page 17

DEATH OF A REBEL

Some twenty five years ago I was travelling back from Bristol on a foggy November evening and pulled in at a pub for a rest. When the landlord served me he asked if I’d far to go.
“Yes,” I replied, “Powerstock, if you’ve heard of it.”
“No, I’ve not” he said, and a voice came from the corner near the fire, “I have.”
“You” said the landlord, “You’ve never been out of the parish!”
“Maybe not” said the owner of the voice, an old man of some seventy years. “But my father came from that way somewhere when he was a boy, something . . . combe.”
“Nettlecombe?” I suggested, but the old man would not commit himself. Thought it could be so - but wasn’t sure. Then he told us the story which I have set down. He didn’t tell it like this but in short snatches as he searched his memory for the things his father had told him about his boyhood.

I called in to see him a couple of years later, but the landlord told me, “Alas, he is no longer with us.” When I passed there five years ago the pub had also gone, to make way for a wider road.

I had forgotten this incident until some summer visitors were talking about ghosts .

On a late, wet afternoon at Nettlecombe in West Dorset in November in the year 1740, John Hodgkiss peered through the gloom of the inn as the water dripped off his greatcoat. The room was empty and a smouldering log smoked lazily on a heap of hot ash in the open hearth. A lean dog, lying in the warmth, whimpered in its sleep as it dreamed of the rabbits of its youth.

Hodgkiss hammered the table with the crop and a voice came through the darkness.

“Alright, alright, I heard you the first time.” The sound of shuffling feet brought in a toothless hag of indeterminate age. Her features were partly hidden by locks of unwashed, unkempt hair. She went to the fire and stirred it to life, throwing on several logs from the heap. Straightening her back she turned to Hodgkiss.
“Yes?”
“Have you a bed woman?” The water from his coat made a pool on the uneven floor and then slowly ran under the dog still dreaming at the fire. It was old and deaf and took no notice until the water wakened him. It got up and stretched, eyeing Hodgkiss and sniffing at the coat which was now steaming in the sudden heat of the fire. Somewhere in the blackness of the house, a door caught by a sudden gust, slammed an echo around the room.

“You’ll want a bed on a night like this, not fit for a dog it is.” She looked at his dripping coat.
“You’ll want some food?”
“What have you?”
“Only what we eat ourselves.”
“Ourselves?” Hodgkiss repeated the phrase.
“Me and the boy.”
“Oh, what about my horse? I left him outside. He’d be best in if I’m to stay.”
“I’ll tell Reubin.” The old woman shuffled off into the kitchen and returned with a candle. Hodgkiss was looking out of the window and could just see the outline of the hill through the veil of rain. He turned as she put the candle on the table.

“Your husband is Reubin?”

She stirred the fire with her foot, sending a shower of sparks over the dog who had found a dry place to lie.
“No, he’s been dead fifty years. Reubin’s the boy. Just like his father.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be, I’ve got Reubin. He never saw his father, he didn’t. Leastways, I don’t think so.”

The old woman ignored him and shuffled across the room to a barrel on a jib in the corner.
“You want a drink before you eat? Cider?”

Hodgkiss was about to ask for something else but the woman’s tone offered nothing.
“Aye, that’ll do.”

She took a ware drinking pot from the shelf and drew the cider from a barrel. Hodgkiss hung his coat on the back of the door and sat in front of the fire. She came over and handed him the pot and bent down and picked up the poker. “You want this?” He nodded, and she pushed the length of iron into the fire and left him. He tasted the cider. It was harsh against his palate and he put the pot down near the fire and waited for the iron to heat. He could hear voices and the clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen. What did she mean, he wondered, about her son not seeing his father? Either he had or he hadn’t. It was a strange thing to say. If her husband had died before the boy was born then he hadn’t seen his father. The wind blew harder outside and forced itself under the door with a low moan. The shutters rattled and he got up and shut them against the night, then went back to his seat at the fire and took the now red-hot poker out of the ash and wiped it lightly on his sleeve before plunging it into the cider. The liquid bubbled furiously and overflowed as the heat left the iron. He stood the poker in a corner and tasted the cider again. It was a little better but not being a cider drinker he could not appreciate it. Heavy footsteps came into the room and a man’s voice spoke.
“I’ve put the horse in the stable.”

Hodgkiss looked around to see a man about fifty years, poorly dressed and with several days growth on his face.

