The Path of the Hawk

By Jeff Townsend

The hawk was Cole Hawkins Indian totem, his naming clan. He always looked for them as he rode. Their presence brought him peace and the promise of prosperity. Coles journey begins when he is a young man. His travels take him from the battlefields of Waterloo, to England, and then, ultimately, to the foreign plains of America.

He begins his American adventure in New York but eventually finds his way to the Missouri and Mississippi rivers, following the course of the hawks that fly above. He meets many people over the course of his travels. The Native Americans seem welcoming and kind, but Cole is surprised to find whites suspicious and strange. Then again, people come in all sorts.

Cole is forced to grow up fast. He makes friends, meets women, and seeks his fortune in a new land. He is a brave adventurer, searching for a future in early nineteenth century America. He is not alone. There are many others who travel the same path. Through it all, Cole never forgets his namesake hawks that watch his every step from the sky.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Oct 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781452525464

Jeff Townsend

Jeff Townsend currently resides in Casino, Australia.

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 Jeff Townsend.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press

A Division of Hay House

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.balboapress.com.au

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4525-2545-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-2546-4 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 08/27/2014

CONTENTS

Part One

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

Part Two

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

Part Three

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

Part Four

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

Part Five

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

Part Six

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

Part Seven

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Part Eight

1

2

3

4

5

Part Nine

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

‘To all the characters that embellished my life,

From books and comics and narratives told,

From radio, record, television and movies,

That has enriched my life both in ways obvious and not so;

consciously and unconsciously.

Now at last my characters get to live with you.’

Jeff

Dedication

‘For my family…..

Robyn;

Nat, Lisa and Henry;

Tahnee, Paul, Gabrielle and Eedie….’

‘We should learn from our enemies, we see them at their darkest and in them, see it in ourselves’.

Carl Jung

‘When I bestride him I soar, I am a hawk.’

William Shakespeare, Henry V

Act 111, scene 7, line 14

PART ONE

He didn’t realize he was following the path of the hawk for a long time. The fact that they had such a path, a track in the sky had not occurred to him nor had it crossed his mind that the hawk above was indeed the same one he had noticed before. It stood to reason. He had been told in the past that they do indeed come from the north, travel large distances from far away shores like he. And the more he thought about that path, how it stops momentarily and completes some circle before returning to a point and continuing, it was a bird that made sense and not too unlike he at all. Was it just the inquisitive nature of the bird that led it west or just the known route of food and water to sustain them like he had chosen?

The wide-open spaces do that to man, indulge him in philosophical thoughts, the mind meanderings. As far as his eye could see and it was becoming more trained ‘to see’ the previously unnoticeable, was nature at glory, no doubt traversed many a time before he but relatively untouched by human hand. Someone he met once called it the ‘splendiferous infinitum naturale’. The term stuck with him like so many bits and pieces of information he couldn’t explain.

It was a long way from the English countryside, London and the cities of the east, a lifetime already and yet his years were still young. Some things just force you to grow up quickly.

1

The ground was already a mass of bodies. Step up! the sergeant called. No one moved but you could hear the swallow of dry throats next to you. Step up men! he bellowed. The sultriness of the June 18th afternoon was made worse by the billowing clouds of smoke that wreathed as far as he could see, capturing all the stain and sweat of collective man. Red brick uniforms lay in all manner of death moments but not as many as the blue of the French Infantry on the slope of Mont St. Jean. The sergeant grabbed one man by the uniform and was about to yell his order again but two men stepped forward. Robert Porter and Henry Cole had just looked at one another briefly, no more than a glance and both knew what had to be done. The sergeant stopped what he was doing and looked at the men, his face blackened from his carbine. He just nodded perceptibly as the two took up their positions. Others followed suit and soon they were ready.

Ney’s infantry assault had failed. The 19 000 men that came towards them so grandly, to the rolling drums and the voices of "Veil-lons au salut de l’Empire’ were a beaten army. The dense columns advanced like a sea down the sodden slopes and farmhouses of La Haye Sainte. Robert couldn’t understand it. No cavalry, the French artillery silent, who were these people to advance into all these guns like this?

I’ve pissed myself, Henry said to him, his more educated clip almost deserting him on this occasion.

I think I’ve shit meself, Robert replied.

Well let’s make the laundry detail worth it shall we?

Such a brigade of fire then was unleashed by Lt. Gen. Sir Thomas Picton’s division was awesome and deafening, tearing huge holes in the advancement. On its ceasefire, the cavalry of Maj. Gen. Ponsonby Union Brigade had no reservation about joining the fray. Confusion followed and whole French battalions broke and ran.

The British cavalry intoxicated with the thrill of battle and the running French charged after them right into the batteries of French guns and French cavalry. Then the counter began the onslaught. It was rain of the worst storm, round shot falling on men all around. One man fell next to Robert, his head half gone, another fell in front, and his neck a bloodied mess. It was enough to demoralize many an army but not on this day. It was only a matter of time, of holding on. The Prussians would soon be here. And then the orders came to square off. Twenty squares formed in time to receive the order, Prepare to receive cavalry!

Each square boasted four ranks, the first two with fixed bayonets. Maj. Gen. Count Edouard Jean Baptiste Milhaud’s 1V Cavalry Corps cuirassiers came with their strong chargers through the rye fields, wielding heavy swords. Their reputation had preceded them with victories against the Russians and Prussians. With a victory over Ponsonby’s troops the calls went out, Les Anglais sont fait pour! But yell as they might, the advance of over a mile, uphill over sodden ground took its toll on both men and horses. Their right flank lost men from marksmen placed in the ridge top fortified farm houses, firing at the horses as well as men for they knew that the heavy breast plates they wore, shot bounced off them in the past. Cannon round shot plowed lanes of fallen like a wave over 5 000 men, shredding men and maiming horses. Shrapnel burst overhead, splintering into its hundreds of deadly bursts upon them, slowed the pace of the charge to barely a trot as the squares waited and waited.

