Chapter 3: Huckleberry Wine

October came, and a meeting of the elders was held. Jonathan attended it ex officio and because his task was to enforce the decisions of the elders. At first, the discussion revolved mainly around the prospects of the colony. Then, the local issues came up. Here, Wainwright stood.

“Brothers, now that proper order is restored in the colony, we must move decisively against the pagans and heretics. All Hallows’ Eve is coming up, and we must be prepared to strike against the ungodly mummery. I move that we send a force of riders and search the woods around Cork most thoroughly. Somewhere, those mummers will assemble for the pagan rites, and we’ll catch them and punish them.”

All eyes turned to Jonathan, who shook his head. He did not want a repeat of last year’s fiasco.

“The folks around Cork have very few horses, and the paths around the village have low branches hanging across them. Sending our riders, no matter how many, will avail us naught. Those mummers will just vanish among the trees and shrubs as soon as they hear our horses’ hoofbeat.”

“Are you saying we should let them practice their godless rites with impunity?” Wainwright asked snidely.

“No, Brother, but to chase them in vain, and to return empty-handed and with wounded men, will only encourage them further.”

Most elders nodded gravely.

“What do you plan then, Brother Hereward?” Linnes asked. He was a little concerned, for everything they did would involve his own son.

“We’ve no knowledge of where to look for them. Last year I was hurt, so I was unable to search the woods. This year though, I plan to take the Constable and a few men out on All Saints Day. We’ll search the woods for signs of those rites and dances. There’ll be remnants of the bonfire to discover, and the tracks from the night before. That way, we shall know where to look next year and catch them more easily.”

“So you’ll do nothing this year?”

“Nothing can be done this year, Brother Wainwright,” Jonathan returned. “That is, nothing promising. Last year we lost a horse. ‘Twas my uncle’s, and he never charged the Shire for it, but other men may think differently when their mounts get hurt whilst riding in a posse.”

Jonathan noticed that this struck a chord with most Elders. Only Wainwright remained obstinate.

“Those who fear for their worldly goods when fighting the evil are not good Christians.”

“People need their horses for tilling the land and feeding their families,” Jonathan answered calmly. “Are you willing to supply the mounts for the posse?”

Wainwright glared back at him, angry at being shown up.

“You’re only trying to protect those Irish churls. You’ve been spending too much time with them. Mayhap you...”

“Brother Wainwright!” Elder Linnes interrupted him sharply. “Brother Hereward does not deserve such suspicion. He’s served the Shire honestly and true. I, for my part, agree with his plan. It may take longer, but it has a good chance of success and less chance of further misadventure.”

The majority of the Elders voiced their accord with Linnes, leaving Wainwright to sit silently for the remainder of the meeting and casting angry glances at Jonathan. When the meeting closed, he left wordlessly.

Over the next week, Jonathan busied himself around the sawmill, preparing the water wheel for the winter and the having the saw blades oiled against the rust. Whilst Winter was a time for logging, the sawmill would be inactive after the creek that drove the mill would freeze over.

He was there, on October 20, when Jamie Dougall found him.

“Sheriff, you must come quickly, for your uncle is dying!” he fairly shouted.

Quickly, Jonathan mounted his trusty mare and arrived at his uncle’s house shortly after. He found his uncle lying in his bed and breathing heavily and with much effort.

“I’m here, Uncle,” Jonathan said, kneeling at the bedside and taking the older man’s hand.

With barely seeing eyes, Franklin Hereward regarded his nephew.

“I ... want ... pray!” he whispered. “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done, in earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day...”

The whispered prayer stopped. Jonathan looked at his uncle’s face. The eyes were still open, but the mouth was slack and unmoving. Quickly, Jonathan laid his ear to the old man’s chest, but he could hear no heartbeat. With a deep sigh, he gently closed his uncle’s eyes. He felt the presence of others but did not turn.

“Lord, into thy hands I commend his soul and ask for Your Mercy, for we are all sinners,” he said, just like he’d done when his own father passed away six years earlier.

“Amen,” the other men in the room chorused.

Jonathan turned and saw several men in the room. The Elders Linnes and Foxworth were among them.

“We grieve with you, Jonathan Hereward, for our trusted friend and brother. May he find the Lord’s forgiveness and peace!” Linnes said gravely.

