Free The Monmouth Summer by Tim Vicary Page A

thin lips. His old, faded coat and boots made him look like a farmer, which he was, in a sense; but a farmer who owned more than one farm in Colyton and over towards Honiton. Roger Satchell could have had a life of relative ease had he wished, for he was wealthier than any other man in the barn that night. But he was known for a plain, hardworking, religious man, not given to fine clothes or display, and Ann guessed that it was probably true that he felt more at home in his farms and the meeting-houses of the dissenters than in the mansions of his Tory neighbours or in his private pew in the church. He took the straw out of his mouth slowly as he looked round at those who were listening, checking that he knew them all before he spoke.
    "Aye, friends. I've had a letter from Thomas Dare of Taunton, who's been over to Holland these past few months, as some of you know. It says we shall have a good hay harvest this year."
    "So? What do Thomas Dare know about hay harvests? He's a goldsmith, isn't he?" rumbled John Spragg.
    "Just so, John. But he couldn't write more plain in a letter, now, could he, when all the magistrates have been opening the mails these months past? 'Twas a code agreed between us afore he went. He says too, that in Holland they don't go to cut a hayfield straight across, from one side to t'other, like we do; they goes about it different. One lot of reapers starts from the west, and another from the north, and they do work towards each other to meet in the centre." He stopped, and smiled at the puzzled faces around him.
    "And what do you suppose 'e means by all that, then?" asked John Clapp, a big, red-faced man who stood next to Adam and like him earned his living as a small mercer and carrier. "To tell us that the ale in Holland be too strong for 'is brains?"
    "No, not that, John - 'tis a code, I told 'ee. The ones that start in the north, they'll be the Scots, won't they? The duke of Argyll, as I do guess, who's been over to Holland these past few months, looking for men. And those that start in the west - that's us, isn't it?" Roger Satchell smiled, a thin, cautious smile in his lean brown face, and drew the folded letter from his pocket.
    "He says more, see, and to the point - he reckons the end of June or the first week in July do be the best time for this sort of harvesting, for that's when it's easiest to get the two lots of mowers to start together. So folks as might want to harvest the Dutch way should start sharpening their scythes now, and fixin' 'em to longer poles, too. And more - he hopes to bring a friend over from Holland about that time, to show us how to do it. 'Tis plain enough what he means now, is it not, friends?" Roger Satchell smiled triumphantly, and looked around for confirmation.
    "Plain enough indeed," said Adam cautiously. "Let's hope the letter wasn't opened on the way.”
    "No fear of that, Adam. 'Tis his own seal, and unbroken."
    "Then he means for us to arm, and be ready," said John Spragg firmly. "But do 'e go so far as to say exactly where these friends of his will land?"
    "No," said Roger Satchell, putting the letter away. "No word of that, other than 'twill be somewhere in the west. But that's where it should be, for the Duke has most support here, they say."
    "Let's hope he comes with a strong force then, that we may make hay quickly," said Adam, and felt at once that the fervency with which he had said the words was somehow too great, too strongly felt. But no-one seemed to notice. His old friend William Clegg smiled at him, his leathery face creasing in a mass of wrinkles.
    "He'll do that all right, Adam, if he's thinking of cutting a hayfield as big as Roger says. But I reckon this new way of haymaking won't take too long to learn - and then us'll get up and show they Timewells and Poles summat!"
    "He will have the Lord on his side," intoned Israel Fuller firmly. "He will send the chariot of the Lord of Hosts among them, and they shall be scattered, even as leaves before