Blown Off Course (14 page)

The further they went, the more inhabited and fertile the land seemed: now the country through which they were walking was high rolling downland
– valleys and hills of verdant grass, tilled fields, the smoking chimneys of numerous dwellings, which meant people to be avoided. There were trees aplenty, but they were woods or small copses, not forest, and rarely of a size; added to that, the route they followed was dissected by many rutted tracks, while if there were milepost signs, they were to this trio unreadable unless they said London, which none did.

Two days of bad weather wore them down. Footsore now, with chafed and aching legs, dripping water off their outer clothing they looked and felt a sorry sight and Michael suggested an early stop as soon as they could find a suitable place. They ended up being halted by a fast-running, clear stream with no real idea of which direction in which to proceed, upriver or down, and while there was shallow water close to the bank it might be too deep to wade in the middle. There the trio spent a miserable night: after so much rain the lighting of a fire was out of the question, for even under the tree cover the leaf mould and any wood they could gather was soaking wet.

The morning brought a break in the weather, a hint of sunshine but little joy, given the trees were still dripping, while the middle of the river was covered in a fine mist. The provisions provided for them had nearly run out; what bread was left was green with mould, the little amount of portable soup could not be heated and also, they looked like what they were, fugitives: unshaven, their clothing stained, and given the course of the stream and the place where the sun rose, a bridge to cross whichever way they travelled.

‘We should rest here for the day and seek to stock up on some fish.’

‘Are we like to eat anything we catch raw?’ Rufus moaned.

‘It won’t kill you,’ the Irishman insisted. ‘Many is the time on my travels I had found the need to eat uncooked fish.’

Charlie had his objections too. ‘Can’t see how you going to catch any without a line.’

‘Then for a thief, sure, you’re a poor specimen, Charlie,’ Michael replied, beginning to remove his shoes. ‘These are skills no city fellow will know, so watch as I teach you to tickle them out of the water.’

The stockings followed, to be put away in his shoes. Next he rolled up his trews and his sleeves, waded gently from the edge, over the stones, until the water was near his knees and then stood looking for what seemed an age, the pair on the bank watching him. After a while Michael leant over and gently lowered his hands, wide apart at first, then slowly coming together under the water, a position he held for what seemed an eternity. Finally he stood up, in his hands a fine-looking trout, its shiny body flecked with brown, which did not flap as a caught fish might, but seemed content with the finger being rubbed back and forth across its belly.

‘As fine an example of tickling as I have witnessed and enough to see you before the beak at the next Assizes.’

Michael was frozen in place, Charlie had turned his head slowly; only Rufus reacted with jerky fear to the
voice, but it was not long before they were all staring at the muzzle of a double-barrelled fowling piece, this in the hands of a leather-clad fellow of ruddy complexion and square build, standing with his high-booted legs set apart. Obviously out hunting, he had come upon them silently, able to get close because of the damp leaves that carpeted the floor of the woods to their rear. Across his breast he wore a powder horn, and on one shoulder he had a satchel with which to carry his kills, while at his side were two dogs of the bird-fetching kind, with dappled brown and white coats, big brown eyes, lolling tongues and soft mouths.

Charlie began to move his hand towards Michael’s ditty bag, which contained the pistols, which, even without powder or balls, might pose a counter-threat. ‘Stay still, you!’ There was no doubting who the hunter meant and Charlie withdrew his hand as the muzzle moved towards Michael. ‘Drop the fish.’

That was a command not obeyed. Michael lowered the trout slowly back into the stream and watched it as it swam lazily away. ‘You would see a man had up for a creature he has not eaten?’

‘Poaching is poaching, man, as you know well, and this stretch of water is on my land, as is this wood. Come ashore.’

‘One fish?’

‘You will be telling me you would have stopped at one, which I would choose not to believe. Now move, but with care.’

Michael came out of the water with the same ginger steps he had used to get in, his mind trying to work out
if he could, once on firmer ground, get to that muzzle before the fellow could fire it off. A gun of the sort he was carrying, and he being out with his dogs, would be loaded with pellets meant to down a bird, not of the kind to easily kill a man. Maybe it was his look that made it seem as if the landowner read his mind. The muzzle jerked again.

