by Sara Fraser
‘He sounds like a hog back home, rutting for truffles,’ Henri thought, and began to feel a grudging respect for the toughness and fighting spirit of the Englishman. But before another exchange could take place, a sailor shouted,
‘Look out, cullies . . . ’Ere’s the bleedin’ captin coming back.’
From in between two of the men o’ war moored by the dockyard, a gig came in with fast-sweeping oars towards the line of hulks. The marine sergeant bawled a series of orders, then using the tub water splashed the blood from his head and chest.
‘You’m a tricky bugger in a set-to, Frenchie,’ he told Henri, and there was respect in his voice. ‘Well, you needn’t fret none over this. I ain’t a cove what holds a grudge agen a man who stands up to me and fights back. T’ain’t your fault you doon’t know how to use your dukes, but ’as to use your feet instead. You’ll hear no more o’ this.’
Henri felt a surge of gratitude at the other’s sporting words. He slipped a gold guinea from beneath his tongue and pushed it into the marine’s hand.
The man looked at the coin and grinned. ‘You’m a fly cove, ain’t you? You’ll survive these damned hulks, never fear.’
He picked up his clothes and bundled them together.
‘Corporal Bower!’ he shouted. ‘I’m going to me berth to get changed. Gi’ this Frenchie his slops and get him below.’ He looked back at Henri. ‘I’ll gi’ you a word o’ warning, cully,’ he spoke in a low gruff tone so that no one else could hear. ‘Be careful while you’m on this damned hell-ship. The cap’n’s half-mad, and the other bastards am about the same. Youse best keep a still tongue and a careful eye, and if you gets the chance, then get orf the bloody thing one way or another.’ He winked and tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’m being drafted back to a ship o’ the line shortly, so I wun’t be able to ’elp you, except by gie’ing you this word o’ warning.’
With that, he tucked his hat under his free arm and went along the deck to disappear into the forward housing.
‘’Ere, Froggie!’ The corporal handed Henri a jacket and trousers. ‘Get these on quick, afore the captin gets aboard.’
Henri put on the ill-fitting clothes reluctantly. They were a garish orange-yellow in colour, thick with dirt and grease and on the back of the jacket were two big black letters, T.O.
‘What do they stand for, these letters?’ Henri asked.
‘They means Transport Office, cully,’ the corporal explained. ‘You’m their property, d’you see.’
He took the young Frenchman down a ladder and on to the lower deck, where an armed sentry was standing looking through a loophole in a barrier. The barrier stretched from deck to deckhead and at first glance appeared to be metal, so thickly were the nails driven through the stout wood, so that their points protruded through to the prisoners’ quarters. Other loopholes flanked the sentry’s and through them could be heard a tumultuous hubbub, while the stench that Henri had first encountered on the gallery was here so strong and overpowering that it seemed to force its foulness through the very pores of his skin.
‘Cop these.’ The corporal took a hammock, a thin ragged coverlet and a long narrow hair mattress weighing perhaps two and a half pounds, from a heap at one end of the sentry walk and gave them to Henri.
‘Take care o’ these,’ the man instructed. ‘Because you’ll get no more.’
Three marines came down the ladder and stood with muskets aimed at a low hatch-cover, now barred and bolted, which rose only a couple of feet from the deck. The corporal unbarred and opened it and Henri crawled through, pushing his scant bedding in front of him. The hatch slammed shut and the bars and bolts rattled into place.
Henri got to his feet and stared unbelievingly at the scene before him. In a space barely 130 feet long, 40 feet broad and 6 feet high, with the only light that which seeped through a few narrow iron-grilled scuttles set at the sides of the deckhead, hundreds of men milled and surged in chaotic ear-deafening commotion.
To Henri, they looked like dead people risen for a brief time from their graves. Hollow-eyed, earthy-complexioned, their thin wasted bodies were barely covered by the yellow rags they wore. Round-backed and unshaven, with fetid breath, rotted teeth, and vermin-ridden hair and skins. The young man stared at them in horror as they haggled and quarrelled, sang and shouted, wept and laughed with maniacal, feverish clamour.
‘Ah oui, m’sieur! Ils sont vraiment les enfants d’enfer.’ The musical cultured tones came from the shorter of two cadaverous caricatures of human beings standing at one side of the hatchway, looking with interest at the new arrival.
