the marquis's memory 17

 

Chapter 17

 

Sarey’s pained and indignant squeal startled Pip out of sleep, and she ran to the window in time to see a disgruntled sow, with a line of red across her back, sulking at the edge of the road, as the visiting vicar’s curricle leaped and fumbled its way down the dirt track.

Pip whirled into Effie’s room.

“That nasty little man with face fungus claiming to be a vicar has whipped Sarey in order to drive down the road!” she fulminated. “I wager he’s no such thing as a man of the cloth and is a smuggler!”

Effie sat up in bed.

“Oh, Philippa, don’t go trying to catch him at it, smugglers can be rough men,” she said. “How do you know it was him?”

“There’s a whip mark on her which made her squeal, and he was driving down the road. I won’t try to tackle him, but I’ll tell Geoffrey about it,” said Pip. “And I’m going to take some salve down for Sarey.”

“Yes, indeed, poor Sarey!” said Effie.

Pip pulled on a gown over her nightgown, and stockings with sturdy boots, and took the salve out to the sow. Sarey grunted in relief as Pip slathered on the comfrey and honey mixture.

She could not but wonder why the Reverend Matthew Marks was driving with intemperate haste to the foreshore at dawn, and doubted strongly that it was a smuggling matter, since the tide was going out at this moment, and most run goods were brought in on high tide, or during the flow, not during the ebb.  He would doubtless return this way, so it was as well for Sarey to return to her sty, where her youngsters were yelling for their turn at the buttery-bar. Pip secured Sarey in the sty with the expedient of wedging the gate with the wheelbarrow, which would, at least, delay the sow’s bid for freedom. The piglings would be large enough soon to get over their low wall, and it was time they were weaned and sold on.  Pip could not have said why she lurked by the high hedge in front of Sarey’s sty, but she heard the sound of hoofs and wheels, and peered through the hedge. The wretched vicar had Geoffrey in his gig, but Geoffrey who appeared to be unconscious, with blood on his head.

The gig could not go very fast up the lane, and as it passed the open way to the cottage, Pip darted out and leaped onto the back of the vehicle.

The supposed vicar swore as the curricle lurched somewhat.

“Damned potholes!” he added. “At least that bloody hog has gone,” he muttered. “I hope it bloody well dies.”

Well, that would be a nice law suit against him, thought Pip. 

She wondered where he was taking Geoffrey, and how came Geoffrey to be unconscious; and somehow she doubted that the supposed Rev. Marks had found the marquis injured and was taking him to the doctor.

 

James had found his mission quite easy.  He had found Geoffrey painting, and though the marquis had looked up, wondering if the vicar had come to join him in sketching, before realising that the vicar had a nasty looking cosh, which was descending too fast for him to do much about it before his world exploded in pain and went black.

As it happened, Geoffrey had moved just enough to prevent James from accidentally murdering him, and instead of crushing Geoffrey’s temple, James merely dented the front of his skull a little.

 

As the curricle did not turn down the road towards the Goodings residence, Pip was confirmed in her surmise that the spurious vicar had most likely caused the wounding of the marquis, and was not attempting to mitigate it.  And he was heading for the main road, such as it was, which ran from Shotley Point to Ipswich.  As he turned left, he was heading for Shotley, and Pip was much puzzled. However, it was hard enough for her to hang on, without falling off, which would be painful once James was able to pick up the speed on the wider road. Pip gritted her teeth, and clung on, glad that at least there was a place for a tiger or footman. The curricle, not as well sprung as better models, shook with the poor road, and bucked like a wild horse as it hit potholes and ruts.[1]

 

It took almost an hour, travelling what Pip knew was a little over six miles, and she endured it, grimly. The road petered out before a line of huts, little more than sheds, virtually onto the shingle of the shore, where the boats were stored out of season, and fishing nets, and so on. They were run-down, and seemed little used.

Pip dropped off the back of the curricle as it slowed, and dived into the ditch at the side of the road, such as it was.

James got out of the curricle and led the unwilling horse over gravel to the first hut, which he opened, and with some difficulty, manhandled Geoffrey inside. Pip ran over, whilst he was still making noises in the gravel, to lurk at the back of the hut.

There was the sound of a slap.

“Wake up, marquis,” said James. There was another slap.

Geoffrey was not conscious enough to make a sound.

“You little bastard!” cried James. “You have to tell me what you are doing here, if you are seeing any female, who it is, how the fuck can I impersonate you to the yokels before I go back to London if I don’t know what you’re up to? You cunt!  Well, I’m going to tie you up, and I’ll be back tonight. I have to be seen in Little Haddock or whatever the stupid place is called.  I can’t kill Endicott until I’ve sucked you dry and killed you, you little shit, and every day I keep you hidden is a risk! Wake up!” the sound of another slap, and the slumping slithering crunch of a body sliding to the floor. 

Apparently, the false clergyman did as he had threatened, in tying Geoffrey up, as he grunted a lot and appeared to be expending effort. Pip dodged round the hut as he came out, keeping it between him and her. She wondered if she could knock him out with a stone, but she was not too sure of her own ability in that, and rescuing Geoffrey was her main aim.

Pip waited until the false clergyman had driven off, before darting into the hut. There was no boat in it, as they were left above high tide, on the beach, but the beams were hung with nets and cordage, and Geoffrey had been strung up by the wrists, between two beams. He was groaning, faintly, as if the ill-treatment had finally started to wake him from unconsciousness.