‘Don’t think I will not use this and you, big fellow, will be the first to feel it. Your throat would be the best place to aim, for there is enough weight in each barrel to make a mortal wound on such soft flesh.’

The message was plain, just as the voice was steady and lacking in tremor. Michael knew he was too far off to get to him before the trigger could be pulled. Indeed, looking into the fellow’s steady eyes he suspected he would not panic, for there was no indication he was the sort to get flustered. No, he would hold off until Michael got really close, and then do as he promised at point-blank range, take out his throat.

‘We are going downstream and you will walk ahead of me, so you two sitting, get up slowly.’

‘My shoes?’ Michael asked.

‘Can stay where they are, which will take away from you the temptation to run. I detect, by your voice, you are Irish, so know this: you will be first in a line of three. Who brings up the rear I care not, but whoever it is will have my weapon close to their very head, which I will take the top off if any tricks are tried, like seeking to escape. The same holds true if any of you seek to reach into a pocket, where I think you might have a weapon.’

‘We ain’t,’ Charlie lied.

‘Allow that I don’t believe you.’

‘Our dunnage?’ Charlie said, reaching down.

The word produced a frown on that ruddy face, as if it were unfamiliar, but all three could see understanding dawn, that being a sailor’s expression. ‘Leave it be. You will have no need of it where you are going.’

‘Happen we should take our footwear off too?’ asked Rufus.

That brought forth a humourless laugh. ‘So you can chuck one at my head, boy? I might be a farmer but I am not a fool. Stay shod and move.’

There was little choice but to comply, there being one barrel each for Michael and probably Charlie, while this hunter had the build to take on and deal with Rufus. These were odds he had probably calculated before he spoke and he clearly had no doubts that help from another source was not required. The muzzle waved again and Michael started off downstream, on a path that was full of the tangle of undergrowth. He could feel the prick of nettles on his bare legs and more than once a bramble caught and scratched his flesh. Before long the wood ended to show an open, rolling meadow, which, as soon as it was reached had the dogs barking and running off.

‘Down the hill after them,’ their captor commanded. ‘You will see the smoke from my chimney; head for that.’

Rufus was at the rear praying the other two did nothing stupid and Charlie got as close to Michael as
he could, whispering at the Irishman’s broad back, ‘We must get out of this, Michael, you most of all.’

The reply was just as soft. ‘I will see to him if I can get close, but I doubt he is fool enough to let me.’

‘Should have loaded those pistols and had them ready to use.’

‘Too late now, Charlie.’

‘Is that you plotting up ahead?’ the fellow called. ‘Well know this, I have been a soldier and I fought for my king in the Americas, so I have seen the wiles of better men than you, and note this especially, that my aim is true.’

The house they were heading for had several chimneys, not just the one, even more windows, was well built and painted a buff colour, all of which told the three captured Pelicans that the man was not of poor stock. From the elevation provided by the hill they could see barns too, more than one of wood and another
stone-built
, while all around were grazing cattle and ploughed fields. They came to a stile and he saw them over it before commanding them to kneel with their hands between their knees while he crossed himself, breaking the barrels so that he could do so without the risk of setting off his gun, underlining what he had just said to them about wiles. The weapon snapped shut again as soon as he was over and on both feet.

Once past a pen of grunting and snuffling pigs and a duck pond, they came to the house and the cackling geese that guarded it at night. There was a well in the middle of a gravelled area, while around
and on the walls were pots and sconces of flowers, and the dogs, having run to their home, were lolling in the doorway; the whole looked idyllic and the smell of wood smoke finished off the impression of a place of rural bliss. They were on the gravel, close to the wall of the well, when their captor spoke again, this time a shout.

‘Mrs Pointer, I require you to come to my aid and fetch some rope from the barn, for I have caught three villains trying to poach our fish.’ Before they heard the feet of the man’s wife on that same gravel they were ordered to kneel, wincing as the stones dug into their flesh.

‘Mr Pointer,’ the female voice rasped, ‘are you mad to apprehend three men on your own?’

‘Three boobies more like and I am telling you they are better sport than pigeons.’

