by Sara Fraser
She ran and grabbed her father’s arm trying to wrest the hammer from him. He threw her brutally away as if she were weightless, and swung to catch Jethro lying helpless. But the second’s interruption had been sufficient and Jethro had come catlike to his feet. Jenkins came in again and the hammer head swung once more in an effort to crush Jethro’s skull. This time Jethro fought with his brain as well as his body. He timed the swing and ducked under it, then smashed his right fist into the blacksmith’s mouth, fetching the blood spurting out over the black whiskers. The force of the blow jolted the smaller man back on his heels and Jethro’s left and right hands flashed in a blur of movement to batter the senses from the ranter. Jenkins’ eyes rolled up in his head and the hammer fell from his nerveless hands as he dropped stunned to the ground.
Panting with shock and exertion, Jethro stepped forward and picked up the tool.
‘Oh please Jethro,’ Sarah Jenkins pleaded. ‘Don’t kill him.’
‘I don’t intend to,’ he snapped curtly, and re-entering the hovel he battered at the staple holding Jackie Smith’s chains until it snapped. He lifted the whimpering convict and carried him bodily outside.
‘Now get you gone, Smith,’ Jethro pushed him roughly. ‘I’ve no wish to set my sight on scum like you ever again, but I’ll not leave you to die here, worthless hound though you may be.’
The whimpering convict scurried away, crouching low to the ground like a terrified animal.
‘What will you do now Master Stanton?’ Sarah’s green eyes were dark with apprehension. ‘My father will want revenge for what you have done to him, and I fear that the evil in him will stop at nothing to obtain it.’
Jethro stared at her beauty and his anger left him as he realized that but for her intervention, when he had been helpless on the ground, he would have been a dead man by now.
‘I’ll be on my own way, mistress,’ he told her quietly. ‘I’ve no wish to remain here and cause you any further trouble with your father.’
Turpin Wright clambered to his feet and came towards the couple, his breath wheezing through his open mouth and his face grey and clammy.
‘Rot my balls, Jethro! But you’m a bloody wildcat in a fight aren’t you?’
Jethro didn’t answer him, instead he went to Sarah Jenkins. ‘I’m sorry that I doubted you over the Frenchman, and that I was forced to serve your father so,’ he told her. ‘I’d no wish to harm anyone of your blood.’
She smiled wanly at him. ‘Don’t worry about that, Master Stanton, for truth to tell, I was more concerned for your safety than his. I feared that he would kill you.’
He returned her smile and touched her cheek gently. She lifted her hand to cover his fingers and he felt a wave of tenderness for her well up in his heart.
Turpin’s voice broke the spell that held them both. ‘Come on, cully, we’ll ha’ to decide what to do.’
Jethro sighed and turned from Sarah to face his friend.
‘Aye, you’re right,’ he said, and tried to clean some of the mud from his clothes with his fingers, but was forced to abandon the task as hopeless. ‘We had best get straight away, Turpin,’ he said, ‘before Jackie Smith brings the dragoons on our necks.’
The older man shook his head. ‘He’ll not goo wi’in a mile on ’um. He’ll be too scared for his own neck now.’ He paused and regarded both their soiled rigs doubtfully. ‘But for sure we can’t goo like this, Jethro. They ’ull lift us both for thievin’ beggars afore we’se gone a mile.’
‘I can help you.’ Sarah Jenkins touched Jethro’s arm. ‘My father’s got a chest full of clothes in the house. Oh don’t worry,’ she hastened to add. ‘They’re not his though, God alone knows where he got them from. They’re all too big for him by yards.’
The two men exchanged looks and each could clearly read the other’s thoughts.
‘Ahr!’ Turpin nodded sagely. ‘I see you thinks the same as me, cully. They’ll be dead men’s clothes, I’ll warrant.’ He cleared his throat noisily and spat on to the ground. ‘No matter! It’ll not be the first time I’ve worn a dead ’un’s britches.’
With no more hesitation they followed the young woman into the house.
While they had been talking, George Jenkins’ senses had returned. Too cunning to move, he had lain feigning unconsciousness, though when he had heard Sarah’s offer of help he had been forced to bite his smashed lips to stop himself bawling out in fury.
