UMBRA SUMUS

I suppose all children start in this way; unquestioning, innocent. It never occurred to me to inquire into my origins. There were Queenie and Stefano, we had our wagon, and sometimes the band. Of those happy days I remember the free life, the dusty summer roads always ahead. Perhaps an urchin to bake in clay from the verge, some good herbs to go into a pottage. Stefano knew all about plants; he even had three or more names for each. Our names, the Gauje name, and the secret speech. He would joke with me while I ran here and there, always searching for a new kind to show him and taking in the words like dry soil after a summer shower. He would hold me spellbound by the fire after supper, with the stories of the old Roman men and tell me of their tongue. I learned it from him; nobody else in the band had any clue about the Latin, and so it became our secret. Queenie had stolen a horn-book for me from a village school, and I learned to read and write.

And fight. And thieve. And transform a spavined, near dead horse into a fiery steed – well, for as long as the onion lasted anyway. There were good times sometimes, and I made some loyal friends. But somehow the fighting; that grew. There was always needle. Queenie and Stefano lived an odd, detached life, often away from the gatherings. I didn’t really understand it then. I recall a great battle at the Weyhill fair; I had started some reference – our fathers out of India coming or suchlike, and an older boy sniggered; not yours, not the Molly milksop he sneered and it was war. I was smaller, but angrier. I got my cudgel of stout blackthorn and served him well out. But things were never well again after that. Too few allies, too many grudges. It seemed as though even the weather had taken against us. My memories of this time are clouded in cold, in bitter rain and loss. Of Queenie, somehow the cough that had always seemed part of her coming more and more. She breathing out her last in the caravan as the sleet became snow outside. Gideon Fawr and his people, coming to claim what had been hers. And a long argument between Gideon and Stefano. Watching, bewildered, as Stefano climbed about in the van, filling a small knapsack – his precious books and a few odds and ends. He embraced me; I remember noticing tears on his cheeks. I suppose in another life, I might have watched him walk away and stayed there as Romani. But in this one – in this one, my tormentor – the hateful Dukey Fawr – sniggered and threw a clod of earth and snow at his retreating back. I threw myself at my old enemy like a polecat striking a rabbit. Grief and rage boiled up and lifted me like a song, and it was so easy to smash and crush him. He would never be fair of face again, even if he lived. They pulled me off him somehow and drove me away with kicks and blows. So it was that Stefano and I became outcasts, adrift in a raw December, with little or nothing but some books, and I my good blackthorn pacifier.

Somehow, we lived. Wet we were, and cold. For days we wandered, scratching such living as we could. I will not tell of it here. Then came the day when Stefano made to speak and his words came out only as a cough. He made a joke of it while my heart shrank, and remembered Queenie. Stefano took sicker, and sicker very fast. Within a day or two I had to help him along as best I could, he being a tall man. The short day was nearly done when I saw some lights, and somehow we got us along to the back door of a great house. I had always been strong, but by now he was a deadweight to carry, and it was with my last strength that I beat feebly on the door. Mercy and charity had never come to me before, but as the light and warmth rushed past me into the night enough of them came with it to save our lives. Servants to the house there were, who fed us, and gave us a place to rest in the barn.

I woke from a deep sleep, muzzily aware of a light. As I strove to orient myself a face appeared in the light of a lanthorn. Two mournful brown eyes, a man of middling age dressed in a fine, snuff coloured coat, The light shone back to me again; his voice kindly, though demanding of answers.

“What’s your name Boy? Whence came you here?” I mumbled in reply and he turned, waving his footman and the lantern across to where Stefano lay twitching and muttering in his delirium. “So, Samuel, let us see what else Dame Fortuna has brought us tonight eh? Precious poor eating on the small one” As if in response to my stiffening he turned over his shoulder to me

“Humour, lad. Have no fear. Now tell me – how came your friend to this pass? As I explained, he busied himself listening to Stefano, pressing an ear to his chest. Laying a hand on his forehead, pulling his eyelids down.

“Is he going to die Sir?” I blurted out.

“Possibly, I fear. He is gravely ill, but I have some skill in physic; I shall administer the French Drench and then only time will tell”.

