Free The Last English Poachers by Bob and Brian Tovey

the West Indies, and one to Ireland. The trial of the other eleven is held at the Lent Assizes in Gloucester and lasts three days. The prisoners are all found guilty, even though there’s no
hard evidence against any of them. John Allen and another man called John Penny are hanged at Gloucester Gaol and the other nine transported for life to Van Diemen’s Land in one of the
harshest parts of Australia. Most people at the time believe this to be a grave miscarriage of justice, but Colonel Berkeley and Lord Ducie don’t care much about that – the colonel even
has a painting made, showing the ‘heroic’ foresters clashing with the ‘evil’ poachers, and he hangs it in the breakfast room at Berkeley Castle. Some of the men convicted
are young, almost as young as I am now, but neither the law nor the lords care about such things. A poacher’s neither a boy nor a man – he’s just a dirty poacher. As far as I
know, John Allen’s buried in the churchyard of the village of Stone, near the Little Avon River.
    Thoughts like this come crossing my mind and I know the earl will be hopping mad for us getting one over on him earlier. So if he or his men come upon us, it’ll go hard on us and
we’ll most likely be laid up in hospital for a few days. And there’ll be no point bringing charges for assault because the village police have nothing better to do than to arrest us
poachers and bring us in front of the magistrates. So, if we get caught and beat up, which is likely because Bob has a temper and won’t back down from no man, if we complain about it
we’ll get charged with poaching and brought to court and the keepers will get off scot-free and the police will get a pat on the back and a nice warm feeling that they’ve done something
to please the lord.
    We’re carrying two postbags apiece, one over each shoulder. Bob gets them from the postman for a couple of rabbits. They’re canvas-made and big and deep and as good as the deep
pockets in a poacher’s coat. And you can hide them easy if you have to make a run for it. As we come out of the fields of maize and make our way into the woods, I hear an unusual sound, like
a deep meowing – a sound like a feral cat makes, only more of a growl – hollow, low-pitched. I touch Bob’s shoulder and whisper.
    ‘Did you hear that?’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘Don’t know.’
    We move forward quietly, to where the pheasants are roosting. They’re up in some blackthorn bushes and Bob shines his small torch up there. That’s all he needs. A powerful
lamp’s like a searchlight in the sky and can be seen for miles, so all he needs is this small torch to find them. We have no dog with us tonight and, when he shoots a bird, I have to retrieve
it from the bushes. I got to be careful and not get ripped and torn by the thorns and not to cry out if I do. The .410’s a small shotgun and only makes a little noise, not like a 12-bore or a
big 10-bore used for wildfowling, so we’re hoping we won’t be heard until we have our bag and are away. I’ve already been out here before it got dark, finding where the birds are
roosting. I marked the spots with scrunched-up bits of paper – something a gamekeeper won’t notice as a marker. Now Bob knows the trees and bushes the pheasants are in and he can shoot
them quick and be away before anyone’s the wiser.
    I’m retrieving the birds, but it’s dark and I run straight into a blackberry bush and get tangled up in it. Bob puts down the gun and helps me out by cutting the bushes away with his
knife. It’s another lesson I’ve learned: to be careful and not be too quick to rush in. The four postbags are full with about two-dozen pheasant and it’s time to make our way back
to the bicycles. Woods are different in the dark than they are during the day; it’s easy to get disorientated and lose your way. But Bob’s an excellent poacher and he has a great sense
of direction, just like an animal, and he’s