Not yet men! Hold steady! Sweat poured off Robert, dripping over the stock of his musket, his hands wet and clammy around the trigger.

Vive l’ Empereur! Closer and closer they came. The first volley of fire was devastating. It seemed like half the enemy dropped. But still they came to only ten yards away before wheeling away, content to attack the corners of the squares. A horse broke its way into the square before Robert and Henry stood. Its hooves kicked and trampled held bayonets in its flesh holding it at bay. The carbine the French rider fired claimed another redcoat as did his French X 111 Cuirassier sabre that ran through the man to the side. Finally a British musket shot brought the rider down, the brave bloodied horse falling with him. Suddenly the men all turned away, retiring, en passant.

Robert and Henry fixed their bayonets as the second wave launched itself at them. Lancers! someone said just above a whisper. They hit with the intensity of a huge wave upon a rock, men and steed charging into the square assembly formation. A lance impaled the man beside Robert, his own musket fire bringing down the man who filled his sights near point blank. Another lance flew over Robert’s head, the attacker propelling himself like a spear. He had no idea what transpired with Henry, he was too busy with self-preservation. Suddenly a hand tugged at him, dragging him to the side as another horse that had broken through from the side charged to escape his redcoat corral.

Thanks boyo! Robert said from his position atop his friend. He pushed himself up with his hands and then wondered why his friend was not following him up. He could see another charger coming this way and quickly his hand grasped the musket before him and he held it out in protection. He turned his body just enough for the lance’s thrust to miss his body, yet it cut and rip through his coat and slashed him across his side below his ribs. His bayonet however was more successful, finding a spot under the Frenchman’s breastplate, the man seemingly running into Robert’s weapon rather by any of Robert’s skill. The impact jolted the man and backwards from his horse he fell. Robert looked around for any other immediate danger but the attackers had fled their square, the Hussars and Light Dragoons of Maj. Gen. Sir Colquhoun Grant’s brigade and the Carabineers of the Netherlands dashing forward to take on the foe. He glanced at his friend who still hadn’t moved when he heard a groan. It was the Frenchman. Robert knelt to him. Me tuer s’il vous plait! Then in English, Kill me please! The man couldn’t get up from the ground. Merci bon ami! The Frenchman used his last energies to remove his breastplate. Coeur! He thumped his heart. Pour un Francais!

Robert rammed the bayonet into the Frenchman as he called Adieu Nanette Momet! As he turned he saw his sergeant was watching. Many of the men had broken ranks and charged after the retreating Frenchmen. Robert turned and bent to the ground where Henry Cole lay. He rolled him over, the side underneath red with blood. There was no pulse but Robert already knew that from the eyes, the face. His hand went inside to the wad of letters, now blood soaked on one side and holed and burnt where he had placed them next to his heart. Robert took them and stood up. Much of them were useless but there was enough of one to later give him the address and the name of the girl he spoke so much of. His friend then just one of the men who covered the killing ground, bodies that lay in various positions, mutilated in every conceivable way. Tormented horses kicked and rolled trying to regain their feet, with pleading neighs. Cuirassiers lay on the ground like turned turtles, armour weighing them down with their heavy boots. Some redcoats moved amongst them, already starting to strip the dead of their valuable, of mementos. Gunshots rang randomly as guns were put to the head of men and horses. Ney’s attack had failed. The battle of Waterloo was still not over but you could sense the tide had turned.

2

Wiltshire is a province of Canterbury, the diocese of Salisbury to the far west of London. North and west was Gloucestershire, to the west Somersetshire and Dorset shire and to the east, Hampshire. It is the county of things mythical in proportion, Sarnum, Stonehenge, The White Lion, King Arthur, and Merlin is said to be buried near, the place of early Saxon hunting grounds and forests and where Alfred fought the Danes. The village of Chippenham was said to be a gift, bequeathed from King Alfred to his daughter Elfrida. It was also where Robert found himself with a slip of paper in his hand and of the address of one Mary Hawkins on a cold Christmas day.

3

The beauty of the girl that answered the door even nonplussed Robert. I’m sorry, she said, We have no vacancies. We are full over Christmas.

Yes! I see, he said, referring to the sign that hung from the boarding house, It’s not that……Mary? The girl eyed him curiously.

Mary Hawkins? Are you she?

I am. And what business may that be of you?

I’m….

You’re Robert, she said, Yes! You’re Robert.

I am! I knew …..

Henry Cole off course.

Yes! he said, his hands clutching his hat.

Who is it dear? a voice called out almost melodic.

A friend of Henry Cole. From Waterloo. A beaming friendly face appeared behind Mary, obvious to see where some of her beauty had come from at least. Well bring him in dear. Don’t let him stand there and catch his death. Bring him in.

I’m just passing through and thought I’d pay my regards for Henry.

Well you’ll pay them in here young man. We can’t have a fine soldier boy passing by without at least a cup of tea and our heartfelt thanks. Come in. Mary! Make the boy feel welcome. Make the tea.

He sat on a chair, fireside. Its warmth started to ease the feeling of weariness around the bones.

Take your coat? Mary asked. Robert slipped it off and for the first time Mary noticed the scarring on the side of the head and the neck.

Look at you, Mary’s mother said, Skin and bones.

Army cooking, Robert said in defense.

And they say it marches on its stomach. You won’t be leaving her until there’s some broth and homemade scones inside you.

But….

No buts my man.

It’s Christmas!

