The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [271]
With this tragic cloud came another – black, like thunder, rolling across the sky. The name of this dark shadow was Penruddock.
There were no Penruddocks in the Forest now. The Penruddocks of Hale had departed early in the century. The Penruddocks of Compton Chamberlayne were still there; but that was thirty-five miles away, over the horizon, in another county. Adelaide didn’t know any Penruddocks in person, therefore. But she knew what to think of them.
‘All royalists, of course,’ Betty would say. ‘But treacherous with it. When I think how my mother had actually tried to help them when they were in trouble. And this was their thanks.’
The treachery of the Furzeys had never been fully understood by the Albions, as it had by the Prides. And even if it had, it would only have earned them a bleak contempt. But the cruelty of another gentry family was a very different matter.
‘Sneaking around the house with his filthy troops all night. Trying to break down the door. Letting his men steal mother’s linen. And then shoving her on the back of a trooper’s horse in just her nightdress. An old woman like that. Shameful!’ Betty would cry, her eyes flashing suddenly with rage and scorn. ‘Evil!’
Adelaide had a clear picture of Colonel Penruddock, with his saturnine face and cruel, vengeful nature. Such a crime between families could never be forgiven; nor, she believed, should it. ‘That family’, she therefore told Fanny, in her turn, ‘are wicked, evil people. Never have anything to do with them.’
She had said so once again that evening and Fanny had just assured her with a smile that she certainly wouldn’t, when they both turned, Fanny in some alarm, at a terrible sound. It was a cough, a rasping, wheezing cough, followed by a gasp. It came from old Francis Albion. He seemed to be struggling for breath. Fanny went pale. She rose; hurried to his side. ‘Should we send for the doctor?’ she whispered. ‘Father seems to be …’
‘No, we should not.’ Adelaide did not move from her chair.
Francis had opened his eyes now, but they were staring up into his head in the most alarming way. He had gone pale. The cough began again.
‘Aunt Adelaide,’ Fanny cried, ‘he’s …’
‘No, he is not!’ said her aunt with some asperity. ‘Stop pretending to die, Francis,’ she cried. ‘Stop it at once.’ She turned crossly to Fanny. ‘Don’t you see, child, he’s trying to prevent you going to Oxford?’
‘Aunt Adelaide! What a thing to say of poor papa.’ Her father was gasping for air now. ‘Of course I wouldn’t go if he is unwell.’
‘Fiddlesticks,’ said Adelaide. But the awful sound went on.
Isaac Seagull, landlord of the Angel Inn, let the damp breeze play on his face as he gazed over Pennington Marshes.
He was a tall, wiry man, as tall as Grockleton if he stood straight. But usually Isaac Seagull stood with his round head stooped forward. His hair, still all black, was worn in a plait down his back. His face, as chinless as his Seagull ancestors, was usually cheerful; but at present it was serious. Isaac Seagull had something on his mind.
The organization of smuggling in the New Forest area was a large and complex affair. First of all there were the ships that supplied the goods. These came from various ports across the sea, but the busiest were those of Dunkirk, which picked up Holland trade, Roscoff in Brittany, and the Channel Islands of Jersey and Guernsey. The main transports were called luggers, which varied in size but had broad, shallow draughts and huge capacity. They usually came across in armed convoys. When it was necessary to avoid the few Customs vessels sent against them the luggers could either turn into the wind and row away, or dash into the mudflats where the revenue vessels couldn’t follow them. Sometimes the smugglers also used swift clippers, which could outrun almost anything.
The man in charge of the ship, or convoy, was the captain. But