And does you know summat, Hellfire? I reckon you’m willing to provide ’um all At a bloody stiff price.’
The ranter chuckled richly. ‘That I be . . .’ he answered. ‘That I be.’
‘How about this man?’ Jethro pushed Jackie Smith to the anvil. ‘What do we do with him in the meantime?’
The ranter lifted his red-rimmed eyes heavenwards.
‘Blessed be the Lord for His infinite mercies,’ he intoned sonorously. Then spoke directly to Jethro. ‘I’se got a little place next door to here. It’s built as strong as a dungeon, so it is. Well, what I suggests is that we fits the hound up wi’ a collar and chain and we puts him in theer. He’ll be snug in that kennel, I’ll warrant . . . Theer’s already a guest in there in a manner o’ speakin’, but he’ll not trouble our Jackie, I’ll be bound.’ The ranter’s rich chuckle issued from his black whiskers again. ‘No! I reckon they’ll get on right well together.’ He pointed at Smith’s apprehensive face and with the other hand picked up a long thin piece of flattened metal. ‘Get thee neck across that anvil, Smith. I’se got a nice cravat ’ere for thee.’
It took only a very few minutes to fashion the crude collar and chain around the small convict’s neck.
‘There! That’ll hold him.’ Hellfire George picked up the free end of the chain and pointing to the candle said, ‘Bring that glim, Turpin.’
He dragged the whimpering, frightened Jackie Smith behind him and led the way to the small thick-walled hovel adjacent to the forge. The air inside was cold and damp. As the party ducked one by one under the low lintel of the doorway, Jethro heard the gurgling of straining congested lungs.
Turpin Wright held the candle aloft so that its dim glow showed what the hovel contained . . . It was a man dressed in a blue uniform jacket and white breeches. He lay flat on his back, his legs and arms bound with ropes and around his neck an iron collar and chain fastened to a ring-bolt set into the side wall.
‘My bleedin Christ!’ Turpin Wright uttered.
‘Now, Turpin,’ the blacksmith reproved him gravely. ‘Thee knows I doon’t like blasphemy.’
‘Who is he? What’s he doing here?’ Jethro demanded, and went to kneel by the man’s head. He stared at the thin unshaven grey face and the black cavities of deep-sunk eyes, then felt with his hands the clammy wetness of the skin of head, neck, and chest.
‘This man is seriously ill!’ he exclaimed angrily. ‘He must be near to death . . . Why are you keeping him here like this? It’s bloody inhuman!’ His searching fingers felt the hard crust of dried blood that matted the hairs on the side of the man’s head.
Jethro got to his feet and faced Jenkins. ‘Come on, let’s hear the truth of it.’ His voice was harsh.
The tiny ranter’s red-rimmed eyes, focused on the candle flame, betrayed signs of insanity.
‘It doon’t consarn thee, who or what this cove is,’ he answered.
Turpin Wright took a long breath. ‘I reckon young Jethro’s right to ask, Hellfire,’ he intervened. ‘That cove’s a Frenchie, I can recognize the uniform. Now me and Jethro got troubles enough wi’out adding Frog officers to ’um. What’s he doing ’ere?’
Instead of answering, the ranter dragged Jackie Smith, whose whimpers had redoubled on seeing the chained man, across to the wall opposite the door and busied himself in padlocking the chain to another
ring-bolt set there. He snapped the lock and tugged hard on the chain.
‘Theer, that’ll hold you, you miserable sinner,’ Jenkins said with satisfaction, and only then did he answer. Still crouching, he looked back over his shoulder at his two questioners and told them. ‘That Frenchie is going to meet his Maker. He’s only awaiting to start on the journey, so to speak. He’s lucky, so he is, for I’m agivin’ him the chance to make his peace wi’ our Blessed Lord afore he crosses over the river o’ life.’
Jethro shook his head in amazement and exasperation.
‘But what in God’s Name is a French soldier doing here?’ he repeated.
The tiny blacksmith came to his feet in temper. ‘I’se told thy mate, and now I’m telling thee,’ he shouted. ‘I doon’t hold wi’ taking the Lord’s Name in vain. If thee keeps on adoin’ it, then thee and me am agoin’ to fall out.’
‘All right, George, all right,’ Turpin Wright interposed impatiently. ‘Never mind that now, just gi’ us the answer.’