All the more reason to be charitable isn’t it? A cup of warm tea was soon placed in his hands.

So you came straight here?

No not really! I took Henry’s belongings to his parents.

That would have been an interesting meeting.

Yes!

Oh! A diplomat as well.

So what reception did Sir Henry and Lady Cole gives you? Bet you didn’t score a cup of tea there!

Mother let up on the poor man, Mary said, Forgive her! She gets a little…

Yes? What dear?

Lovable! I was going to say lovable.

They were strange to say the least. Perhaps strange is not the word. Aloof! Distant!

That’s them to a tee, her mother continued, Sometimes I think that young Henry was born to the wrong side of the blanket in that household.

Mother!

All right! I’m going.

Good, Mary said playfully.

And of course you’ll stay for dinner? It was a statement not a question.

I can’t…..

Course you can. It’ll be too late to travel on anyhow soon and I won’t have you sleeping in a cold empty room this Christmas night….

Please I want to be no trouble.

The only trouble there will be if you decide to leave here young man.

Mother!

All right! I’m going. Excuse me, dinner to prepare.

Robert took a sip of tea and relaxed in the softness of the chair and the warmth of a roaring fire. But his eyes kept returning to Mary. The silence was a most serene peacefulness after the barrage.

I’m sorry for your loss. She looked up a little surprised.

Henry I mean.

Oh yes, she said, We had been close for years. Now tell me about yourself Robert Porter.

4

And you are from?

Herefordshire.

Then you’ve still a ways to go. You will stay here we insist, Mary said.

But you are full?

Not full enough to find a space for a friend. You can have my bed if need be…. Robert was quite stunned by this. I’ll be sleepin’ in Mother’s room on the couch.

No! No! I insist. The floor would do grandly thanks. After all that time in the Army even a floor is a welcome relief. And so Robert started to tell his story, one he had to repeat over dinner when Mary’s father returned from his work where he supervised stone and quarry cutters.

I met Henry just after I enlisted. They gave us a musket each and took us to a musketry range. He was crack shot. Said he used to go hunting a lot. I was pretty terrible to start with. He just sided up next to me and said Looks as if you’ll need someone to watch over you to keep your head from being blown off."

I just grinned at him and said Lousy I may be. But I can see the shot coming and I know when to duck so I keep my head.

Well I definitely need you then. Henry, he said in introduction, Henry Cole. And so a friendship developed. He shot so well they were going to shift him out to the sharp shooters and then he started missing them.

The targets! the officer barked at him.

Oh! Those wooden things. I was aiming at the turkeys in the bush. I told them how he talked about the Hawkins.

We were great friends, Mary’s mother interjected, We lived on their estate. Harold here was supervising the building of the castle and the family home; I was a governess, teaching young Henry. Mary and he were such great mates!

So what happened to you….at Waterloo?

After Henry died, the battle, I had no will to fight. Oh I marched with them, advanced and shot and did what was required but the scale of death that followed the charge I was quite ill.

And you were wounded young man? Harold asked.

A lance to the side where I am scarred, a shrapnel shot from French artillery some time after Henry died. It struck me here… he pointed to his head, And down here. He pulled the collar away from his neck.

And here it is December and you have only just arrived home?

My wounds weren’t as bad as many and then they found out that I, or that my father is a coachbuilder. There were so many damaged carriages, gun mountings that needed repair I was co-opted into the Engineers. I stayed on for a number of months fixing, repairing……They were dubious of the Prussians still. I think they thought they may try to take revenge upon the French and rape the country side. Wellington kept vigil upon them and wanted as many cannon and transport wagons available as he could get. And now here I am!

So are you heading back to Herefordshire did you say? To your father’s business?

To Herefordshire yes, to see the family. But my parents now have a Coach station…..36 stables, coaches and he repairs what he can for the locals.

Well then what is it for you? Mary asked.

Honestly I don’t know. I was offered a position in a gun powder shot mill but I want nothing to do with war or anything like that.

Well whatever you do I’m sure it’ll be for the best. Now who’s for dessert? Mother asked.

5

As was the way, the gentlemen retired to a drawing room, the women toiling on the dinner’s aftermath. Care for a brandy?

No thanks Sir if you don’t mind? Robert answered Harold.

Not at all. All the more for me hey? Not a drinker?

Only the once Sir.

Please call me Harold. Keep your Sirs for the Coles.

All right Si…. Harold.

Even Harry, it matters not. The drink?

Only imbibed the once. After that day at Waterloo. Sarge…Sergeant Grummond appeared with what he called the countryside’s finest. Maybe it was. It hardly was the palette of experience.

And?

The more I drank to forget, the more I remembered, the more I was sick, during and the day after so I bit the bullet so to speak. Harold held the glass all the time in readiness before a quietly spoken Quite so! He held the glass aloft. Here’s to memories best forgotten The glass emptied into his lips and ahhhed a sigh of satisfaction.

A brandy! My nightly piece of joy, he said, The navy has their rum but we Wiltshire men Robert, and the Moonrakers have our brandy. You’ve heard the term have you?

Aye!

"Happened not far from here you know. Smugglers bringing in illicit contraband brandy are alerted that the Excise men are neigh. Panic? Did they not? No siree! We ain’t so stupid. Dump it all into the pond and when the Excise men arrive they asked what they were doing? Standing there they were, rakes in hand, running them through the water.

Why raking the cheese? they say and point to the moon’s reflection upon the pond. The officials just shook their head and went away thinking what fools they were. Beats prison. Here’s to the Moonrakers my boy. We ain’t so stupid."