‘I’ll pay thee out for this, you hell-damned strumpet!’ he raged silently. ‘For this and for being a Frenchie’s harlot . . . I’ll pay thee out till thee begs for mercy. Whore! Dirty whore!’ He waited until the three went into the house and he heard the door slam shut behind them, then slipped out into the lane, using a scrap of rag to try and staunch his bleeding mouth.
The clothes were musty and those at the bottom of the chest had become mildewed. The two men put on one side those garments that would fit them, while Sarah stretched a rope across the room and hung the remainder over it.
‘I’ll tell father that I opened the chest to air the clothes,’ she told them, as they stripped off their muddied breeches and coats and put on those they had sorted out. When dressed, they made a sombre pair: black breeches, black coats worn over dark plain shirts and with dull stockings on their legs.
‘Rot my balls!’ Turpin Wright chuckled. ‘They’ll take us for Methodys from the looks on us.’
Jethro turned to Sarah. ‘We owe you our gratitude, Mistress Sarah, but I’m not happy about leaving you here alone with your father.’
She smiled, pleased at his concern. ‘Don’t worry about me, Master Jethro,’ she told him. ‘I’m well able to look after myself.’
The young man frowned. ‘I think in all truth that your father is a madman . . . There’s no telling what he may do. Why not come with us? We could protect you until you found a place where you could be safe from him.’
‘I would like to come with you, Jethro, but I cannot,’ she said soberly. ‘There is an old friend of mine who, because of me, is in grave trouble. I must stay here and help if I can. But I thank you for your offer, and I shall pray for your well-being.’
Moved by sudden impulse Jethro took her hand and lifted it to his lips. ‘I wish that we might have met under different circumstances, Sarah,’ he murmured, ‘for I feel that there could have been a good regard between us; and perhaps even more than that.’
Her eyes were soft. ‘I also feel this, Jethro.’
He smiled. ‘God willing, there may yet be a day on which we will meet again, and I hope that it may not be long in coming. Goodbye, and thank you for all your kindness.’
With a nod to Turpin Wright to follow, Jethro went from the room. As the door closed behind the two men and the sound of their footsteps died away, Sarah felt an overwhelming desire to run after them and go with them on their journey.
‘You know well that you cannot go,’ she reproved herself angrily. ‘You owe it to Henry to stay here and try and help him.’
She busied herself in cleaning the room and drove her wayward imaginings from her mind.
Chapter Eight
‘Hark how the drums beat out agennn,
For all true soldier gentlemennn,
The King commands and we’ll obeyyyy
Over the hills and far awayyyyyyy . . .’
Trooper Macarthy’s tuneful tenor carried across the crowded taproom of the Black Lion tavern, and the veins swelled and throbbed in his throat and forehead as he strained to draw out the last note.
The room was packed with white-smocked countrymen, wild-looking drovers and tail-coated yeomen farmers, and thick with the blue fug of the tobacco fumes that puffed out from the long churchwarden pipes that most of the men were smoking. The rattle of brass dominoes cracked down hard on the scarred dark-wood tables mingled with the hubbub of talk, argument, and laughter; and the squeals of the serving wenches being pinched on rounded buttocks and plump thighs as they moved through the thronged room were counter-balanced by
the sharp reports of the slaps they dealt the offending pinchers.
Corporal Ryder raised his pewter mug and hammered its dented base upon the table.
‘That’s good, Paddy! That’s a rare good tune, that is,’ he applauded.
At the next table a heavy-bodied yeoman farmer drew the sleeve of his brown tail-coat across his ale-wet lips and, winking at his companions, shouted, ‘Well, I rackons it to be a damned poor thing, meself!’
The room stilled and hushed suddenly and all eyes switched to the corner where the farmer’s and soldiers’ tables adjoined.
Corporal Ryder’s hard, hatchetlike face became wary. ‘Does you know a better song then, my fine bucko?’ he questioned, his voice still croaking from his injured throat.
‘Ahr, that I does, lobster.’ The yeoman got ponderously to his feet and with one thick forefinger he tilted his low-crowned beaver hat back from his sweating brows. ‘It ’ud be a strange thing if I couldn’t sing a better ’un than that.’ Without waiting for an answer, he began to bellow out in a deep bass the words of a song.
‘Come all you sweet charmers, come gi’ me your choice . . .
For there’s nothin’ can compare wi’ a ploughboy’s voice.