Henri summoned his wits and bowed politely to the creatures. ‘Indeed, m’sieur, you speak truly. These poor men do resemble our vision of the children of hell.’
The human wreck laughed delightedly and returned the bow. ‘Permit me to introduce myself . . . Colonel Gaston de Chambray, of the Third Cuirassiers, and this gentleman is my friend, Captain Nathan Caldicott of the American Merchant Service.’
The American was an exceptionally tall and skeletal forty years old, without a tooth in his mouth or a hair on his head. He was a New Englander and spoke with the nasal twang of his home state of Maine.
‘Welcome to His Britannic Majesty’s Ship, Joy . . . Some may call it by its given name, the Crown, but I know better,’ he said and held out his hand. His eyes twinkled merrily in the gravity of his face. ‘I’ll be most happy to shake your hand, monsewer, for I’ve not yet mastered the art of bowing graceful.’
Henri liked the man instantly and shook the proffered hand, then bowed to both men and introduced himself.
‘Eh bien, Henri. There is no need for the formalities here, so I will call you by your forename . . . What do you think of our charming abode?’ the colonel asked pleasantly, as if they were in the best of hotels.
The newcomer shook his head confusedly. ‘Mais c’est affreux! I never believed that soldiers of the Empereur could fall as low as this.’
The colonel’s skull-like face smiled, showing surprisingly good white teeth. ‘But, mon cher, you do not yet fully understand. On this deck are only the privileged ones. The men of some consequence . . . les officiers and les messieurs ou bourgeois. Down below there,’ he tapped the decking with the knotted stick he leant heavily upon, ‘down there in the lower battery is where the fallen ones live . . . les raffales! And below their deck, is another one called the Orlop. You’ll find there the people who even les raffales despise . . . les manteaux imperiaux! Why, on this deck, we enjoy a comparatively gracious existence. You must endeavour to do your utmost to remain here with us, mon jeune ami. To go down below is indeed to descend into hell. This deck . . .’ he gestured with courtly gracefulness at the bedlam in front of them, ‘this deck is merely the ante-chamber of Purgatory . . .’
Chapter Twelve
It took some days after the happenings in the shepherd’s encampment for Turpin Wright to recover his customary light-heartedness.
‘God rot my balls!’ he told Jethro repeatedly. ‘I’ll tell you this, cully. It fair shook me up, so it did. Does you know summat? I felt the Devil’s hands in that hut. He was reaching for me, his fingers aclawing into me body like burning coals and trying to wrench me immortal soul from me.’
The convict insisted on stopping at every church and chapel they passed, and praying before the altar, then splashing himself soakingly with holy water. He even persuaded a travelling parson, somewhat the worse for drink, to exorcize the evil spirit that he insisted had come to dwell within him. Inevitably as the days passed and Satan made no attempt to snatch him down into the fires of hell, Turpin’s mood lightened and his superstitious dread left him. He began to taunt the Devil when in his cups and challenge the demons of hell to appear.
‘Come on then, Old Nick, and the rest on you hairy-arsed buggers. Come out and face me.’
When nothing occurred he would laugh and dance a jig, saying to Jethro, ‘Theer, matey, what did I tell you? It takes more than Old Nick to beat Turpin Wright
. I’m too sharp for the bugger. As sharp as one o’ Abe Morrall’s needles I be, and that’s a fact.’
Jethro would smile to himself, pleased to see the older man happy again.
The pair were heading in a roundabout route back to Redditch, Jethro’s home town. It had been his idea since it was obviously out of the question to risk returning to Bishops Castle for the hidden hoard.
‘We’ll lie low in Redditch for a time,’ Jethro said. ‘We can always find work on the canal with the navvy gangs, if there’s naught else to be had. I’m well thought of there, and I’ve friends who will help us.’
Turpin had initially demurred, giving as his opinion that it would be better for them to keep moving.
‘Nonsense.’ The younger man was dogmatic. ‘We’re objects of curiosity in these remote country areas. You should know that only too well by now. It’s better that we should be in a place where people at least know me, and then we’ll not stand out from the crowd.’
‘But what if I’m recognized in Redditch?’ Turpin asked.