Robert woke up wishing he could take the warmth of the fire with him and the girl, whose magnificent brown eyes sparkled so with life, could lie with him. That Henry would have been indeed a lucky man. After a hearty breakfast he said his good byes and wished all the best for Christmas and headed to the door, Mary behind him. As he opened the door Mary spoke, Thank you for seeing us, going out of your way.

It’s the least I could do for Henry. He was a good friend. I’ll never forget him.

Nor I, she said.

I meant to give you this. He handed her a lock of his Henry’s hair in a small pill box. I’m sorry I have not more to give of him, he spoke so much of you.

Thank you! This is more than enough.

The letters of yours he kept with him. There was a silent moment. The bullet, the blood…. they were not suitable….. He was almost in tears. She put her soft finger to his lips. No more Robert. Let’s just remember as he was, a full of life rascal.

That he was! A voice called from the front.

Are you Mister Porter?

I am.

The coach Sir! It’s about to depart.

Then I must go. It has been so nice to meet you Mary. My thanks…. The words were interrupted by a kiss softly on his lips. No my thanks. He seemed embarrassed for a moment before picking up his luggage. I got to go.

Yes you have.

Bye Mary!

Bye! she said, Call again if you’re down this way.

I will.

As he walked away a smile seemed to replace any sudden impact of coldness. I will. Indeed I will.

6

But he didn’t. The more he thought about the kiss, the way it happen the more he was convinced it was just a friendly goodbye, the way they did things in that household, that he was reading far too much into what had transpired. He got home in a day or so and greeted his parents and stayed for festive season, some rest and recuperation. He still had the possessions of the Frenchman, the lancer who died so gallantly at his hands. Robert did not want to leave his personal belongings to the looters, the officials who misplace things so readily and he clung to the leather pouch that held them. It took him a long time even to look at them, a woman who he just could not face and a young boy, he knew he had to do it for, to tell him of a brave father he knew who would come home no more.

7

At least once a day he thought of Mary and thought such an attractive girl would well be married by now to some Wiltshire lad, a fellow Moonraker. Why she must have had many a suitor knocking at her door, not to mention a lodger or two who must have swept her off her feet. He knew now he wouldn’t go there to see her but wondered if he would ever run into her by chance. He did, some three years later on the frozen expanse of the Thames.

In 1815 the Thames froze. Many blamed the current bridge structure that stopped the waters flow but there were as many theories it seemed as there were people who expressed one. Not to by pass the opportunity, a fair was held to celebrate and all the attractions set up around it. Robert just went for a walk more out of curiosity and to escape the lodgings’ overcrowding and stuffiness where he was staying. The London air was crisp and fresh and the open space seemed to allow its inhabitants the chance to take a deep breath for a moment. He heard a laugh first. It sounded vaguely familiar. He turned to see her, with a group of ladies, all of them rugged against the winter chill.

Mary? he said.

The bonnet held the same angelic face and brown eyes, her hair curlier than he remembered last time. Robert, she said, Robert Porter from Herefordshire.

Not of late, he said, How are you? She offered a cheek for him to kiss.

I’m fine! she said, the smile growing wider with delight. Then pray tell from where?

Here! London town by way of… He didn’t know whether he should mention it at all but it was too late now, By way of Amiens, France.

My goodness! You lucky duck! Just let me look at you.

And yourself, Mary from Wiltshire?

Not any more. A Londoner like you it seems.

My you have certainly filled out since that skinny soldier came to visit.

Was I that bad?

Not bad! Just unloved but now, there is a glow about you Robert. Who is the lucky woman?

No one…

I can’t believe that.

And you?

Alas no one.

Now that I cannot believe, Robert said emphasizing the no one, What are you doing here?

The fair?.

No London. And your parents? Where are they? Robert asked.

One thing at a time. Care to go and have tea or something Robert?

My pleasure, he said holding out the crook of his arm for her. She purposefully placed the gloved hand inside his. Bye girls! she called out, A tea calls. She waved with her free hand.

Now Mother and Harold are quite well though Father Dear is definitely slowing up and I….. Well I decided to taste the bright lights, away from home; Mother could well do with out me sooooo…..I came to stay with my Aunt, Mother’s sister. She has a lace factory and I, yes you are walking with a lace maker! I now have a trade and I’m pretty good at it if I do say so myself.

I bet you are.

And you?

A carpenter, builder of houses and at the moment learning how to build bridges….

So how did this all happen?

I guess when I was seconded to Engineers in France and then things just happened and I liked what I did and here I am.

And what of countryside France? Building bridges of friendship with our neighbours no doubt?

Something like that. Ahhh! Some tables and chairs. Care for a chair my lady?

Indeed! A gentleman to boot.

And that’s the way the whole thing started. In six months’ time, in the summer of 1816 they were married in Wiltshire. Ex-sergeant Grummond, now a brewer of Herefordshire was best man for the occasion. A year later a baby boy was born, Cole Henry Porter.

PART TWO

The leather cap lifted off the hawk’s head, a pull of leather lace doing the deed. It immediately left the thick glove perch if on command and flew swift and sure until it struck the other bird with awesome power. Downwards the struck bird, the prey plummeted until it thumped to the long lush grass. The dog by the side of the fellow waited patiently until its command and then snapped into action on cue and within seconds, the struck bird lay at the long boots of the hunter.

All and all! Very impressive….. thought Cole. His father tasseled his long fair hair, miss mother’s gift and then beckoned him to follow. Grummond stood to the side with his wife and his mother, Mary at another part of the fair ground. Cole liked the fair-grounds, its atmosphere and its colours and its vibrancy. To the side there were always goods for sale, treats. His mother stayed close to such stalls as she watched, for her goods for sale too, a number of quilts, patch-worked to a mix of colours and patterns that dazzled the eye.