For to hear the little ploughhhhboy sweetly singnnng . . .
Makes the hills and the valleys around us to rinnnggg.’
A shout of acclamation burst from the countrymen and as the farmer raised his hands and beckoned, they came roaring in to join him.
‘For it’s up you little ploughboy, get up i’ the morn,
Move alooonnngg, jump alooonnngg.
Here drives the ploughboy wi’ spark and beauty bearing.
Good Luck! We will cheer him as he moves along
For we are the laaaddss who can keep along the plough
For we are the laaaadddsss who can drive along the plough . . .’
The chorus finished to a tumult of cheers and laughter. Grinning triumphantly, the farmer slammed his great calloused hands on the table.
‘Theer lobster! That’s summat loike a song that is! Bain’t that true lads?’ He addressed the crowd who bellowed good-natured agreement. ‘That’s a song for true Englishmen. Them that stands four-square and bows to no one . . .’ The farmer’s tone became aggressive. ‘It bain’t a bloody tune for bloody slaves loike you lobsters be.’
‘What d’you mean by calling us slaves?’ Ryder asked truculently.
‘Just what I says, surry,’ his tormentor shouted. ‘Damn thee for bein’ poor pitiful scoundrels what sells yourselves for a shillin’ a day to goo and be shot at like Shrovetide cocks at the bidding o’ any stuffed popinjay wi’ a big feather in his cap and a bit o’ bloody gold on ’is shoulder. Thee hanna got a spark o’ spirit in your body, or thee ’uddent goo and do it.’
Ryder glanced about him. The rest of the men in the room had lost their original good temper, and the happy tipsiness of a few moments before had changed to a threatening sullenness.
‘Ahr, gaffer, you’m roight theer.’ A ruddy-faced ploughman got up from his seat in the inglenook and came across to stand over the seated soldiers. ‘You bloody lobsters does whatsoever that pack o’ thieves in London they calls a parleyament tells you to do . . . Even if it means shootin’ your guns at poor starvin’ labouring men.’
A growl of assent came from a dozen throats. Ryder measured the standing man’s well-fleshed body with his eyes and sneered contemptuously.
‘You doon’t look as if you’se bin missing any meals of late.’
The farmer jumped to his feet and came to stand by the ploughman.
‘That’s neither here nor there . . . Theer’s a sight o’ poor buggers as is starvin’ to keep the loikes o’ thee swilling drink, when you should be fighting the French across the seas. That’s what you’m paid for . . . I’d loike to know what you buggers am adoin’ in this town, anyway? Thou’rt bin here for nigh on a week now . . . What for? To spy on us, in case we talks o’ rebellion?’ His face flushed darkly and his great hands clenched into fists. ‘Does you rackon we’em a lot of barmy yokels, lobster? That we dinna know what’s agooin’ on in this country? . . . Men being taken and put in gaol, hung even some on ’um, because they dares to speak out agen bad rulers and empty bellies . . .’
‘Ahr, that’s it, Tom!’
‘You tell um, Tom.’
‘Speak out surry, we’em with you!’
‘Bleedin’ lobsters?’
Shouts of support for the farmer came from all sides and the rooms’ atmosphere became charged with menace. The innkeeper intervened, wiping his hands nervously on his grimy apron.
‘Now Tom, lad . . . Now Tom,’ he said placatingly. ‘For the love o’ God make no trouble in here, Tom. Or I’ll lose me permit and be closed up.’
He turned on the soldiers, furious in his fear. ‘Get out o’ my house, you lobsters! Get out this minute!’
‘All bloody lobsters are bloody cowards!’ the big farmer shouted. ‘I’ll fight any o’ you for a farthing . . . Ahr! I’ll box the bloody lot on you, one arter the other for a farthing!’
Corporal Ryder’s body shook with rage. He was afraid of no man and every atom of his being clamoured to beat the big farmer before him into pulp. But, old campaigner as he was, Ryder recognized the hopelessness of his position. If he or his troopers made one aggressive movement, the whole room would be on them, swamping them in a flood of fists and boots. He jerked his head at Timpkins and Macarthy and under a constant barrage of jeers and cat-calls the three soldiers put on their shakoes, adjusted their uniforms and accoutrements and went from the tavern. Out in the street Ryder hawked, spat and cursed in futile anger.