‘How long was it since you were there?’ Jethro wanted to know.
‘Over a score o’ years now,’ the convict informed him.
Jethro laughed at his doubts. ‘I should think that your own mother would not know you after that length of time . . . It’s not as though you’ve aged well, is it?’
‘You cheeky young bugger!’ Turpin Wright cursed him, but was forced to admit the truth of what Jethro said, and agreed to follow his plan.
They were now on the road between the ancient Severn river port of Bewdley, and the weaving town of Kidderminster. It was midday and the sky was overcast with black clouds, while underfoot the previous night’s frost still rimed the dirt road.
‘How far are we from Redditch now?’ the convict wanted to know.
Jethro knew the road well, having travelled over it many times when he worked as a carter. ‘We’re about a mile and a half off Kidderminster,’ he answered, and indicated the thickly wooded hill in front. ‘Once we get over that, we’ll be nearly in the town, and Redditch lies about fifteen miles beyond, as the crow flies.’
‘We’ll not reach it this night, then,’ his companion said. ‘It ’ud be silly to wear ourselves out hurrying to it.’ He jingled the coins left from the two corpse sovereigns he had earned in Wales and went on, ‘Let’s stop and get some vittles, cully. I’m fair clemmed wi’ hunger.’
‘All right, there’s an alehouse just over the hill that I used to stop at sometimes. We’ll fill our stomachs there,’ the young man agreed. ‘But mind now, Turpin, let’s have none of your tricks. We want no hue and cry raised for us in these parts, and no attention drawn to us either, in case there’s already been inquiries made.’
‘Does you take me for a loony wi’ straw in his ’ead?’ Turpin asked irritably.
‘Only sometimes,’ Jethro teased, and saved his breath for the steep climb ahead.
An hour later, their stomachs comfortably full with boiled bacon and cabbage, and their thirst quenched by several jars of porter, they were on the point of leaving the small roadside inn, when a commotion higher up the hill took their attention.
A young farmgirl came running screaming down the rough road, her sackcloth apron and skirts billowing and her mobcap hanging by a solitary hairpin at the side of her distraught face. They ran to meet her, together with the innkeeper. She threw herself into Jethro’s arms and slumped against him, panting hoarsely and gasping in terror.
‘The French are come! The French are come!’
‘What’s that thee says?’ the bald-headed, lean-shanked innkeeper blanched in fear. ‘The French? Here?’
‘Doon’t talk so bloody soft, man,’ Turpin jeered. ‘The nearest Frog to her is a dead bugger we saw in . . .’
Jethro’s elbow jabbed sharply into his friend’s ribs and stopped him short. The convict rubbed the painful spot and glared at the younger man, then took his annoyance out on the innkeeper.
‘You’m a real booby, you am. Bloody French ’ere? Achh!’ He spat on the ground in scorn. ‘There now, my pretty, calm yourself . . . No one shall harm you.’
Jethro gently comforted the frightened girl. ‘What do you mean by saying the French are come? There’s none within two hundred miles of here, except for a few prisoners.’
She stared wildly behind her and screamed faintly.
‘Theer they be . . . Acoming arter me!’
A troop of weirdly clad men were approaching from over the brow of the hill. Their clothing was adorned with coloured streamers and around their tall beaver hats were strings of paper flowers, and more ribbons which fluttered about their heads as they walked. Each man set up a tuneful tinkling, as he moved, from the frills of tiny bells tied to the knees of his breeches, and to one side of the troop capered a fantastically dressed clown who brandished a long whip with an inflated bladder attached to the end of its thong.
Jethro burst out laughing. ‘Lord save you, girl. Those men aren’t the French. They’re Cotswold Morris Men, I’ve seen their like many times before.’
Recovering from her fright, the girl became angry. ‘Then what be they adooin’, gooing’ about the land loike that, afrightin’ poor honest wenches loike me?’ she demanded indignantly, and when the party reached her, she assailed them shrilly. ‘You oughter be shamed! Afrightin’ me loike that. I’m a good honest girl, I be, arsk anybody in these parts . . . It’s not deserved what you done . . . It warn’t deserved!’