He thought about the bird as he watched it while they walked. It had such power and strength and keenness of eye to match the sharpness of its talons. Yet it did not hunt without discipline, obedience to the one man. Such will he thought! And yet a sad thought for the lost freedom of such a bird struck him.

So what did you think of that laddie? Grummond asked as he approached.

It was interesting but I feel I would not like to be a hawk Sir?

Ohhh! And why’s that?

It is not free Sir. There’s a whole blue sky out there and yet it’s reduced to making circles, here that the owner wanted……..it like the slaves, isn’t it? The controller owns the bird’s spirit.

Grummond stole a wink to the boy’s father unknown to Cole. I guess he does laddie …. Or at least until he gets sick of it.

But then……….it won’t know any different, will it?

I guess not laddie. I guess not.

1

To say that 12 years passed without incident would be without truth. The three were blissfully happy in their London abode and the time that young Cole stayed a baby or a toddler did seem short; grandparents that the visited on alternate Christmas periods both commented on ‘the little boy with a mission’, ‘a man on the go’. But try as they might Robert and Mary failed to produce a sister or a brother. Mary blamed it on some curse of her Mother that seemed to have produced a sole child and that was all in a long line as far back as they could remember. So be it! was all Robert would say on the matter.

Cole grew up with a wealth of stories from the neighbours. One told of his time in the colonies, the penal settlement of New South Wales as a member of the rebellious Rum Corp and the ‘wretched blacks that ate snakes and lizards’ and dogs that jumped around on their hind legs. Another filled him with stories of the Red Indians of America with picture and comics to prove the excitement. Another told of his sea adventures of the ‘yellow men’ of the Orient and the ‘darkies’ burnt black from the sun’ in Africa, the ferocious cats and the sea serpents that inhabited the sea. But all that came to an end in 1824 when Roberts’s father was accidentally killed, a horse in a stable rearing, stumbling and pinning him to the ground. Robert and Mary decided to forgo the big city and headed to take over the Exchange Station in Herefordshire. Robert’s mother, Florissa lost all will to live despite doting on her grandson and in the winter of the next year, a quite severe one with pneumonia running rife, she too passed away, buried with her husband out under the oak tree behind the stables.

Robert had set about sprucing the place up and continued building rooms for lodging attached to the Coach station. There wasn’t much to this little siding, just the change station and the hotel, the Red Lion. It was more an area where once a week people would come to sell their livestock, and while that still happened and provided the hotel with handsome dividends, it was what the buildings cum village would be built upon.

As soon as the rooms at the Traveler’s rest were completed and Mary started the fare that made her Mother’s Boarding House famous, it was obvious that trade was being taken from the hotel across the road, many ducking across the road to eat rather than eat what the hotel offered. Coach travelers preferred Mary’s to the rowdiness of the hotel and the licensee’s were not known for their friendliness. Indeed their mean and grumpy demeanor was quite legendary.

2

Clayborne Barnett stood inside the upstairs window and watched Mary Porter hang out the washing as she did every fine Monday. He watched her bend, stretch and twist and turn and he rued the man that could have, hold and lay with such a creature. He looked for every swell of her breasts that were accentuated and rubbed himself. Life wasn’t fair to him. A biggish man of ruddy complexion, many suggested the hotel could have been called the Red Pig for it well described his slovenly rolly-polly appearance and the grunts he snorted periodically. The hotel had come to him through marriage, well more an arrangement really. Agnes Gertrude was a young bride and mother, albeit quite pretty he would concede. She was in her early twenties but when her first husband was convicted and transported a scoundrel. She divorced him or her parents did it for her and found a new husband for her in Claymore. He didn’t mind at first, enjoying the fruits of womanhood, wealth and drink until she shut down the first option, saying that such an act deviled her and she found it disgusting. So it was left to the occasional barmaid in the stables out the back or more recently to ponder what might be with the lovely Mary.

Mary having gone inside, he let the curtains fall back; until tomorrow, Tuesday when the rugs got a beating. Agnes watched him come down the stairs. She knew what his disgusting mind had been up to, and he didn’t fool her one bit.

Get the place swept out Clay! Ain’t time ’til opening? And there’s more drink to be bought up from the cellar! she snapped. And when that’s finished, Cyrus needs some help out in the yard and the stable fer something or other! Claymore just snarled and complied. Her day would come. If Claymore was the Red Pig, she was the Red Dragon, pundits and clientele would joke.

3

It was only matter of time until something snapped that a plan emerged and it did. It’s just that it had such dire consequences when it happened. It was the day after Sale Day. Many who had brought stock for sale chose to stay in and celebrate and catch up with the gossip, the Red Lion was always packed to the rafters and huge quantities of alcohol drunk the night before. Agnes hated it. The smell, the sloths everywhere. It was the day she chose to take the money into the bank and go and see her ageing mother. Days before, the prodigal son, Frederick had returned with more than the usual chips upon his shoulder. Claymore plied the youngster with more and more drink and whispered all manner of things into his drunken ear. Finally he agreed to a plan.

The plan was to go like this. They would hold up his mother, steal the money and shoot her, take the most distinctive horse with so that it would be easily identified as robbery evidence and hide it in Porter’s barn and accuse and prove it was Robert that did the foul deed, Cyrus as a reliable witness to the deed, then the proceeds of robbery to go to the hands of a local constabulary that drank freely at the Inn, produce a forged promissory note of the Exchange Station to Claymore and his son and well he could have the Red Lion.

4

Claymore was full of mirth on this day after the sale, his disposition said it all to one and sundry, his coffers had swelled handsomely overnight with the trade and he was to be rid of the Dragon for a day, sometimes two. This day he was more jovial than ever even after the tongue lashing he got from his wife when he told her of the horse he bought yesterday for her son.