‘Come on, you two,’ he growled in disgust and led the way towards the town hall.
‘Hey you, soldier?’ a voice called behind them.
‘God rot me! I’ll slit the barstards’ throats!’ The corporal cursed and swung round, his hand dragging at the hilt of his sabre.
George Jenkins hurried up to the dragoons, not appearing to notice their threatening manner.
‘I must speak wi’ thy officer right away,’ he panted, his voice muffled by the rag he held to his bleeding mouth.
‘What for?’ Ryder demanded belligerently.
‘Listen soldier, doon’t delay me, or you’ll be sorry.’ Jenkins pulled the rag from his mouth and spat the words from his smashed lips. ‘I knows thou’rt here lookin’ for runaway convicts!’
‘So? And if it were true, then what of it?’ The corporal was poker-faced.
‘Well, I’se got them for thee,’ the ranter snarled. ‘But you’d best look sharp about it . . . They’ll not be theer much longer.’
William Seymour was sitting in the Three Tuns’ parlour sipping hot rum spiced with cinnamon, when Corporal Ryder brought the ranter to him.
The N.C.O. saluted with a jangle of accoutrements and barked, ‘Beg pardon for disturbing you sir. But this man’s got summat he wishes to tell you.’
The captain’s cold eyes measured the bleeding, muddied spectacle before him and he sneered openly. ‘Are you mad, corporal. What could a filthy thing like this have to tell me that could be of any importance? Kick his arse and send him on his way.’
The blacksmith’s eyes glowed redly, but he beat down his rage and forced himself to say fawningly, ‘Please to listen, yer honour. I’ve news o’ them escaped convicts you’m alookin’ for.’
A few tiny flecks of blood sprayed from his lips and fell on the table, one or two of the scarlet spots splashing into the glass set before Seymour. But Seymour didn’t notice them. His whole attention had alerted to the man’s words. His manner became perceptibly more civil. He drew his breath in sharply and said, ‘Sit down my man, and tell me what it is you know. If it’s the truth you speak, then you’ll not lose by it, that I promise.’
The ranter’s insane grin flickered across his face and leaning forward he slapped the table with both hands to give urgency to his words. ‘Theer’s not a minute to lose, Captin, iffen you wan
ts them hell-spawned hounds. Just come wi’ me now and I’ll deliver them straight into your hands.’
Seymour took the measure of the man’s veracity instantly. ‘Get my horse, corporal, and jump to it! Blast you, man move!’
In the lane Jethro and Turpin Wright walked side by side. It was Jethro who broke their silence. He sighed and said unhappily, ‘Well friend, where do we head for?’
Turpin grinned and began to caper about, singing at the top of his voice:
‘Oh wilt thou go wi’ me, sweet Tibby Dunbar,
Oh wilt thou go wi’ me, sweet Tibby Dunbar,
Wilt thou ride on a horse or be drawn in a cart,
Or walk by my side, sweet Tibby Dunbar?’
Jethro scowled, then burst out laughing, and his regret at leaving Sarah Jenkins lifted from his mind. The end of the lane was in sight and Jethro pressed his companion for an answer.
‘Come, Turpin, we must turn either left or right at the top of the lane there . . . which is it to be?’
At the very moment he finished speaking, a dragoon crashed through the overhanging hedgerow on their right and aimed a carbine at Jethro’s chest.
‘Neither left nor right, bully!’ a voice jeered from their left, and Corporal Ryder stood upright from a concealed ditch. He, too, aimed a carbine at Jethro. Before either of them could properly recover from the shock of ambush, there was a clatter of horses’ hooves and William Seymour rode into the lane together with the constable, Thomas Marston, and the third trooper.
‘Goo on, bully boy, make a run for it,’ Corporal Ryder invited. ‘I’d like nothing better than to let a bit o’ daylight into your tripes.’
Seymour’s lean cruel face was alight with pleasure. ‘Well done, Ryder! Well done, Timpkins!’ he congratulated the soldiers.
George Jenkins came hastening behind the horsemen.
‘God be praised! You’ve caught the villains, God be praised!’ he kept repeating.
‘Why you dirty preachin’ bastard,’ Turpin Wright snarled, and a sharp crack on his head with a carbine barrel cut him short. He subsided into silence, but his expression boded ill for the ranter if the opportunity should ever arise.