“Hell,” said Pip. She fished the ointment she had used on Sarey out of her dress pocket, and smeared some on Geoffrey’s head; it was good ointment for man or beast, and should aid his recovery.  She had no knife on her, but there was a fish knife, for gutting fish, which she might use to cut him down, if she might only find some way to reach his extended wrists. Pip gave a sob of frustration.

Searching through the other huts, feverishly and trying not to panic, Pip came upon a barrel, which she somehow managed to roll back to Geoffrey. Standing on it, she cut the rope tying him up, sawing back and forth with the knife until the ropes gave.

One side gave, and Geoffrey gave a cry as all his weight fell on one arm.

Pip growled, and put his loose arm over her shoulder, taking some of his weight, as she sawed on the rope the other side.

It gave suddenly, and Geoffrey’s weight knocked Pip off her barrel, and she fell, heavily, banging her own head, and giving her shoulder a painful knock.

“Hell’s bells!” swore Pip, using a curse her Da was wont to use.

Geoffrey had collapsed into a heap.

Pip got up, noted that her dress was torn, and that she had cut her leg on a nail somewhere. She plied the comfrey ointment. The honey was supposed to kill evil miasmas or animacules or whatever caused disease. It must be well on into the morning, now, farmers would be up and feeding and milking animals. How on earth was she going to get an unconscious man back over six miles of rough road without transport?

Pip looked out of the hut to see if anyone was about.

The place was deserted.

But then, what if the people here were in the pay of that nasty little man? She dared not ask for help.

Out at sea, there were several Royal Navy ships.

And a lot of good they were out there; if she had, and could read, signal flags, she could ask for aid, but she did not have any flags, nor did she know the code, not being naval. Naval! She did not even have….

She had a number of boats to choose from. It would be stealing, but Geoffrey would surely pay anyone who was out of pocket.

She was also thirsty and hungry, and had no food or water. What an ill-planned rescue!  But some fishermen kept water in their boats, in case of emergency. She went and rifled through them all, and found two canteens in boxes in the sterns of the two largest boats, a flask of brandy, and a rather elderly cheese sandwich. She checked it for mould, found none, and devoured it.

She had eaten worse, living hand-to-mouth as the boy, Pip.

She could not manage one of the bigger boats; but there was a rowboat she could handle.

She rolled Geoffrey onto a piece of sailcloth, and dragged him over the shingle and mud to the rowing boat. Somehow, she got him rolled inside it, and used an oar from one of the other boats, jammed under the seat, to hold up the sailcloth, to keep the sun off Geoffrey. It was not yet high, but it already bid fair to become hot. She took another swig of water, remembering Gaffer Keeble’s admonition, water does best inside you, not eked out. While it’s inside, it’s making you fitter to row somewhere there might be more.

The river was a long way away.

Pip suppressed a whimper. Her banged shoulder hurt.

Doggedly she made a harness around her waist and over her shoulders, and tied the painter to it, and set off, over shingle and then over the slippery mudstone, slick with mud, water, and seaweed. She fell, banging her knees more than once, and her pretty lemon and grey print dress became more grey from the clinging mud, and green from the smearing seaweed. Her stockings were saturated, and so was her dress below the thighs. Her feet squelched in her brogues. But slowly, painfully, she gained the water. The tide was still going out, and she did not want to row against the tide. However, if she was at the waterline, she could push off and be carried out to hail the naval vessels, if need be; and so she sat in the row boat, having taken off her brogues and stockings, to dry them, and waited. The tide would turn, and assist her rowing upriver. It was just on slack water; and Pip considered setting off, but decided that another hour’s rest would do her no harm.

She checked Geoffrey.

His eyes flickered open, and he tried to sit up.

“Stay put,” said Pip. “I’m working on rescuing you, but it isn’t going to be easy, so please, if you’re going to shoot the cat, let me know so I can catch it in the bailer and put it overboard.”

Geoffrey managed a pained chuckle.

“My Pip… my little Pipet,” he murmured. Pip glowed. It was the local name for the peewit or lapwing.

“Yes, but it’ll be a long-haul home,” said Pip. “Oh, and here comes the tide; remember, yell if you’re going to be sick.”

“I am,” said Geoffrey, dragging himself to the side, and vomiting over the gunwale.

Pip passed him a canteen of water.

“It’s stale and not very nice, but it’s what we have,” she said. “Rinse your mouth before drinking.”

Geoffrey nodded, winced, and did so.

“That dirty little brute! He hit me on the head,” he said.

“He was trying to bring your round to torture information out of you, about what you were doing in the Haddingtons, and if you had a lady friend,” said Pip. “I heard him say he needed to know, in order to take your place.”

“James!” spat Geoffrey. “I knew he made me think of someone.  It’s James James, my mother’s favourite footman, who likes to play at looking like me, the little beast. I never liked him. How the devil does he think he can take my place? He doesn’t even know how to be a gentleman, never mind a marquis. I wonder if this is his idea, or my mother’s?”

“I don’t know, but if it’s your mother’s, I expect he’ll have other people to help him and plenty of money to flash about,” said Pip, worried. “But there’s no point worrying. There’s a pile of nets there, which is softer than nothing, if a bit fishy; try to get some sleep.”

“Sensible advice,” agreed Geoffrey. “Thank goodness he missed my temple.”

 

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[1] It hadn’t noticeably improved last time I was out that way