Running Dogs

William Hunt

Description

Amidst the turmoil of the French Revolution, two very disparate men are forced by dire circumstance to flee along the roads of Ireland and England in order to evade the law of the land. By chance, they are thrown together and form an unlikely alliance. An alliance which brings work opportunities on a Gloucestershire estate. To their consternation, both men find themselves inextricably linked by their former misdemeanours to those who presently employ them.

Sujets

• Historical fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 30 août 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528957564
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Running Dogs
William Hunt
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-08-30
Running Dogs About the Author About the Book Copyright Information © Bad News Departure Birthday Reprisals Consequences Lords and Ladies On Windmill Hill Table Talk A Bad Business Time to Go Over the Water The Road West Sir, That Boy A Little Business Ill Met Blessed and Busy Summer Holiday The Mow Spalpeen Boy Inside the Fish Hut Courtesy Call August Moon Happy Returns Reprieved The Fair Scandal Charlie and Politics Mixed Messages Point Made Coursing Hares Poaching and Visitors I-Spy The Law of the Land Books & Banishment Home Truths Gloucester Calling Farewell and Adieu
About the Author
The author has lived his seventy years in Gloucester and has an abiding affection for the River Severn and the surrounding Gloucestershire countryside which he oft frequented as a lad and still does today. This sense of location and history along with past anecdotal country talk overheard in Severn-side country pubs gave the author inspiration to write such a story, which otherwise would not have been possible.
About the Book
Amidst the turmoil of the French Revolution, two very disparate men are forced by dire circumstance to flee along the roads of Ireland and England in order to evade the law of the land. By chance, they are thrown together and form an unlikely alliance. An alliance which brings work opportunities on a Gloucestershire estate. To their consternation, both men find themselves inextricably linked by their former misdemeanours to those who presently employ them.
Copyright Information ©
William Hunt (2019)
The right of William Hunt to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528957564 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Bad News
The black-hooded chaise with its two occupants aboard bowled and bounced along the rutted lanes of County Wexford Ireland on a bright sunny May morning in the year of 1791. It was an early start for these travellers, and the grass lay hung with globules of glistening dew.
In passing, the carriage wheels and the pony’s hoofs threw up a spray of droplets, leaving the underside of the carriage shiny and wet. Whilst from time to time, the overhanging hawthorn bushes brushed against the hood, scattering showers of white blossom over the occupants, (as confetti at a wedding)… to the great amusement of one, and much irritation of the other.
“Easy now, damn ye!”
So rebuked, the driver stopped smiling, and thereafter (by way of the trackside camber) took the chaise wide of any further overhangs. The driver himself was a fashionably smart young blood, sporting a wide-brimmed hat, sleeveless long waistcoat and moleskin breeches. He steadied the reins with leather gloves, and all the while gave voice to a tried and tested combination of clicks, whistles and soft exclamations of encouragement to the pony.
The passenger, an older man, cut a far more severe figure both in dress and countenance. He wore a long dark buttoned up coat, and over his lap a draped rug was laid. He stared out impassively under his battered tricorn hat… seemingly oblivious to the bonny springtime scene that presented itself that morning.
This then was the middleman – Squireen Colm McDavitt. A man far happier to be indoors, holed up in his converted parlour he called his ‘office’, wherein he poured over leather bound ledgers and balanced the books of the estate he managed.
But today, a pressing matter of estate business had arisen. And in order these affairs be brought to a speedy and satisfactory conclusion, Squireen McDavitt had uncommonly sallied forth to pay a visit to one of the estates tenant farmers – a certain Daniel Hughes.
After a mile or so, the flat meadowland gave way to rising ground. As the chaise gained elevation, the pony was brought to a slow trot in order to accommodate the climb. Now, the hedgerows lessoned and yellow flowering gorse shrubs became more frequently encountered along the wayside trail.
Abruptly, the chaise burst through the tree line and onto the open hillside. And as great a change as ever could be envisaged presented itself to the eyes of the beholder.