The tall ruddy-faced man, who appeared to be the leader of the group, stared at the irate girl in amazement. ‘What’s that you says, wench? We’se done nothin’ to ’ee.’ The soft vowels of the Cotswold hills made his voice restful to listen to.
‘It’s all right, master,’ Jethro intervened. ‘The poor girl took you for French soldiers.’
‘Whaaat? French? . . . We ’uns?’ The men began to laugh.
‘God bless you, wench. Iffen my old ’ooman ’eard you acallin’ we ’uns French, her ’ud have your guts for garters, so her ’ud,’ the leader grinned broadly. ‘We’em Cotswold men we’uns be, and proud on it too.’
Unabashed, the girl kept up the attack. ‘Then why must you goo round dressed so outlandish, then?’
‘Toimes be hard, wench, and bread costs high, as you well knows I shouldn’t wonder. Theer’s no work to be had in our villages. We’uns goes around dancing and earning a few coppers to fill the babbies’ bellies back home.’
Refusing to be mollified, the girl re-arranged her mobcap on her disordered hair and flounced away, calling angrily over her shoulder, ‘You oughter be ’shamed! Grown men gooin’ about dressed loike ’eathen savages. It’s wicked, so it is. Wicked!’
Shaking his head, the Morris man turned to Jethro. ‘How far be it to the next town, marster?’
For all their gay finery of ribbons and bells, the Morris men looked tired and drawn. Their bodies lean and underfed and their faces deeply etched with the lines of long years of hard toil and constant want. Jethro regarded them sympathetically. He knew only too well the grinding hardship and terrible poverty that were found inside the picturesque honey-coloured cottages of the Cotswolds’ farming villages and hamlets.
‘It’s a little above a mile,’ he answered. ‘If you wish my friend and I will show you the shortest way there.’
‘My thanks marster, that’ud be civil on you.’
Side by side they walked on.
‘I lead the lads ’ere. We calls a bunch o’ dancers a “side” and the one who leads ’um, like meself, be called the “squire”,’ the man told Jethro in reply to his questions. ‘We’uns bin on the roads for nigh on three months. We’em heading home now, so we con spend the Yuletide wi’ our kin.’
They passed by rows of cottages from whose interiors sounded the clicketing of hand-driven looms, and their progress brought hordes of sickly-looking weavers and their families out from their damp unwholesome dens.
‘What be thee?’ men shouted.
‘Dancers,’
the squire bawled back. ‘Come to gi’ you’uns a show.’
Immediately the work was abandoned and the people swarmed after the troupe. The town itself was a close-knit, unhealthy jumble of red brick and timber-framed wattle and daub houses, some of the latter having their upper stories built jutting far out over the malodorous Stour river which, replete with dead cats, sewage and assorted offal and rubbish, ran through the town. The rapidly increasing procession of excited shouting men, women, children and yapping stray dogs crossed a hump-backed stone bridge and came to the triangular junction of streets called the Bullring.
Abutting on to the narrowest egress of the cobbled triangle was the ancient greystone Guildhall, under which was the town gaol, and standing on the steps of the hall was a resplendent figure. His name was Henry Perrins and he was the bellman or crier of the town and also the head gaoler. A florid-faced burly man dressed in blue coat and breeches, white stockings and a black bicorn hat, the whole set off by huge red and gold epaulets and facings resembling an exotic naval officer. He watched the arrival of the Morris men with great interest. The squire glanced about him and decided that the Bullring was an ideal spot.
‘Right ho, lads,’ he shouted. ‘Let’s gi’ ’um a turn.’
The bellman heard the words and came down the steps, but instead of joining the eager crowds of spectators he turned left around the corner of the building and went hurrying up the crooked gabled High Street towards the Lion coaching inn which stood at the very end of the street. Its ornate four-pillared entrance had a large statue of a lion astride it, growling silently at the Guildhall.
In the room above the inn’s entrance, a group of men were engaged in heated dispute. There were six of them, all seated around a circular table. Three were army officers and the others prosperously dressed civilians, muffled in costly greatcoats, their low-crowned beaver hats crammed down on heavy bucolic heads. The spokesman of the civilians, high bailiff John Best, brought his hand sharply on to the table. ‘And I tells you gentlemen, that we cannot fulfil the ballot yet . . . maybe next month . . .?’