“I shall have a grave dug in the churchyard,” Foxworth added. “Tomorrow, we shall lay our brother to rest.”

Jonathan nodded. “I shall arrange for everything. This is very sudden, but you are right about tomorrow. I thank you for your support, Brothers.”

“The time will come for us all, Brother,” Linnes replied with a deep sigh.

Franklin Hereward had left a written Last Will in which he bequeathed his earthly possessions to his sole kin and heir, Jonathan. Thus, Jonathan received all the visitors who came to pay their respects that afternoon, thanking them for their sympathy and inviting them to share a repast on the next morning after the funeral.

When the flow of visitors ebbed, he assembled the servants and labourers. There were four of them in the house and another six indentured labourers working at the sawmill. Only the foreman there was a free man and working for pay. He also had Nelly join them. Once they were all assembled, he went over their contracts. Two of the labourers and Jamie Dougall, the stable hand, were two years away from the ends of their contracts, but the others, including Nelly, had longer to go still. He told them to continue their work, but to expect a premium of twenty Spanish dollars each for when their contract would end, enough for them to have a start into their freedom. Nelly and the other girl servant, Anne, would receive dowry chests at the end of their service, three and four years hence. This was against the usual practice, in which indentured labourers were given only pittances when their service ended, and it was Nelly who thanked Jonathan in their names.

Despite his habit of spanking young lads’ behinds, Franklin Hereward had been a better master than many, always providing good food and housing for those in his employ, and the sawmill labourers volunteered to prepare a coffin for their dead master.

Once Jonathan had dismissed his servants, a horse-drawn wagon stopped in front of Franklin’s house, carrying the Crawforde family. Michael Crawforde was the first to offer his sympathy, followed by Bridget and Molly. It was the latter who surprised Jonathan most.

“I share in your sorrow, Jonathan Hereward,” she said sincerely, pressing his hand for emphasis. “May you get over your loss soon.”

Looking up at him, she looked so lovely that Jonathan almost lost his wit. It was in this moment that he realised that he was now free to court whichever young maid he wanted. He must have stared at her for a brief moment, for he saw the trace of a smile in her eyes.

“Forgive my staring, Sister Crawforde,” he said in a low voice. “I was in deep thought there.”

“I could see that you were, Brother Hereward, and I bear you no ill will,” Molly answered nicely, letting go of his hand and stepping back to her mother’s side.

“I only wish your uncle had consented to have me visit,” Bridget sighed. “We knew of his illness and worried, but he would not have me look after him.”

“That will never happen with me, Sister Crawforde, for I know well your healing art,” Jonathan replied. “I thank you for your kind words and for coming.”

The Crawfordes left then, promising to attend the funeral on the next morning, and Jonathan returned to his own lodgings over the armoury. Nelly had prepared a supper for him after which he went to sleep. There was much for him to think about, but he was tired enough to sleep through the night.

The funeral was a solemn affair. Almost the entire town of Taunton was in presence when Jonathan and five of the sawmill workers shouldered the simple coffin made of planed pinewood and carried it along through the town centre and to the churchyard. A grave pit had been dug as promised by the Elder Foxworth and, using ropes, the coffin was lowered into it. Prayers were offered then and a hymn was sung whilst the coffin bearers shovelled the soil back into the pit. When they were finished, a simple cross with the name Franklin Hereward and the years 1628 and 1689 burnt into the wood was planted at the head end of the grave.

One by one, first the elders, then the yeomen, the merchants, the craftsmen and lastly the labourers offered their sympathy to Jonathan who thanked each of them and invited them to share a repast in what was his house now. Elias Wainwright showed too, but his tone of voice belied his offer of sympathy. Jonathan offered the same invitation to Wainwright as to all the others, but Wainwright declined brusquely.

Jonathan had not spared expenses, and the food offered to the townspeople was plenty. There was thin ale, but also herbal teas for drink, and the good people of Taunton ate and drank their fill ere the bell sounded the second hour of the afternoon. A number of neighbour women offered their help to clear the tables afterwards, and by mid-afternoon, Jonathan Hereward was alone by himself in his inherited house.

Ten days later, Jonathan was sitting in front of the fireplace, a slate in front of him, and making notes of the things he’d have to do in the next days, when a knock on the front door sounded.

There stood Matthew Linnes, the constable.