‘That no good worthless Frederick Patrick is not worth spending a crumpet upon and you know it! God man what got it to that witless brain of yours!"

All he need is a start in life. I have something in mind.

Well that’s a worry in itself! Give him a start on his way. He is only a freeloader sponging on us for as long as we will stand it. Where he now? Bending the spine or the elbow no doubt.

In fact he knew he was bending something else, with Connie the bar help. He generously steered her his way as part of the butter process, Claymore forgoing the poke he savored as soon as Agnes said goodbye.

Claymore nodded acknowledging Constable Peter Parfitt eating a nice portion of ham and eggs. He too enjoyed the sale, the lodgings, meals and ample drink gratis. He had much to be pleased about too, his retirement coppers looking handsome particularly as Claymore promised a very sweet pot for looking the other way on this day. He knew not what was actually going to transpire but he was flexible enough for his coin always to land the right way up in situations.

Now have you got you’re security loaded Cyrus? Claymore asked. Cyrus patted his pistol upon his belt and then picked up the musket that lay at his feet of the carriage.

All right! All right! Agnes winced infuriated. She knew Cyrus was there at Claymore insistence more for concern over the takings she was going to bank rather than her own safety. She much would prefer to do this on her own, being more than capable of handling the docile old donkey of horses she had. And Cyrus, he stank and farted almost the whole way. Men! she thought, God! Why did He place them on this land? He created the misery of her life.

Everything in order! he said to Claymore with a wink and kicked the steeds into action. That on its way he barged into the room and pulled Frederick off Connie.

You! You know what to do. Horse is saddled out the back. This is your big day in your life boy. Connie get some covering over those tits and arse of yours. I need you behind the bar soon. I need to go and visit the Porters for a minute or two.

5

Well don’t dawdle man. I could walk faster than these excuses for horses are going.

Yes Mrs.

And don’t yes Mrs. Me. I don’t know what that excuse for a husband of mine sees in you Cyrus. You should have had the bullet years ago if I had my say. Just then a horseman galloped up from behind. Agnes grabbed a kerchief to cover her nose and mouth from any dust that may ensue.

Look at this madman, she gasped before the filter choked the breath. But the horseman pulled to a stop. A black sack of sorts covered his face, eyes seemingly straining to see from the holes cut in it.

Whoa there! A pistol was brandished, waving menacingly.

Stand easy! This is a hold up! Agnes dropped the covering from her face and looked hostilely at Cyrus. Don’t just sit there. Do something! Cyrus surprised her by jumping down from the driver’s seat and yelled, All right! Don’t shoot! Just take the money and go.

Are you mad? she screamed, He’ll get no part of my money!

Give it to him! He has a gun.

Over my dead body! She lent to pick up the reigns.

Well! Cyrus said, Shoot her.

What did you say? she spoke flabbergasted. The gun in the hand of the highwayman wavered nervously.

Shoot her! he repeated louder. It wasn’t going to happen. So Cyrus took out his gun and wheeled around and fired. She gasped before slumping over, Cyrus grabbing the reigns of the horse to stop them from bolting.

Mother! the boy cried, Is she dead? Cyrus walked up to her, the hole in the heart leaving no mistake.

Yep! Too late now for regrets. He walked over to the boy’s mount.

You know what to do. He stuffed some moneybags into the horse’s saddle bags and with that done, he slapped the horse’s rump and off it bolted.

Cyrus wasted no quarter with the whip as he lathered the horse’s backsides with whip as he headed back to the Red Lion. Claymore was outside the Porter’s place talking to them, describing how he would like to buy them out when the sulky thundered past. Cole had come up behind his mother and his father to interrupt. Father!

Not now Cole, his father said, We’ll be finished in a moment. Turning back he repeated his words. I’m sorry Barnett but the answers no. Both my wife and I are not interested in selling despite your generous offer. My own parents are buried on this property and we are doing quite well thank you. No if you’ll excuse us….

Murder! Murder! There’s been a vile murder. Cyrus pulled to a stop and a throng of people gathered out of the Inn. Most were getting ready to be on their way anyhow. Constable Parfitt joined them.

What’s happened here Cyrus? Claymore hurried over, Robert, Mary and Cole on his heels.

Robbery! A highwayman! Took everything! And he shot poor Agnes!

Is she dead? someone yelled.

Appears to be, the constable confirmed.

Claymore was over grabbing Agnes’s hand. Poor poor Agnes!

Who did this? a voice called. It was young Frederick Patrick.

A highway man! Looked a bit like Porter over there. The crowd turned collectively towards Robert, a hush falling over them.

Don’t be ridiculous, Claymore spoke up, I’ve just been talking to him. He hardly would do a hold up, ride back here and then talk to me as if nothing has happened. Surely not.

I saw the horse. I’m sure of it.

Where? the Constable asked.

Out the back of Porter’s place when I came past.

Nonsense, Robert said.

Oh this is ridiculous! Mary said, He has been here with me all the time.

A woman always sticks by her man, Frederick yelled.

"Well let’s go and see. If I’m mistaken I’ll admit to it but I’m sure it’s the same one.

Father, there is a horse out there, Cole whispered.

What? said Robert.

It was what I was trying to tell you? There’s a saddled horse out there standing near the stables.

Since when? Mary said walking with Robert holding his arm.

I only just saw it and came to tell you. Sorry!

Robert tussled the hair of Cole. It all right son. Just a stray that wandered on. Soon they were around the back of the Traveller’s Rest.

That’s it! Cyrus called excitedly as if vilified, That’s the one.

You sure? the constable asked.

Yep! The blaze and the sock on the left front. Positive it’s it.

