Beautiful Star and Other Stories Page 13

  With less certainty but some confidence I can also state that Admiral Shovell’s rings were removed by one or more of the women who found us on Porthellick Bay. Perhaps one day they will appear and be restored to his widow, who, on learning of his death, immediately instituted inquiries into their whereabouts.

  I spoke but once to Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell and have no reason to think other than well and respectfully of him. The wrecks of Association, Eagle, Romney and Firebrand, and the deaths of all but one of their crew were due to the capricious weather, grave errors of navigation and a little misfortune. No single man should be held accountable for that, especially one who had served his country bravely.

  This account I shall place in a wooden box under my bed in the hope that it will not be found until after my death.

  THE TREE

  1651

  John had climbed taller trees, but this one was his favourite. It stood alone on the edge of the wood, at the top of a rise in the ground above fields and hedgerows which stretched as far as he could see. The tree had long ago been pollarded so that new branches had grown strong from the trunk, creating a dense blanket of foliage behind which he could hide.

  When the tree was in leaf, he spent hours sitting in a fork halfway up the trunk, watching the shepherd and his dog at work with their flock, listening to the distant chatter of the milkmaids who came every day to milk the cows, and whittling sticks into figures. He had a good knife, made for him by his father, which he sharpened on the grinding stone outside the forge. He kept the figures in a hole in the trunk, where they would be safe. He never took them home.

  If he was in the tree early enough in the morning he might see deer emerging from the wood to graze, and, in the evening, a fox creeping along a hedgerow. In the fields there were rabbits and hares, pheasants and pigeons. Sitting silent and unseen in the fork, looking out at the world from his hiding place, he was happy and safe. In his tree, he was never told to go and do something he did not want to do, like cleaning out the hen house, or slapped for not doing it properly, he was never hit by his sister, and he never had to listen to his mother and father shouting at each other.

  When there was nothing much to watch, and he had tired of whittling, he pulled small pieces of bark off the tree. Underneath the bark, he found beetles and ants, centipedes and spiders, and other insects which he did not recognise. In the spring he watched birds building their nests, and in the autumn squirrels collecting acorns. Once he had climbed along a branch to a blackbird’s nest. He had stolen an egg from the nest and taken it home. He had put it under one of the hens to see if it would hatch, but when it was still in the nesting box a week later, he had thrown it on to the dung heap.

  It took John about ten minutes to get home from the tree. He had to make his way around the wood and over the low stone wall that enclosed the Boscobel Estate, before walking along the lane to the village. He took care not to be seen inside the wall. He would get into trouble if he were.

  He always hoped his father would be too busy in the forge to notice him coming home. If he were seen, he would be questioned about where he had been, whether he had done his chores, or if he had been in any trouble. His father suspected that he climbed over the wall into the estate and worried that he would be caught. ‘If they catch you in there,’ he had warned, ‘you’ll be in trouble. They might think you’re poaching.’

  ‘I’m not poaching,’ the boy had replied. ‘I just like to be in the woods.’

  ‘Maybe so, but it’s Boscobel land, and the Giffards won’t want you on it. Catholics or not, they are important people around here.’

  The boy had never mentioned his tree. If he had, it would not have been his anymore.

  Their cottage stood beside the forge. It was a good cottage, with a thatched roof, stone walls, and glazed windows. Inside, there were two bedrooms, a parlour, and a kitchen. The family ate in the kitchen and, in winter, sat around the fire in the parlour. The boy shared a bedroom with his sister.

  ‘Your father works hard so that we have enough to eat and a roof over our heads,’ the boy’s mother was fond of saying. ‘I expect both of you to do the same.’

  So his sister milked the cow and helped with cleaning, washing and baking, while he fed the hens, collected the eggs every morning, and chopped firewood with a small axe. She was a year older than him, taller, and stronger, and forever complaining that he was lazy.

  ‘John’s forgotten to feed the hens, again,’ she would tell their mother, sometimes even when he had. If he tried to defend himself, she would clip him on the ear and tell him not to tell lies.

  When his father was very busy in the forge, he might have to help. He had learnt to brush and polish the ironwork, and to use the grinding stone to give knives and spades a sharp edge. The forge still turned out swords and pike-ends as it had during the worst of the fighting, but mostly now it was horseshoes, ploughshares, hand tools, and cooking pots. It was a hot, dirty place, and when he was in it, John longed to be out in the fields, or better still, in his tree.

  John’s father sometimes walked down to the Fox and Hounds after finishing work for the day. He said that when his throat was dry from the smoke of the forge he needed a tankard or two of ale before he could eat his supper. When he came back he passed on whatever news there was. John sat and listened although he did not understand all of it. He knew that the fighting had started before he was born, and he knew that the king’s army had been beaten, and the king’s head cut off by his enemies. He had never quite grasped who the king’s enemies were or what they had been fighting about, and he had not asked his father to explain. His father did not take kindly to questions when he returned from the inn.

