Chapter 16: A Shaggy Dog Story

I had plenty of suggestions on how to spend my thirty-first birthday, which would also be the first anniversary of the death of my family. They included locking myself in a room and getting dead drunk; locking myself in a room with three or four whores and galloping them all senseless, before getting dead drunk, with myriad permutations on those two similar themes.
In fact my intention was to take a ride over the Mendip Hills, possibly with some bivouac equipment, and spend the day completely alone.
As things turned out I actually spent the day in a most convivial atmosphere, where I drank wisely, ate sensibly, listened to tall tales, and laughed uproariously – the first time in a year I had engaged in the last activity.

On the morning of twenty fourth of November I was sitting in my office in Bridgewater Town Hall, idly gazing out of the window and wondering if the weather was suitable for spending a day and a night on the Mendips, when Spelky Woods, driving the cart containing the regimental mascot Rambo the Ram, pulled up outside the building. Riding alongside the cart was Regimental Sergeant Major Goodman.
I went down into the forecourt to greet them.

“Good morning gentlemen. What brings you two here? Not that I am unhappy to see you.”
This was the truth; both Spelky Woods and Benjamin Goodman were sociable companions, and I had not enjoyed the pleasure of their company since moving from Taunton to Bridgewater.

“I have been contracted by a local landowner to have Rambo tup his Wiltshire Horn ewes – seems he wants a flock of sheep with long wool and curly horns.” Spelky Woods said.

“I hope Rambo will not be too exhausted after doing his duty. How many ewes are in the flock?”

“About forty; Rambo should be able to cover the lot in six days.” Spelky affectionately ruffled Rambo’s woolly head.

“And what brings you to the wilds of Bridgewater, Mister Goodman?”
I inquired, after the sergeant major had dismounted and tethered his horse.

Goodman looked a bit embarrassed. “I hope you will not take this amiss, Colonel. All the regiment knows what befell you this time last year, and that today is your birthday.”
He leaned over the side of Rambo’s cart and withdrew a beer cask.
“Sergeamt Shufflebottom told me you were partial to an ale called ‘Old Peculiar’ which is brewed in Marlow on Thames?”
I nodded, bemused by what was happening.
“Well, we made a collection, and arranged with the dragoon galloper from Bristol to have one of the bargee’s of the Bristol to London barge company buy a firkin of the ale from the brewery in Marlow. The cask was delivered yesterday, and is presented to you in recognition of what you have done for the regiment.”
He gave a broad smile. “It is a highly irregular action, probably against King’s Regulations, for the rank and file to buy their commanding officer a barrel of beer, but speaking as a soldier, with twenty years’ service with the First Foot Guards, I could not think of a more deserving case than you, Colonel. “
Mr. Goodman drew himself up to his impressive full height, and gave me an impeccable Guardsman salute. I was not wearing my shako so could not return the compliment, but held out my hand, which he shook with verve.

I confess I was mightily touched by the action of my men.

“I had intended spending my birthday alone, but after you taking the trouble to provide me with nine gallons of my favourite ale it would be churlish of me not to invite the two of you share the contents of the cask. You would be the representatives of the regiment, and of those goodly men who so kindly handed over their cash to buy me this magnificent gift.”
I gave Mr. Goodman a mock severe look. “This, I trust, was without menaces from the senior ranks?”

“I swear, on my mother’s grave, Colonel, all gave without any arm twisting, or other such action.” Spelky Woods piped up.
I happened to know Spelky’s mother was alive and well, but said nothing.

We spent the afternoon and evening drinking, eating, and talking, in my quarters at the Bridgewater Arms, a comfortable, well maintained, coaching hostelry on the Bristol Road.
It was after the three of us had supped about a gallon of ale each when I reminded Mr Goodman of something he said which had caught my attention when he first joined the regiment in Lincoln.

“You said you were the regimental sergeant major of the East Essex Militia when deployed to the town of Hartlepool, ‘where they hung the monkey’. What did you mean by that?”

“Exactly what I said, Colonel. The good burghers of Hartlepool, a port at the mouth of the River Tees on the North Sea, tried a monkey in a court of law, found said animal guilty as charged, and then sentenced the beast to death by hanging – duly carried out after the trial.”
As we sat and supped our ale, Goodman expanded on the tale.

Not long after Britain went to war with revolutionary France, a ship was wrecked off the coast of County Durham. Among the flotsam washed up on the foreshore of Hartlepool was a monkey, clinging to a spar. The animal was dressed in a pair of breeches and a tunic, and had probably been the pet of the ship’s captain. The inhabitants of Hartlepool had never seen a monkey before and, as it was dressed as a man, took the simian to be a human male. The monkey chattered in fright and fear as the Hartlepudlians poked it with sticks. One notable declared that the ‘man’ must be French. He had seen drawings in newspapers depicting Frenchmen, who were shown to be small, hairy, stunted, and weasel faced, akin to the ‘man’ now standing before them. Further proof, if needed, was the unintelligible, French, language the ‘man ‘was speaking. His companions nodded in agreement.
The unfortunate animal was taken before a magistrate, who concurred with their assumption, and charged the ‘man’ with being a French spy. A swift trial was followed by an equally rapid execution. As the monkey danced to its death on a rope the Hartlepudlians congratulated themselves on preserving the sanctity of England from the machinations of the dastardly French.
It was a visiting merchant, from the much more sophisticated town of Sunderland, who identified the ‘French spy’ as a monkey, and the news of the Hartlepudlians’ foolishness and ignorance soon spread throughout the county, and beyond.

“Well, I thought the men of Scunthorpe were stupid, but it appears Hartlepudlians surpass even them,” Spelky said, before emptying his tankard.

“I thought you hailed from Scunthorpe, Spelky?” I said.

“No Colonel, I was born in the town of Brigg. Which is ten miles, and three hundred years, away from Scunthorpe.”

“I suppose, if all you had heard of the French were they were stunted, sub-human beasts — so different to the fine upstanding men of England — and if the satirical cartoons of Gilray and Rowlandson in the newspapers were the only pictorial representations of a Frenchman you had seen, an isolated community could easily be persuaded a monkey was a Frenchman,” Mr Goodman mused, before pouring himself another a measure from the firkin. “I know the men of Billericay would have made the same mistake – but before hanging they would also have sodomised the poor beast.”