It’s been ridden hard, Claymore added. Parfitt pulled out the money bags from the saddle.

Look to be the one used in the robbery, he said holding them up for all to see.

That’s our money bags. Agnes took them with her this morning.

What do you say to that Porter?

It’s a stray or something. Just wandered on here.

What tethered and all? Frederick called.

A stray loaded with money. Wish I could be so lucky, Cyrus added.

This is absolutely preposterous, Mary added a quiver in her voice as she could see what was happening, Robert has been here with me all morning. Why we have only just farewelled a lodger. A gentleman from Birmingham. He has only just left, up the road a mile or so. I’m sure if someone chases after him, he will verify that we have been here as if our word isn’t good enough after all this time.

Claymore could see his plan slipping away. He had seen the rider pass but thought naught of it, thinking him to be just someone passing through. He gave a slight nod to Cyrus, a signal.

I’m going inside to get the register, his name and address, come on Robert. This is all poppycock. Mary took him by the hand. Someone’s out after blood, that’s all this is.

He might be a Waterloo hero but that don’t make him a robber and murderer lady, Frederick called.

Ignore that Robert. Come with me, Mary whispered, as they turned to walk inside.

Look out! He’s going for a gun, Cyrus yelled. Cyrus raised the same murderous weapon that he did in Agnes with and aimed at Robert. Mary caught the action out of the corner of her eye and stopped. Nooooo! she yelled. Her body flung behind the back of Robert and as the gun discharged, she felt the thud into her back and down she dropped.

Mary! Robert screamed.

Mother! Cole yelled running to her. Both man and boy crouched over her as they watched the smile crease her face for the last time, a voice barely perceptible as the blood gurgled with the word, I love you two, you know that. And then as tears flooded to the eyes of Cole, Robert saw those beautiful brown eyes drain of the spark of life.

Claymore was annoyed. This was not the plan. This was the woman dying that he was to end up with at the end of all this. He grabbed a gun, his intention to blow the head off Cyrus. He had never known so much hate as he did that moment. Cyrus did not realize one bit. His smoking gun just dropped to the side, it was Robert Porter that was supposed to die not Mary. Poor woman never hurt anyone in her life.

As the eyelids of Mary closed and Robert hugged the body close to him he too felt the pent up anger and disgust for the man who did this. There was a French soldier who was lying there, his best friend dead and he was saying, Kill me please!

He sprang from his crouched position next to Mary and crossed the few yards towards Cyrus, his bare hands already around the neck and throttling him in his mind. Claymore had the gun leveled ready to do the deed on Cyrus when the barrel shifted towards the charging figure. He fired and Robert Porter collapsed. He looked at Claymore, dropped to his knees and then turned his head to his Mary and his son. His hands went out, palms up to the heavens. Small gains were made as his knees moved as his feet would have done until he reached the body of his beloved. Finally he fell, his hand reaching and clutching that of his wife.

6

Cole buried his mother and father that night, right on dusk. People had come and helped dig the holes next to where Robert’s parents lay and after a few prayers and words; they all drifted away, many to the Red Lion. The word of whispers was that Cyrus and Claymore were under a house detention until a hearing could be heard. But Cole after wiping away the tears had seen the way the law works. Undoubtedly after a few hits across the knuckles, Claymore and Cyrus would be free; to continue as if nothing had happened, as if this was for nothing.

Cole had grown years on that day. He had asked Charlie Newberry to watch over the place that he was going down to Mary’s parents place; he had to, to tell them what had happened to their daughter. He was sure that Richard, Robert’s younger brother would come and take over the Station, he being up in Edinburgh somewhere making gun carriages for the Army or Navy. He packed a little food and grabbed what money he could find and saddled a horse.

Maybe you should wait until the coach Master Porter?

Maybe I should. But I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight or until I do this. It is better I do this now, the sooner the better.

I understand, Charlie said, Go safely Master Cole. He waved and rode out into the early night.

Bit less than half a mile down the road he stopped and wheeled his horse to the left and came up behind the stables of the Red Lion. He didn’t know exactly what he was going to do but just knew he had to do something. There was a light on in the stables, a lamplight flickering. Heard too was the sound of someone working. Cole went up to the doorway. There was a stack of hay, a pitchfork nearby and the shadow upon the illuminated wall. Cole at first thought it was just the horses being fed but then he saw boots, a pair, toes up. He moved a little more for better angle, legs! This was a body. The silhouette was clearer now. It was man with a shovel. Cyrus? It looked like his shape.

Cole silently entered, maneuvering around until he could see the face of the figure lying on the ground. It was that Frederick, dead. His throat had been cut from ear to ear, blank eyes looking towards something on the ceiling in a death stare. Should he go to the police? No! It won’t bring back mother or father. His hand reached for the pitchfork and slowly he brought it back so that two hands could get a better hold. Cyrus stopped for a moment. A noise? Clay? Is that you?

Cole charged. The prongs of the fork caught Cyrus across the chest, obliquely from heart to lower right side; Cole drove as hard as his legs could push until Cyrus hit the wooden wall where he stopped with a jar. With a mighty shove Cole continued until the prongs had passed through the body and embedded into the wall. Finally he released his grip. That is for my mother! He was sure Cyrus heard it before he took his last breath.

Cole turned and picked up the gun that had killed his mother and waited. It was only a matter of time until someone came to see if the job was done and Cole was betting on Claymore. He wasn’t disappointed. He heard the size of man coming before he saw him. Cyrus! Cyrus! It was barely louder than a whisper. Cole wondered why he bothered. His footsteps alone and hard breathing telegraphed his coming.

Cyrus, he repeated, Aren’t you finished yet? The legs of Frederick told him he hadn’t. For God sake man! You should have kept him covered until…… And then he saw Cyrus.