“Thank you. You’re Reubin?” Hodgkiss asked.
“Aye, same as father.”
“Your mother said I could have some food.’1
“Aye, it’ll be ready soon. In the kitchen. It’ll be alright.”
“Alright?”
“Aye. Tonight. He won’t be there.”
“Won’t be there? Who won’t be there?”
“Father. Leastways, he didn’t ought to be. Not tonight.”
“I thought your mother said he was dead?”
“Aye, he is.”

Hodgkiss was about to ask what was the meaning of all this but Reubin turned and was gone.

A moment later the old woman shuffled in again and told him the food was ready.
“You’ll have to have it in the kitchen,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind, why should I?”
“Oh, nothing I suppose,” she said. “It’s Reubin, he’ll have me at it next.” She turned and went back into the kitchen, Hodgkiss following her. The dog, sensing that it was being left alone, got up and stretched again and followed them out of the room.

The kitchen was as gloomy as the taproom. A scrubbed table, a dresser, a bench and a chair or two made up the furnishings. Several pots and pans hung on the wall. A cauldron hung over the fire and the old woman took a dish from the dresser and ladled out some of the contents. “Help yourself to bread,” she said, indicating the table. A sudden gust of wind came down the chimney and blew a cloud of smoke and fine ash into the room. “It’s always the same this sort of weather,” the old woman said, but Hodgkiss didn’t hear her. He was too busy watching the dog as it made its way to the fire. Instead of walking straight to the hearth it skirted an almost invisible line in the floor before the hearth. The old woman looked at Hodgkiss. “He always does that,” she said, and hurried out before he could ask why.

Another gust brought more smoke into the room and the candle flame leaned over in a sudden draught. The dog, up to now deep in sleep, suddenly awoke and stood up, hackles raised, and let out a fearsome growl which rapidly turned to a snarl as it bared its teeth. Then it jumped the stone with an agility Hodgkiss found it hard to believe in such an old dog. It hurled itself against the closed door time after time until it collapsed on the floor exhausted.

The old woman came rushing into the kitchen and looked at the dog and then at Hodgkiss.
“Reubin said he wouldn’t come tonight, that’s why I let you in here.”

She looked down at the floor, at the flagstone which now showed up clearly in the dirt.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said. “You should have let him be.”
“Who? Let who be?” Hodgkiss asked.
“I haven’t ever told anybody.” The old woman made to go but Hodgkiss moved in front of her and barred the way. She was clearly upset.
“Who is it? Who’s down there?”

She pushed the hair from her face with a gnarled hand and sat down on the bench at the table and started to sob.
“I haven’t ever told anybody,” she said again and buried her face in her hands.

“You can tell me,” he said, and she took comfort in his voice.
‘We hadn’t been married six months when he came.” “He came?”
“Aye, the Duke, he came to Lyme.”
“I’ve hear tell,” said Hodgkiss. “It was before my time.”

“It would be,” she said, and the words began to come, slowly at first but then, as her mind relieved itself of the burden it had borne for so long, they came in a rush, a torrent.

She told him how Reubin - her husband - had come back after the battle on Sedgemoor, over in Somerset. His father had been killed there and he had returned, wounded, along the little known paths back to the inn. Hard on his heels were the king’s men, led by a Captain Kirk - a devil if ever there was one. She had dressed Reubin’s wounds but they needed regular attention, and she had not had the time for the troops were upon them and she had hidden Reubin in the hole before the hearth, a place known only to local smugglers who were inactive whilst the troops were in the district.

Hodgkiss could picture the fine young woman she must have been before life had dealt her with such a raw deal. He looked at the flagstone and wondered at her strength, her child not far off, as she had heaved the stone back into its position and brushed the dirt over it so that it was indistinguishable from the rest of the dirt floor. He thought of her there in the taproom of the inn serving the soldiers and ignoring their coarse jests, all the time worrying about her husband and watching for the opportunity to dress his wounds and give him food and drink. An opportunity that did not come until later, when the troops moved on and left the village to its own devices once again.

The kitchen was silent, and Hodgkiss stared at the stone.

“He’s still there?” he said.

The old woman nodded silently. Hodgkiss put his hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll go and see the parson in the morning for you,” he said.
“Now, I think I’ll go to bed.”
“I’ll show you to your room,” she said, as she rose from the bench and picked up the candle.