I reached into a pocket and clutched my rabbit’s foot, absently muttering “Aegroto dum anima est spes esse dicitur” to myself.

The physician sat bolt upright and turned out of the pool of lamplight at me.

“The devil! Do you quote Cicero at me young gypsy? Samuel – have these two brought to the house – make ready the sick room and a truckle for our young scholar here. It’s clear there is matter to explore.”

I can still see the picture now, years afterwards. It was the moment everything changed. Though my life took turns for good or ill, Stefano and I found a home there – at least, Stefano did. Our rescuer, Mr Mellitus Wilkins, was as good as his word, and his draughts brought back Stefano from the brink. Over those days, this quiet little man somehow pulled from me our whole tale. Wealthy and learned, the study of his fellow man was his endless fascination. A kinder soul never drew breath, and he was ever surrounded by a constant stream of waifs and strays both animal and human.

Dear Horace,

… Just back from a most wearisome duty in the West Country, enlivened at the end by a few days in Tallington in the hospitable company of our mutual friend. Mellitus begs to be remembered to you. He has acquired another new set of indigents by the way. Even for him they’re an odd pair, some kind of traveller and his blackguard boy. Though in fact, the elder of the two seems to be a man of some education, albeit foreign. Of the boy, there is nothing to be said, though he seems quite devoted to Wilkins – while I was there, on hearing that Mellitus had lost his handkerchief he stole him a replacement from the vicar with greatest good will and no moral compass of any kind. No doubt he is born to be hanged. Wilkins of course is such a fellow as will find no fault in even the most evil. Possibly his, shall we say, nature inclines him to mildness? As it is, Stefano, the elder, seems already to have found a niche in the library along with Mellitus affections, collating his scholarly collection of Etruscan Priapic cult engravings. The youngster is to be sent to school, I hear.

Sincerely, Matthew

1746: “Did you know?”

Dear Matthew

... that pipe of Sercial will yet be mine. Reverend Saunders stopped here on his way to town when his coach broke a wheel. The boy Blunt, the subject of our wager, is back it seems from school. I hear that he had succeeded in his studies quite contrary to our expectation. However, he left, so Saunders informs me, under something of a cloud following a regrettable incident with a Newcomen boiler. I rode over to ascertain the truth, but as ever Wilkins stupidly indulgent. He claims it was but a prank gone awry; Blunt being egged on by his particular friend, the boy Macpherson. Nonetheless, he has thought it best to send him to continue study at a different spot, remote from contracting alliances with Scotch fire starters. He is to attend a school in rural Dorset shire – run as a charitable work by a local widow. It is hoped his interest in the vegetable kingdom will recommend him to the lady in question, celebrated for her skill in raising tropical plants. Wilkins averred that the size and form of her cantaloupes occasion profound admiration among the local gentry.

1747 Tallington Manor

“Jed, lad. Come in.”

“Ho, Stefano” I said. “How’s this? Still at work on your old catalogue of knobs on a day like today? Come and get some sunshine – Brown and I are just improving the supply to the Grand Fountain, you can watch us dig and sip some cold Negus.”

“Later perhaps,” he replied. “Mellitus says it looks like Le Nôtre reborn. But listen now. Close the door”. So saying, Stefano reached into the secretaire, pulling out the many little drawers and slides. At length he offered me a small packet.

“This is yours, Jed. Queenie made it for you. She would have given it to you herself had she lived, but that falls to me”.

Within the proffered packet I found a small wreath – a diadem perhaps – of leaves, fruit and flowers. Puzzled, I strove to identify them. Some were easy – others I had never seen. Some kind of berry – intricate knots of fern.

“Her words to me,” Stefano continued. “She won’t be there to choose for you, but when the right time and person comes, all may be well. There was a word. By this you will know.” He looked uncomfortable.

“I think this a woman thing Jed, and I’m afraid nothing I can help you with. All I know is, keep this by you. Queenie… knew some old ways, you see. And you are now come to an age where these things – well; here, take it. And this is the word.”

1747: Cerne Abbas, Dorset shire

“So the graft takes here, do you see, and the binding – Master Blunt, what is that around your neck? Pass it here pray”.