“Sheriff Hereward, may I speak to you?”

“Of course, Constable. Come in,” Jonathan said, piqued by the worried expression on Linnes’s face.

“It’s like this, Sheriff. One of my friends came to me seeing that I am the Constable of the Shire. He was worried because some of the young men tried to make him join a posse tonight.”

“What posse?” Jonathan asked.

“Young men mostly, Cornelius Wainwright’s friends. My friend said they plan to ride to Cork tonight to catch the mummers that are likely out tonight. The Elder Wainwright has even given them muskets.”

“How many are they?”

“My friend does not know, Sheriff. Mayhap seven or eight, not more than ten.”

Jonathan shrugged. “There isn’t much that we can do. They’ll be as difficult to find as the mummers in yon woods. Let them waste a good night’s sleep if they want.”

He really did not care at this point. Only after Linnes left, Jonathan had a bad thought. He remembered the ugly words the young Wainwright had hurled at Molly Crawforde. He knew that Molly was chomping on the bit, having to play the perfect daughter to Michael Crawforde. What if she decided to go down to Cork and spend the night in their stupid mummery? If the young Wainwright got hold of her, this could end badly. With a sigh, he called for Jamie Dougall and had him saddle Hattie.

In the faint light of dusk, he reached Crawforde’s farm. Tying Hattie to a post, he worked the big knocker on the front door of the farmhouse. There was a commotion within, and then Crawforde opened the door, a blunderbuss in his right hand.

“Oh, it’s you, Sheriff,” he said. “How can I help you at this hour?”

“Brother Crawforde, is your daughter at home? I must speak to her.”

“What has she done now?” Crawforde sighed.

“Nothing, I hope,” Jonathan replied. “It’s ... I received word that some of the younger men with young Wainwright as their instigator are heading for Cork to hunt mummers. I am worried that your daughter might want to...”

“Oh, of course. Let me fetch her.”

He left Jonathan at the door and climbed a stairs to the upper floor, but he returned in short time.

“She’s gone! I cannot believe it! She’s going to be caught!”

Jonathan took a deep breath, but before he could think properly, his mouth began to speak.

“Brother, what is the path to Cork from your farm?”

“Behind the barn, and over the creek. Why?”

“How long can she have gone?”

“We finished supper less than an hour ago.”

“Then I’ll catch up with her. It there any danger on the path?”

“You’ll have to watch some low branches, but the path is well trodden and easy to make out. Should I come with you?”

“Nay, Brother. Let me rush now, for you’d need to catch and saddle a horse first,” Jonathan said, turning to leave.

There in his path stood Bridget.

“Please, bring my daughter back, stupid and headstrong as she is. She’ll get a tanning she won’t ever forget, but don’t let them catch her and brand her!”

“You’ve saved my leg, Bridget Crawforde, and I’ll do your bidding,” Jonathan replied.

“Wait!” Crawforde called. He rushed to the back of the house and returned a moment later with a burning horn lantern and three fresh lights.

“You’ll need this soon,” he said. “God speed, Brother!”

Jonathan rushed out of the house. A few moments moments later he had mounted Hattie. Past the barn he saw the narrow bridge and crossed the creek. After the bridge, he found the path and set out in an easy trot. The path was covered in fallen leaves, and Hattie’s hoofbeat was greatly muffled.

He had followed the path for a while when he thought he saw a shadow ahead. The shadow was gone a moment later, but Jonathan knew he had seen it. He rode on until he reached the spot where he’d seen it.

“Molly Crawforde, come out! It’s Jonathan Hereward. I came to warn you!”

The voice came from nowhere. “Of what?”

“There are riders on the way to Cork. They mean to catch the mummers and drag them before the council for punishment. Cornelius Wainwright is leading them, so I came to warn you.”

Molly stepped into the small circle of light cast by the own lantern.

“Why would you care, Jonathan Hereward? I’m but a bastard girl to you.”

“I never called you that, Molly, and I shan’t start calling you that now or ever. Now come home with me. Your mother is worried.”

“She knows?” Molly groaned. “How?”

“I ... I came to warn you, but they couldn’t find you in your room.”

“Well done, Sheriff! Now I’ll get my behind switched again. It’s always because of you!”

“Will you come if I promise to protect you?”

“You don’t know my mother. There’ll be no stopping her. Besides, I must warn my friends now!”