From this newly won vantage point, the travellers could see for miles – and a grand sight it was too. The driver appreciatively took in the Wexford countryside below before briefly glancing toward the northern skyline where the sun’s morning rays lit up the eastern face of the distant Blackstairs Mountains.
Up here on the hillside, the farmlands lay criss-crossed with a patchwork of small stone walled enclosures. They were built this way for good reason. On these exposed slopes, the crops needed shelter from the constant blow of the south-westerly winds.
And it was these self-same winds that occasionally swept in a much-feared cloudburst. Then such a deluge might sweep away the precious thin top soil. It made sense to those working the land here, to maintain small plots, and further trench out the perimeter walls, allowing rainwater an escape route.
But in truth, these farmsteads teetered on the margins of sustainability. Anywhere else and such a place would be seen as fit to graze sheep only.
But Ireland at this time bore an ever-growing number of souls. And with it… came forth a great land hunger.
Farm holdings put up for auction were fiercely contested. In the desperate scramble for land (any land at all) people bid recklessly. Prices soared with ruinous consequences for all – saving those (mostly absentee) landowners and their grafting managers.
Within Irish polite society, however, such economic states of affairs were referred to as a ‘seller’s market’. At dinner parties and social functions, whenever the discourse so moved to this particular topic (as it invariably did), Adam Smith and his remarkable book ‘The Wealth of Nations’ was often quoted as the fount of wisdom on these matters.
Among the convivial company, someone was always on hand to satisfactorily explain how ‘market forces’ (as described by Adam Smith) worked marvellously for the benefit of all…
But to those on the receiving end of this onerous mechanism, the whole business was contemptuously referred to as ‘rack renting’.
And that very morning, the implementation of ‘market forces’ was to be enacted out on a windblown hillside farm somewhere in County Wexford. With dire consequences for all concerned.
Now Squireen McDavitt became intent and jabbed his finger toward a number of dwellings set below the summit of the hill. The driver nodded, and with a gentle pull of the reins guided the pony off the main track and through a gap in a stone wall that lead on to their destination.
Distance lends enchantment to the view we’re told, and from afar the little hamlet appeared ‘picturesque’. But as the visitors drew nearer, an altogether meaner reality became apparent.
Several mud-walled cabins lay clustered together amidst tiny allotments housing pig-pens. Nearby stood the more sturdily built stone farmhouse. All the dwellings were windowless and thatched. The farmhouse alone was blessed with a solitary chimneystack.
Outside the farmhouse, a single figure could be seen humping turf clods from a mule cart and stacking them out to dry for later use as fuel. In those days fires burnt in the hearth all year round, (whether possessed of a chimney or not).
Alerted to the approaching company, the man ceased his labours and came to attention. It was the tenant farmer himself – Daniel Hughes.
The chaise shortly arrived and pulled up alongside the waiting farmer.
“Good morning to you Squireen McDavitt sir,” ventured the farmer with a brief salute of his forefinger. He was a robust looking man in his early forties, and his tone was respectful, if somewhat enquiring.
Squireen McDavitt ignored the salutation. Instead, he brusquely ordered his assistant to task, “I want a full inventory of all assets on this holding mind. Anything of value at all… Do ye hear me now?”
The assistant nodded, and deftly snatched a leather satchel from the chaise (containing: a ledger, quills and a bottle of ink) before setting off on his audit.
As Daniel Hughes watched and listened, his face fell.
“Why, what can the matter be, sir? What troubles are these?”
The lone farmer in his rough workaday linen shirt, patched-up leggings and worn-down boots (that looked fit to be thrown into the nearest bog) stood in stark contrast to the well-dressed young man who strode past him on urgent estate business that morning.
With a satisfied air, Squireen Mcdavitt gave quiet contemplation to the events he’d set in motion. Then (almost as an afterthought), the squireen remembered the patiently waiting tenant farmer.
As he turned and gazed down upon Daniel Hughes, a small fleecy cloud scudded across the sun, sending a fleeting shadow racing across the hillside and darkening the light of those souls underneath. It foretold the briefest of portents. Bad news was come to the farmstead.
Squireen McDavitt leant forward with an inquisitorial frown, “Daniel Hughes?”
“I am that man, sir.”
“Hmm… My books tell me ye took up this holding September last.”
Daniel Hughes nodded in the affirmative, “I did so mind, Mr McDavitt sir.”
Squireen McDavitt looked thoughtfully at him… Then…
“Now list here man. There’s back rent owed”.
“To be payin’ after the barley