Michael had been looking at the stones under his knees, seeking to shift, for with his trews still rolled up it was more painful to him than his companions, but he looked up to place the voice and when he did his jaw dropped, for before him was a woman as broad in the hip as her spouse, with a face he knew well.

‘Rosie!’

Her head came forward as she peered into his unshaven face. ‘Michael, is it you?’

‘God be praised, it is indeed.’

‘You know this man?’ Mr Pointer demanded.

‘She knows me too,’ said Charlie.

‘Mrs Pointer, my question?’ her husband asked, his
ruddy face now bright red and his eyes near popping out of his head: he was clearly not pleased. ‘Do you know these villains?’

He was irate, but ample Rosie had never been a shrinking violet and she had a pair of arms to match her other attributes, while in her previous existence she had never struggled to chastise anyone who she thought took a liberty with her. If her husband’s eyes blazed, so did her own and her voice, when she replied, held not the slightest trace of apology.

‘I do, sir.’

‘I demand to know how.’

‘Demand, Mr Pointer?’ Rosie bellowed, loud enough to have the dogs scurrying away, tails between their legs. ‘You can withdraw your demand, sir, for you do not have the right to make it.’

‘I am your husband, madam.’

‘Michael, Charlie,’ she cried, ‘get off your knees, you too, boy, for I do not know your name.’

‘Rufus Dommet,’ was the soft reply, though it was questionable if it was heard over the farmer’s shout.

‘Stay kneeling, damn you, or I’ll shoot you down.’

‘You will do no such thing, sir!’ Rosie moved then, to stand between the Pelicans and her husband, cutting him off from their view, which only underlined her ample dimensions. ‘Put away that weapon, Mr Pointer, for you do not require it.’

‘They were stealing my trout.’

‘
Our
trout, husband, and I for one would not see them troubled for it.’

‘I demand you explain.’

‘Which I shall when you deal with your temper.’

‘My temper is justified, for I suspect these three to be sailors run from the navy.’

‘It is not as simple, as you will discover. These are pressed men and I was present when the foul deed was done.’

‘That is not a licence to poach in my river.’

They could not hear what Rosie said then, she moved close to her husband and dropped her voice, but it was not too difficult to work out what it would be, with Michael having the sudden thought that if Rosie was too open the danger might not decrease, he having lain with her many times. Whatever words she used it did the trick, for they heard the sound of the barrels breaking once more on the fowling piece, which had them standing up, for it was not a move they were inclined to make while it was ready to fire. Rosie turned round to find all three rubbing their pained knees.

‘What, in the name of the Lord Almighty, brings you to my door?’

‘Sure, Rosie,’ Michael said, with that big grin she knew so well. ‘It has to be that very same deity, bless his grace, the one my two companions so mistrust. But by all that’s holy you’re a long way from the Pelican.’

She grinned then. ‘Further than you think, Michael O’Hagan.’

They could see her husband again now, and if her explanation had seen him take away the threat of his
weapon, it had done nothing to erase the fury on his face, which creased even more when Rosie indicated they should enter his house.

‘No daughters,’ whispered Rufus to Michael, ‘but I’ll take a wager there is cider.’

Rufus was right, but if there was refreshing drink and proper food, taken at a fine board in a comfortable kitchen, there was also an atmosphere that could be cut with a blunt knife – Mr Pointer was not a happy man and it was obvious, as he listened to Rosie talk with the Pelicans, he was also cocking an ear for the slightest hint of anything that went beyond friendship. Neither Michael nor Charlie could ask if he knew about his wife’s previous life – that was a jar of worms best left well corked – and at the same time they had to ensure that Rufus, in his innocence, did not let slip anything untoward.

‘It’s good to see you so happy, Rosie.’

Michael wanted to say he had sought her out not a week past but dare not. He looked around the
well-appointed
room, with a huge hearth big enough to roast an ox and from which they had earlier been treated to some thick vegetable soup. The bread they were eating was fresh that day, the remains of the stew they were eating was gently bubbling in a suspended pot above the glowing logs. Copper pans hung on hooks from the thick, low oak beams, blackened but good-quality implements for cooking surrounded the fireplace, while through an open door he could see a parlour with fine furniture and an invisible clock that chimed the quarter hour.