Oh my God! Cole stepped out of the shadows and leveled the gun. Now kid! Don’t do anything foolish now. It wasn’t my fault. I….

The gun exploded. So did Claymore’s head. The shot had gone higher than Cole had aimed; it was the first time he had even held a gun. The body reeled backwards, a spray of bone, blood and tissue on the wall behind where Claymore’s head had been. That’s for my father! Cole said. He dropped the gun and slipped out into the night.

7

It took much longer to travel than Cole remembered when he, his mother and father had passed this way. In the deathly dark of night, looking over his shoulder, his first time out on the road on his own, detours for sound and light that may betray him, Cole gave up the wish of getting there by daybreak. He was sure he would have been seen leaving, though the revelers were having too good a time, enjoying the free drinks. Claymore’s gladness to be rid of the stone that hung about his neck dragging him down, the Inn now his loosened the money in his pockets along with his generosity. Besides he never knew which of these gentlemen present may indeed be called upon, in judgment to follow with the inquiry. And too, every loves a good wake.

There was a touch of red glow in the eastern sky when Cole pulled his mount aside and dismounted to rest both horse and his backside, unused to such rigger. He watched. If there were any sign of activity he would just move on, but something told him that this cottage was unoccupied. Perhaps the owner was one of the Red Lion inhabitants, away drinking. He would wait and see.

He woke up with a start some time later, the sun at full blaze and the sky a powder blue. He had fallen asleep and he admonished himself immediately. The horse’s reigns were still in his hand as it grazed on greenness about him, Cole’s head sore where it had rested against the tree trunk. He stood. There was still no sign of life about, smoke absent from the chimney. He was sure it was vacant. So checking as to no road traffic coming either way, he crossed it and entered the barn. The horse tethered, he surveyed all the angles of the property he couldn’t see from his posse before. At last satisfied he relaxed a little and looked about his newfound shelter. He found an egg, still quite warm from the hen’s nesting. Cradling it in his hands he tried to remember the last time he had eaten. Breakfast at home! It brought a tear but he stopped himself determined not to let himself get too emotional until he was safe somewhere. Fingers closed like a vice cracking the shell and he raised it to his mouth and let the slippery contents slid down his throat. It wasn’t as bad as he first imagined. Slipping outside to a horse trough he washed his hand and his face before returning to the softness of a haystack where he finished the sleep he started.

8

Cole was woken by the sounds of voices, a coach was having trouble on the road, the passengers having alighted and were stretching their legs and no doubt their bottoms from seated position. He watched through a crack in the timbers. Was it a problem with the coaching? He could probably fix it, or at least help. He had seen his father work many a time, assisting whenever he came with him. They were looking at part of the horses strapping. Perhaps it was nothing to do with the coach. The thought crossed him as to how easy it would be to go and buy a passage. This coach he reasoned would be the one to Holyhead or perhaps Chester. One could for one pound eleven pence get an inside seat or for fifteen shillings and sixpence, ride atop. He’d pictured doing it one day. How grand it would be? But alas not for a murderer.

It looked to be a mail coach from the bags at the back, they subsidized by the post office. This one wasn’t painted the usual colour though. The interlude took only half an hour or so before they piled back upon the coach and departed. He looked at the skies to the west and calculated how much time he had before the veil of darkness provided a cover for him. A sudden pang of thirst took him to the trough again and he swallowed the mouthful cup and returned to hay stack, rubbing the ear of his horse. Won’t be long boy!

Piccadilly, that’s where he would like to go. He loved that part of London when they lived there. The faces of the past and the stories they told came back to him. Yes that was in the back of his mind but there was only one person he trusted to guide him from here and that’s where he was going.

9

Cole easily recognized the shape of ‘Gunner’ Grummond amongst his workers. The smell of Juniper was in the air, so Father used to call it ‘Dutch courage but he had also heard the term ‘gin’ used to describe it. Cole wondered how one put up with it day after day. Barrels were being loaded onto a wagon. Grummond looked as if he was ready to go somewhere, a horse saddled in wait near by.

He was a big man, and although he could lift up such a barrel himself, he rarely did. Why do it? he said to his Father last visit, When I employ men for the same, we are not getting younger Robert! Cole guessed him forty or slightly more, a career military man who got his ‘Gunner’ not through the artillery but for his promises to the men below his rank. Do it soldier or I’m gunna kick your teeth out through your ass!

Cole left the horse and stepped out of the shadows he had been waiting in since predawn. Cole…me boy! How are ye? The surprise at the beginning ended in a sadness.

Fine Sir!

That’s me boy! His large hand landed on Cole’s head affectionately and then with a rub of the head, it lowered to patting the back.

I heard about your parent’s boy and I’m sorry to hear it so. They were good people. That father of yours…….he was a good man!

I know Sir! said Cole, a tear welling in the corner of his eye.

I heard what happened but didn’t believe some of it. You’d better tell me what happened. Come in! They stepped inside a building, a warehouse of sorts and Cole sat down on a crate. Wheat spirit, angelica, orris root, cardamom pods, orange and lemon peels, coriander seeds and juniper berries were all stored in various form and with an intoxicating mix of smells. Cole told what happened, the robbery, the death of his mother, his father.

Grummond held his head down. They deserved a finer end me boy and you…. to lose one parent but both….. And the law! It has its head so far up its own ass in this country sometimes.

That’s not all……. Grummond’s eyebrows rose anticipation. He had the feeling there was more or this boy would have made his way to Wiltshire.

I killed them Sir.

What?

I killed them both. He then told the second part of the story. When he had finished he added. "I can’t say I didn’t go there with revenge in my heart Sir.