  Recently there had been talk of another king. At least John assumed it was another king, unless someone had stuck the other one’s head back on. It seemed that this king had marched with his army from Scotland far away to the north to the town of Worcester, which was not far away, and that there was going to be another battle with the man who had chopped off the previous king’s head. He supposed that the loser of this battle would also have his head chopped off, just like when the winner of a conker fight smashed the loser’s conker into pieces. You needed a very hard conker to smash another one, and you would need a very sharp axe to chop off a head. Perhaps his father would be asked to make a special axe for the occasion.

  John’s mother was upset at the news of another battle. ‘We’re sick of fighting,’ she said. ‘Men die, wives are widowed and children orphaned, and for what? Why can’t we live in peace?’

  His father agreed. ‘I supported the king and I still do. But there’s nothing to be gained from this. Even if the royalists win, they’ll still have to take London, and they’re not going to do that easily. And if Cromwell wins, what then? Another execution? There won’t be a king on the throne of England again until Cromwell’s dead, and then only if the people demand it.’

  John thought Cromwell must be the man who had cut off the king’s head. One evening when they were in their beds, he asked his sister. ‘Daisy, is the man who cut off the king’s head called Cromwell?’

  ‘I think so,’ she replied. ‘Father doesn’t like him, so it must have been him.’

  In August and September John spent as much time as he could in the tree. It would soon be autumn, when its leaves would turn brown and fall off, and he would not be able to hide behind them again until spring. He dared not climb the tree when it had no leaves in case he were seen. So every day in late summer, whenever he could slip away from the forge, he climbed up to the fork in the branches to watch the corn being harvested and to whittle more figures to put in the hole in the trunk.

  One evening he went home to find his mother in tears. She told him that there had been a battle at Worcester. Cromwell had won, the king had lost, and had run off with his friends to Wales. ‘I dread to think what we’re in for now,’ she said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. ‘If they catch him, they’ll do what they did to his father. If they
don’t, they’ll go on searching until they find him. He should have stayed in France.’

  John knew that Wales lay to the west. If the king thought he would be safe there, it must be different from England. The people in Wales must like kings.

  The next day he had to help his father in the forge, and could not go to the tree until late in the afternoon. There had been an order for a new pair of iron gates from Boscobel House, and they had to be ready the next day. All morning and for most of the afternoon, he brushed and polished the iron pieces that his father had shaped in the forge and hardened in the cooling tub, until his father was happy with them. ‘Every visitor to Boscobel will pass through these gates,’ said his father proudly, ‘so they must be perfect. Polish them until you can see your face in them, John.’

  By the time the church clock struck four, John’s arms were aching and his hands sore. ‘Can I go now please, Father?’ he asked, fearing that the answer would be no. But his father saw that the boy could do no more that day.

  ‘Off you go, John. Tell your mother I’ll be going down to the Fox and Hounds when I’ve finished the gates. And don’t go wandering off. There are soldiers all about looking for the king.’

  John gave his mother the message and ran off down the lane to the place where he climbed over the wall. He saw no soldiers, and was over the wall and around the wood as easily as ever. Using the handholds and footholds he always used, he climbed quickly up the trunk towards the fork. Standing on a thick branch and holding tight to another smaller one, he looked out over the fields. In the distance he could see a group of men standing in a circle. He had seen his father standing outside the Fox and Hounds in a circle like this one. It was how men stood when they had important business to discuss. The men were too far away for him to see their faces or what they were wearing, so he thought they must be farm workers. Perhaps they were talking about the harvest or the sheep. Or even about the battle his mother had spoken of.

  Hearing a rustle of leaves above him, he glanced up, and almost lost his footing on the branch. Two men were sitting on a higher branch, looking down at him. He put his hand against the trunk to steady himself and looked again. Two woodsmen were sitting in his tree. Not knowing whether to climb up to them or climb down and run off, he stayed where he was. What were two woodsmen doing in his tree? If they had they seen him in it and come here to catch him, he’d better climb down and make himself scarce. But neither of them had moved or spoken, so perhaps they were just sitting in the tree as he did, peering out at the fields from behind the leaves.

  Eventually, one of the men spoke. He had a dark look about him and his skin was brown from the sun. John watched carefully for any sign that he should jump down and run off. But when the man spoke his voice was quiet and not at all frightening. His companion continued to look out towards the circle of men in the field.

  ‘Good afternoon, young man,’ he said. ‘Are we sitting in your tree?’

  John stared at him, unsure how to answer. He knew it was not really his tree and it might be a mistake to say that it was. On the other hand, he thought of it as his tree and he did not like these men being in it.

  ‘Well, is it your tree or is it not?’

  John nodded.

  ‘I’m afraid we didn’t know it was yours. Do you mind if we sit in it for a while?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, finding his tongue. ‘I don’t mind, as long as you don’t steal my figures.’

  The man held up one of the sticks John had whittled into the shape of a man. ‘Is this one of yours?’ he asked. ‘I found it in the hole.’

  ‘It is. I made it and it’s mine.’

  ‘Indeed it is. And it’s very good. I’ll put it back with the others.’ He put the figure back in the hole. ‘There. He’s back with his friends. Why don’t you climb up and sit with us for a while? We could do with some company, could we not, William?’