“ ’Tis but a token Ma’am—”

“Whence came this? Know you what this is? Let me speak you a word. Yes, that is it, is it not?”

As the day fades, men with turf cutters gather, high on the swelling side of the chalk. Solemnly, they clear a shape in the sward, peeling back to expose white, gleaming stone.

“Et’ll do”. Pronounces the leader. “Mistress says the stars are right. Let us light the three fires and begone. Not ours to witness the rest.”

“So – the berries – pluck them and eat, but leave one for me. This fern to the top fire – these leaves in the Eastern one. The rest to the last, but breathe of the smoke. Face to the South and recite the words I taught you.”

“Be it well begun. Now you must pull.. this. And undo .. this. We have until dawn.”

1747 Tallington Manor

Excellent Port and a round dozen of claret in the company of his friends had left Wilkins in a roseate, expansive mood. He greeted me warmly on my return from Cerne. “So, young Jedediah, done with school at last I hear and welcome. Come a horseback too and not by the carrier. Mistress Smith has shown you how to ride, I see. Is all well?”

“Indeed Sir, she has that.” And not just horses, neither, I thought. Memories of that strange night spent high on the chalk giant were still fresh. The green levin-flash from the rising sun. I turned my mind back to the subject in hand.

“So” Wilkins continued “Stefano and I are in agreement; Bologna is the place for you, where its famed Hortus Botanicus will put a final polish on your education. Summers you are at liberty to travel and improve yourself. I shall write to my agent in Turin to provide you with letters of credit.”

I stammered my thanks as best I could with my new vocabulary. I was pleasantly surprised at the generosity of the offer. But that was as nothing to my surprise when the ancient green man, carved into the stone of the ornate old fireplace behind him, favoured me with a broad wink and a cheerily obscene gesture.

Forest of the Cevennes, 1751

The donkey was a large one. The Englishman atop it, less so. Beneath his broad-brimmed straw hat sweat tracked through the caked white dust that that hung in drifts along the stony road.

“Tompkins” he called querulously “have you NO idea of our road?”

His man-servant, leading a rather less heroic beast, paused to turn around.

“Sir, there looks to be a dwelling ahead – let us ask there – it may be an ale-house of some kind. Do you care to pause there a while?”

His Master swayed a little in the saddle, legs waving. His complexion paled still further, making a rather unpleasant match with his mustard yellow waistcoat. “Oh, damme, yes, anything to escape this heat. Though it’s a villainous looking place in truth. We have wandered far from the road, and I doubt we can reach the Canal tonight”

A closer approach did little to dispel their doubts. A low stone structure, the doorway was closed by a filthy leather curtain in place of a door, the only sign of life being a billy goat that stared at them disdainfully from the mud and straw roof. The manservant helped his master down, shouted in French for the house. Striding forward, he disappeared through the curtain to re-emerge, immediately and backwards, pursued by the muzzle of a musket. The lock (with a glowing match) followed shortly and then the owner. That worthy launched into a short and angry sounding speech, of which they understood not one word. In vain they attempted to explain themselves. Said mustard-waistcoat “Tompkins, I believe this rustic will never comprehend our French. He must be some kind of foreigner here too. Lucky I came equipped for just such a moment. See if you can reach out the small rosewood case from the rear pannier” With much placatory dumb-show, they performed a small pantomime with obsequious smiles. “This will serve our need Tompkins! I had it from Elmhill & partners in Leadenhall St. Every bit as good a device as Enoch himself could make and a dashed fine price. Less a third what the same might cost from the high and mighty ben Ezra & Nephews! See now,” at this point he bowed ingratiatingly to the armed Rustic – “one small winding and we will all be able to converse as merry as crickets with perfect understanding.” And so he suited action to word.

A low humming noise came from the watch.

“Now see here fellow” he began confidently. The hum died away abruptly, replaced by an eerie noise, like a gong. The larger of the two donkeys shimmered and vanished. Something with fewer legs, but more suckers and tentacles appeared in its place. Then came a loud bang as an ounce of lead ball splattered its basal ganglion across the yard.

Within the house, they had at least, some respite from the pitiless Provencal sun. Beaten, tied and still thirsty, they listened to the muttering of the half dozen or so people that had seized them after the watch debacle. Still nothing could be understood, but through the curtains, coming and going, they could make out that a pile of wood, out in the courtyard, steadily growing.

