Edited by Vanessa de Elera, Sunday 30 October 2011 at 01:35
Charles hoped the sound of the swans fighting had covered him.
He must have made enough noise to wake Squire Corsham himself scrambling through the forest, blindly running this way and that through darkness. The moon had lost him, but his progress was strident enough for any fool to track. The Dorset Platoon were no idiots. Moving swiftly and with purpose they chased the shadows of rebellion, the Chartist few who still opposed.
Blundering through scrub, he'd called out--in fear or pain he hardly knew, his jerkin pulled by green fingers and veiled claws. It had seemed the end of all when he reached a lake, faultless and still in the moonlight. Blocking any further progress, it may yet have saved him, if his pursuers could be distracted. If they were moving fast enough, any clamour might suggest their fugitive had crossed the water - the dogs would not lead them elsewhere.
Charles clung on, praying Sergeant Armstrong were not among them. He would most certainly glance above the lake to find the great plane, peer into its sprawling beams like broken knees. If the good Lord had pity, he would be torn by dogs--if Charles were taken alive, it would mean the hulks to the colonies, never again to see his family.
He'd scrambled into the broad arms of the tree like a haunted thing, barely noticing the branches whipping his face or stinging his hands. Screeching birdcalls announced the invasion. He stretched up, fingers digging into knots full of cobwebs, leather soles shinning against the great plane’s cool bark, till he could ascend no further without falling. The bough he clutched was broad enough to shield him from below. Through dense spring foliage he could observe commotion without detection. If he could silence his own involuntary moans and whimpers, he’d a slim chance of surviving.
Barks and shouts reached the clearing half-a-mile back, and he heard gruff commands:
‘Fan out lads, if he crosses the pool, he’ll be halfway to Wales.’
‘Sergeant!’ a clipped voice interjected, ‘I can assure you my hounds will find the rebel. Do not destroy my land beyond that which you have already achieved.’
Balanced on his stomach along the coarse bark, Charles severed a goodly branch and hefted it as far as the uninjured arm could toss, deep across the lake - disturbing the swans, who honked, hissed and shrieked, waking even more wildlife. Silently Charles prayed the cacophony would continue long enough for his own bleating breath to calm itself.
‘I hear him, sir–there!’ a younger voice shouted.
The pounding of steel against brush quickened pace, and thudded closer.
Abruptly a swan lifted up to fly, away from the raised breasts and wide wings of the fighting males. A ghost of tranquility rose and loftily moved towards him. Startled, Charles quieted his breathing. Blood trickled between crooked fingers, steeping over older blood thickened on a signet ring. The swan’s wings swished and thumped the air as it passed Charles' hiding place. Its bulk gleamed bluish and otherworldly in the half shadows. He prayed for deliverance, his blood spreading, weeping silently into channels of bark.
The Corsham Tree
Charles hoped the sound of the swans fighting had covered him.
He must have made enough noise to wake Squire Corsham himself scrambling through the forest, blindly running this way and that through darkness. The moon had lost him, but his progress was strident enough for any fool to track. The Dorset Platoon were no idiots. Moving swiftly and with purpose they chased the shadows of rebellion, the Chartist few who still opposed.
Blundering through scrub, he'd called out--in fear or pain he hardly knew, his jerkin pulled by green fingers and veiled claws. It had seemed the end of all when he reached a lake, faultless and still in the moonlight. Blocking any further progress, it may yet have saved him, if his pursuers could be distracted. If they were moving fast enough, any clamour might suggest their fugitive had crossed the water - the dogs would not lead them elsewhere.
Charles clung on, praying Sergeant Armstrong were not among them. He would most certainly glance above the lake to find the great plane, peer into its sprawling beams like broken knees. If the good Lord had pity, he would be torn by dogs--if Charles were taken alive, it would mean the hulks to the colonies, never again to see his family.
He'd scrambled into the broad arms of the tree like a haunted thing, barely noticing the branches whipping his face or stinging his hands. Screeching birdcalls announced the invasion. He stretched up, fingers digging into knots full of cobwebs, leather soles shinning against the great plane’s cool bark, till he could ascend no further without falling. The bough he clutched was broad enough to shield him from below. Through dense spring foliage he could observe commotion without detection. If he could silence his own involuntary moans and whimpers, he’d a slim chance of surviving.
Barks and shouts reached the clearing half-a-mile back, and he heard gruff commands:
‘Fan out lads, if he crosses the pool, he’ll be halfway to Wales.’
‘Sergeant!’ a clipped voice interjected, ‘I can assure you my hounds will find the rebel. Do not destroy my land beyond that which you have already achieved.’
Balanced on his stomach along the coarse bark, Charles severed a goodly branch and hefted it as far as the uninjured arm could toss, deep across the lake - disturbing the swans, who honked, hissed and shrieked, waking even more wildlife. Silently Charles prayed the cacophony would continue long enough for his own bleating breath to calm itself.
‘I hear him, sir–there!’ a younger voice shouted.
The pounding of steel against brush quickened pace, and thudded closer.
Abruptly a swan lifted up to fly, away from the raised breasts and wide wings of the fighting males. A ghost of tranquility rose and loftily moved towards him. Startled, Charles quieted his breathing. Blood trickled between crooked fingers, steeping over older blood thickened on a signet ring. The swan’s wings swished and thumped the air as it passed Charles' hiding place. Its bulk gleamed bluish and otherworldly in the half shadows. He prayed for deliverance, his blood spreading, weeping silently into channels of bark.