  ‘As you wish, sire,’ replied the other man without taking his eyes from the field.

  ‘Come on, young man,’ said the man with the deep voice. ‘Come up here and tell us your name.’

  John hesitated. Then he climbed up. He liked the man’s voice and he had a kind smile. It would be rude to run away. He reached the men and found himself a place to sit.

  ‘There we are,’ said the man, patting him on the shoulder. ‘And what is your name?’ He had black hair which reached down below his shoulders and very dark eyes. John wondered if he had been born to gypsies. His mother had told him to keep away from the gypsies who sometimes came to the village selling lucky charms and reading fortunes. She said they were dirty folk and would steal what they could not pay for.

  ‘John. Is your name Sire?’

  The man laughed quietly. ‘No, not really. It’s just what people call me.’

  ‘Like a pet name?’

  ‘I suppose so. My real name is Charles, and this is my friend William.’ William was smaller than Charles, with reddish hair and a beard. ‘Where do you live, John?’

  ‘I live in the village.’

  ‘How old are you?’ This Charles was full of questions.

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Have you a family?’

  ‘My father and mother and my sister. She’s called Daisy.’

  ‘A pretty name. And what does your father do?’

  ‘He’s a blacksmith. He’s making new gates for Boscobel House. I’ve been helping him.’

  ‘Have you now? Are they good gates?’

  ‘Very good. My father is the best blacksmith in England. My mother says that there has been another battle not far from here and that the king’s enemies won. If they need a special axe to cut off the king’s head, I expect they’ll ask him to make it.’

  For a long time, Charles said nothing. Then he asked quietly, ‘Why do you think anyone wants to cut off the king’s head?’

  ‘My father said so. He said a man called Cromwell will cut it off just like he cut off the other king’s head.’

  ‘What does your father think of that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What would you think if someone cut off your father’s head?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like it. I’d cry.’

  ‘Yes, I expect you would. And what would you do about the men who had cut it off?’

  ‘I’d catch them and cut off their heads.’

  ‘Yes, John. So would I.’

  ‘I don’t think they’ll catch the king though. He’s run off to Wales.’

  ‘Run off? Kings don’t run off, do they?’

  ‘This one did. He lost a battle and ran away. That’s what my father says.’

  ‘Perhaps your father is wrong. Perhaps the king will come back with a new army and fight another battle and this time win it.’

  John looked doubtful. If the king planned to fight another battle why had he run away from this one? ‘Do you know what the king looks like?’ he asked.

  All the time, William had said nothing and kept his eyes on the circle of men in the field. Now it was he who answered. ‘The king is tall and handsome, with black hair and a noble face.’ He paused. ‘At least, that’s what I’ve heard.’

  John stared at Charles. ‘You’re tall, and you’ve got black hair. Is he like you?’

  ‘Oh no,’ laughed Charles. ‘I expect the king’s much more handsome than me.’

  ‘Are you woodsmen?’

  ‘We are,’ replied William.

  ‘Why are you in my tree?’

  ‘Probably for just the same reason that you are. We like it here. We can see what’s happening in the fields without being seen ourselves. It’s a comfortable way to be, don’t you think?’

  ‘It is. Have you been here before?’

  ‘No. This is our first time. It’s a fine tree and I am sorry we did not know that it is yours. If we had known, we would have asked your permission before climbing it.’

  ‘It’s not really mine. It’s just my favourite tree in the wood.’

  ‘Why is it your favourite?’
<
br />   ‘Because I can see all around without anyone seeing me. Just like you said.’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly why we like it. And you can tell from the thickness of the trunk that it is an old tree. Oaks can live for hundreds of years. Did you know that, John?’

  ‘I did. I know about trees.’

  ‘That’s good. Trees are a fine thing to know about. I expect this one has been here for more than two hundred years and it might still be here in another two hundred years.’

  John took out his knife. ‘This is my whittling knife. I sharpen it on my father’s grinding stone. Have you got knives?’

  ‘We haven’t,’ replied William.

  ‘But you said you were woodsmen. Woodsmen always have knives. And axes.’

  ‘We didn’t bring ours today because we’re not working.’

  That was an odd thing. John always carried his knife just in case he might need it. He broke off a thin branch and started shaping it with his knife. He soon had the outline of a head and a body. The two men watched carefully. ‘The next bit is the most difficult.’ he said, ‘making the arms and legs. You have to be careful or the stick might break.’ Deftly, he cut a long notch to define the legs, and two smaller ones for the arms. He held it up for inspection. ‘There. It’s finished.’

  Charles took it from him ‘It’s very good, John. May I have it as a keepsake?’

  John did not know what a keepsake was, but he was happy for Charles to have the figure. ‘You can have it, if you like. I can make another.’

  ‘Thank you, John. Have you ever carved your name on the tree?’

  John shook his head. ‘I don’t know the letters.’

  ‘Have you never been to school?’

  ‘No. The school closed when the fighting started.’

  ‘I see. Would you like me to carve your name on the trunk? I can carve William’s and mine as well.’