“Molly, be reasonable. Those youngsters have horses. You cannot outrun them.”

“You have a horse!”

“I do, but I need it to go back.”

She took a deep breath. “Jonathan Hereward, I beg you to ride to Cork with me. If they catch my friends, they’ll be caned and branded! For what? For wearing masks and dancing? Is that justice? Is it fair?”

“They’re flouting our laws, Molly.”

“So am I! If you don’t help me, I’ll go alone, and if I get caught, it’ll be on your head!”

“What if I don’t let you go?”

“Ha! You’ll never get me in these woods! Please!”

Jonathan was undecided, and that made him vulnerable to her pleas.

“Where are your friends anyway?”

“There’s small clearing made by the colliers, towards Taunton, close to where the creek joins the river, but a few hundred paces up the creek. It’s great. There are lots of old fireplaces anyway.”

“Markus Inglewood is a collier, and his son Lukas runs with the young Wainwright,” Jonathan threw in. “Mayhap, that’s why they band together tonight. They may know where you get together for this foolery.”

“Can we go to warn them? Please?”

“Can you get up behind me?” Jonathan asked, but she was already gripping his left arm. He gave her a strong lift, and she clambered to sit behind him. Her arms closed around his middle as he gently nudged Hattie into a fast walk. There would be no trot with Molly sitting behind him he knew.

Still, they progressed quickly along the path. A few times, Molly whispered warnings, and they bent over Hattie’s neck to avoid low hanging branches. Jonathan had lost his feeling for time and it seemed like an hour or more until they saw a flicker of light through the dense stands of conifers.

“We’re getting close!” Molly whispered from behind. “We had better dismount, or they may find your Hattie’s hoof prints around the clearing.”

Now that was good thinking, Jonathan admitted. He made Hattie stop and let Molly slide down before he dismounted himself. With Molly’s help, he found a good hiding spot for his precious mount and tied her to a tree branch.

Before they set out, however, Jonathan made Molly hold the horn lantern and renewed the priming charges in his pistol.

“I shan’t shoot at your friends, but Wainwright’s band has muskets,” he whispered.

He became stock-still when Molly put her hand on his arm.

“I trust you,” she whispered.

Then, led by Molly, they walked along the path towards the flickering light. Getting closer, they could see that it was indeed a sizeable bonfire around which there were shadows moving. Those shadows proved to be dancing figures, and the closer they got, the better Jonathan saw that the figures were wearing crude masks or had heavily painted faces. Somebody was playing a lusty tune on a hurdy-gurdy, with a shawm adding to it, and the people dancing around the bonfire were quite caught up in their dancing.

Getting closer, Jonathan also saw that spirited drink must be involved in the fun, for some of the dancers stopped to drink from skins lying in readiness.

“What are they drinking?” he whispered to Molly.

“Huckleberry wine,” Molly answered. “Mayhap with some other things mixed in.”

He could hear mirth in her words.

“Like mushrooms and such?” he asked therefore.

“Mayhap,” she giggled.

They were getting close now, and Jonathan was taken aback when he saw that Molly pulled a wooden mask from under her skirt and put it over her face.

“Better stay back, Jonathan,” she whispered.

With quick strides, she entered the circle of light around the bonfire and stepped close to the shawm and hurdy-gurdy players. The music stopped and the dancers came to a halt, looking for the reason.

“There’s a posse out again this year!” Molly could be heard. “They’re not from the Sheriff. They’re armed with muskets, and they mean hurt! I came to warn you. It’s serious. It’s not like last year. There is nobody decent leading them. They’re out for their own jollies!”

Jonathan could hear some muttered curses, but the folks started to pick up their belongings, including the wine skins.

“Leave those!” Molly commanded sharply, and when they did, she opened each skin to pour something into them from a flask.

“What’s that?” somebody asked.

“A bit of a surprise for Cornelius Wainwright,” Molly laughed.

She was barely finished, when somebody shouted “Riders!”, and a second later, the clearing emptied. Molly came running for Jonathan, but now the first horseman broke through the tree line and galloped after her. Seeing her flee, Jonathan picked up a fallen branch from the forest floor and stood ready. She ran past him, not even seeing him in her flight. The horseman also never saw him, but the tree branch Jonathan swung cleanly lifted him out of the saddle and he crashed on the ground.