The ranter looked from one set face to the other, then suddenly relaxed and smiled easily. The tremors of madness disappeared from his eyes and he spoke in his normal tone.
‘Well, it’s easy explained, friends. Theer’s some Frenchmen living here in Bishops Castle and at Montgomery. They’m officers who’ve bin made prisoners-o’-war and then paroled. Some on ’um got a fair bit o’ rhino wi’ ’um as well.’ He paused and winked. ‘A man’s got to live, friends. I helps them all I can, and they pays well.’
‘And him?’ Jethro pointed to the sick man. ‘Are you helping him also?’
The ranter shook his head in lugubrious sorrow.
‘Ahr, that’s a tragedy. The poor young man come to see me not three days since, and begged me to ’elp him escape back to France. Well, I told him that I couldn’t do that, becos’ I’m an Englishman and loyal to my King. I told him that by breaking his parole he was breaking his solemn given oath, and that was a mortal sin and terrible in the sight of the Lord our God. He went off his ’ead, so he did, tried to stab me wi’ a pitchfork. I had to tap him on the head and chain him up for his own safety.’ He smiled sadly. ‘The poor boy’s ’ad a brainstorm, he’s gone dog mad. That’s why he’s still ’ere. If I was to let him go free, they’d send him to Bedlam, or worse still, the hulks. Not only that, but the traps ’ud be down on me like the wolves of Judaea, becos’ they’d say I was helping a prisoner . . . No, I prayed to the Lord most Merciful for guidance and He told me in one of my periods o’ meditation that I should keep this poor sinner here, and care for him until he’s recovered his senses.’
‘You’re a bloody madman, you damned liar!’ Jethro’s barely held temper burst out at this rigmarole, but before he could continue Turpin Wright grabbed him from behind and hustled him into the yard.
‘Be you wanting to put the ropes round our necks, cully?’ The older man’s vehement question was purely rhetorical. ‘Becos’ if that’s what you wants, you’m going the right way to do it. It’s no concern of ours what that bloody maniac in theer is doing wi’ bloody Frenchies. We need his help for the next few days and if you keeps on like this we’ll not get it.’
‘But,’ Jethro began. Wright’s big calloused hand clamped over his mouth.
‘Lissen, you young fool,’ the convict whispered. ‘I’m thinking the same as you. That the bugger is promising these Frogs he’ll help ’um get away, then cheatin’ ’um of their rhino. He arn’t the only one in this country who’s doing it, not be a long chalk he arn’t . . . But it’s no concern of ours! If we’m not bloody careful we’ll be feeling a rope round our own throats. So just keep your mouth shut, and your thoughts to yourself . . . You’se got a lot to learn about life, my young cock, and you’d better learn it quick.’ He pulled his hand from Jethro’s mouth. ‘Now?’ he asked. ‘Has you understood me?’
Jethro nodded and kept silent, but inwardly promised himself that he would do something to aid the sick, helpless Frenchman.
Turpin Wright regarded the young man’s face narrowly, then nodded. ‘Good! I see you’se got the makings of a flash cove. Cummon, we’ll make our peace wi’ that bleedin’ loony . . . Hark to him!’
From inside the hovel they heard Jenkins lecturing Jackie Smith.
‘’Ull you never see the Light o’ the Saviour, Smith? ’Ull you allus be one o’ the Gadarene swine? Th’art blind man! Blind and cursed! Does not the psalmist say, “The Heavens declare the Glory of God, and the Firmament sheweth His handiwork.”?’
‘God rot me!’ Wright cursed. ‘I reckon that bleeder ’ull drive us as mad as he is afore we gets out o’ this place.’
Together they re-entered the hovel.
Chapter Six
Capitain Henry Chanteur of his Imperial Majesty’s Third Chasseurs à Cheval stood outside his quarters in the half-timbered Porch House and glanced up at the clock on the town hall of Bishops Castle. The ornate hands pointed to the hour of ten. The young Frenchman stroked his long mustachios with his slender fingers and then in the same motion smoothed his hatless blond hair and the side-whiskers that stretched to an inch below his ears. Ruefully he glanced down at his uniform. The dark green jacket and pantaloons with their red piping and cuffs were stained and shabby and the silver shoulder epaulets blackened with tarnish, while his half-boots had cracked across both top leathers.
‘Ah well!’ he sighed resignedly. ‘This isn’t Paris, after all.’