More voices sounded from outside – Tompkins heard the sound of hooves. Twisting around as best he could, he saw through the door a horse, one of good quality; shying at the sight of the creature in the yard.

“Basta! I said, enough... calm down dili Grast”.

He had a fleeting glimpse of a man dismounting. Their wait went on. Finally, as the afternoon wore on, rough hands dragged them out to the yard and propped them up on a log.

A powerfully built young man in rough workman’s clothes, livened by a colourful silk scarf, regarded them, with arms folded. Tanned brown, with fair hair bleached further by the sun. The former musketeer spoke at length, pointing at them; waving at the now large pile of kindling. The young man replied, in the same tongue. Turning to them, he broke into comprehensible French.

“So, Messieurs, I would heartily suggest that some sort of explanation might be in order?” He spoke again to the musketeer and water was brought for them. Tompkins – in better shape from a little less rough handling, lapsed into his native tongue. The man responded in kind.

“Ho, what? Satan’s blue balls – two Englishmen? Here? How ever came you to this pass?”

“Oh!” replied Tompkins “you speak English!”

“Yes, we often do, where I come from,” he replied drily.

“Where is that?” gabbled Tompkins – desperately trying to keep the subject away from bonfires.

“Wiltshire, largely. My name is Blunt, Sir, Jedediah Blunt. Now perhaps you can enlighten us further?”

Some time passed, with explanations. They heard Blunt, wrangling with the locals, in whatever tongue they spoke – arms were being waved – but at length, refreshment were brought to them, and the former donkey panniers dragged clear of a rather unpleasant ooze that was all that remained of the creature.

“Gentlemen, I shall be conducting you away from here. I have bargained for the loan of another ass, but you will be tied on to it. Say no more than you must, and remember, for these people, you are now my property. Yes, property – I have bought you. Nor were you cheap! If we make good progress we can be at your rendezvous on the Col de Narouze by tomorrow. I can conduct you to the canal, surely. Why? Well, I too work there, it being my employment out of term time. It is lucky for you that I also spend time here in the hills. For what? Oh – here – you see these little baskets? Rare plants – non-descripts in some cases. Wealthy collectors will pay well. Few people can collect from the wild and keep plants alive, but I have a knack. Once we are a little further from prying eyes I will untie your hands a little. Cavaignac, the gentleman with the ancient fusil, thinks I am to deliver you to some smugglers for torture to reveal your magical spells. I fear it was most unfortunate for you to appear unannounced in foreign clothes, and he took you for Government spies, or worse, collectors for the Salt Tax. And, after your little display there was really no way to convince him you were not a sorceror. No, not foreign my dear sir – his ancestors have lived in these parts since before Caesar. Luckily his patois was akin to Occitan, not so far from Latin – I managed to communicate enough. But enough of myself – you are here to study the Canal, I collect? Indeed I do – as a humble labouring man – ‘tis a rough life but I am used to it. However this is my final visit. I face my viva voce back in Bologna soon, and then who knows?

They went their way, and finally, Blunt delivered them, to their hosts. Seeing them in the safety and comfort of the Canal Director’s house, he took his leave.

“Mr Blunt” began the elder. “I – we – are greatly in your debt for our lives. I cannot repay you in like fashion – but on my return to England I am to begin a great new work for his grace the Duke of Bridgewater. Should you wish, I will take you as my assistant; the pay is modest, but I will teach you the art of surveying and much else beside. Consider it, pray, and write to me in the spring.”

“Why – that is handsome of you Mr Brindley – I shall indeed consider. À bientôt!”

1760: “Have you heard . . ?”

Dear Horace

Back from Tallington again. I am undone; I must concede. The young Blunt has fairly lost me our wager. On recommendation of Mr Brindley he has, it seems, attracted the favourable notice of Sir Joseph, and is to sail for San Salvador this month on a collecting voyage for Mr Veitch. Moreover, he did, I confess, save me some considerable sums that I had thought to invest in the New Darien Canal Company, once having read the prospectus. I have to admit he could, almost, pass for a Gentleman were the scrutiny not too exacting.