He began to hum a gay tune and sauntered down the long high street towards the church of St John Baptist which, surrounded by low stone walls, squatted in the middle of lichen-covered gravestones, its grey walls made mellow by the unseasonably warm sunlight.
The few townspeople about their business in the street paid no attention to the tall enemy soldier passing by. French officers on parole had been billeted in the Porch House and other buildings in the town for some years and had become a commonplace to the phlegmatic inhabitants. Chanteur had been a prisoner-of-war for three years and in a way that was inexplicable to himself had found a certain happy contentment with his lot. His lips twitched in amusement, the reasons for some measure of his contentment were not entirely obscure. The local girls were fascinated by the romantic, dashing foreigners suddenly dropped into the dull tenor of their lives; and in spite of the resentment of the rustic beaux of the district, many liaisons and loving attachments had been formed, even some marriages made. Although in his twenty-sixth year, Henri Chanteur had felt no desire to enter into any permanent bond, until some months previously he had encountered the woman he was now on his way to meet.
He reached the churchyard that faced the bottom of the high street and turned left, taking the road towards the south-lying village of Clun. She was waiting for him a mile out of the town, standing by the white post which marked the limits of the parolees’ freedom of movement. As he approached she came to meet him, her tall figure with its full hips and breasts moving gracefully.
They stopped a pace distant from each other, and Henri Chanteur felt his breathing begin to quicken. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat tilted forward over her green eyes, its sides pulled down slightly by the broad ribbon that crossed its low crown and was tied in a bow under her faintly cleft chin. Her glossy, chestnut-hued ringlets were brushed back from her handsome face, and the soft skin of her neck was touched by the tints of the past summer’s sun. As were the top halves of her proud breasts, displayed to his gaze by the long-sleeved, low-cut blue dress. A pale blue woollen shawl had slipped from her shoulders as she walked and now she pulled it back around her upper body.
‘Sarah, you hide much of your beauty doing that,’ Chanteur smiled at her. His English was nearly perfect, only the slightest intonation betraying his French origin.
She returned his smile. ‘There’s nothing there that you haven’t seen too much of already,’ she told him frankly.
‘Come!’ He held out his hand. She clasped it and they left the road and made their way across the fields to an old barn half-hidden by the outer f
ringes of the woodlands. When she entered its shadowed interior, Sarah Jenkins shivered. ‘It’s cold here,’ she said.
The Frenchman folded her into his arms and pressed his lips to her soft throat. ‘We shall soon be warm,’ he whispered, and drew her farther inside to where the piled straw promised a comforting bed.
*
Five miles to the south of the barn, Constable Thomas Marston’s horse cast a shoe as he and his companions were riding out of Clun village to begin the journey back to Bishops Castle.
‘Goddam and blast it!’ he cursed. ‘Hold hard, gentlemen. I’ve suffered a slight mishap.’ Grunting heavily, he dismounted.
William Seymour held up his hand and the three dragoons behind him halted. Seymour used his knees to turn his horse and went back the twenty yards to where the fat man was puffing and blowing his distress.
‘I must offer my profound apologies, Captain,’ the crier began.
Seymour bit back the scathing rebuke that rose to his lips and merely nodded curtly.
‘Corporal Ryder!’ he shouted. The man rode up to him and saluted.
‘Take Mister Marston’s horse back to the smithy we came past, and get it attended to.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The corporal rode away trailing the crier’s mount behind him.
Seymour ordered the two remaining troopers to dismount, then did so himself and allowed his horse to crop the thick coarse grass at the side of the roadway. Marston grunted his way to an old milestone and lowered his vast backside on to its flat top. Pulling a large spotted handkerchief from a pocket let into his many-caped overcoat, he took off his bicorn hat and mopped his sweaty, sparse-haired scalp.
‘My solemn oath!’ he puffed. ‘But it’s uncommon warm for this time o’ the year, sir.’
The dragoon captain regarded him with distaste.
‘Is it?’ he said coldly, and began to walk away from his companions.
Ahead of him was the high, abrupt slope of Colstey Hill. Seymour gazed up at it and thought what a strong defensive position it would make. Then, unbidden, another train of thought thrust itself into his mind. The disappearance of Jackie Smith. Behind the mask of haughty indifference he showed to the world, William Seymour was desperately worried.