BY MIKE McKENNA
Several of you are likely to have passed a fairly undistinguished looking public house en route to your regular Creative Writing Group sessions called ‘The Royal Oak’ situated near Aughton. You may even have graced its doors for a libation or two. Apparently there are about 500 so named in Britain.
But I’m in danger of getting ahead of myself and need to take you back in time. So first things first, my name is Charles, my surname is not relevant at the moment. So, Charles it is.
In the very early days of September I found myself in Worcester. I had come to meet an acquaintance of mine called Oliver. I say acquaintance, but in truth we never actually met, although our lives were inextricably linked, but we had little in common apart from deep hostility and loathing. Thirty one years separated us and Oliver had but seven years to the day before his shrivelled soul would depart from his body. You may think that ‘shrivelled’ is a harsh term for a Christian man to use, but ask any Irishman or woman and they would heartily agree to the accompaniment of curses and oaths.
But I must return to this day in early September. I think I’ve revealed enough of my opinion of Oliver.
Indeed, such was our loathing of each other that we both saw fit to surround ourselves with trusty companions. In my case there were 16,000 ‘companions’ which by any stretch of the imagination is a great deal of companions. They came mostly from Scotland and Worcester and the surroundings were to them a foreign country.
Oliver saw fit to bring 28,000 ‘companions’ with him. Almost double the amount I could call upon. And as it turned out that superiority in numbers was impossible to overcome. Even though we had right on our side. They say that God works in mysterious ways and that day was a case in point.
We toiled for many hours, too many to recall with any accuracy, but sufficient for some 3,000 of my brave supporters to perish. Many times greater than Oliver’s supporters suffered.
When the outcome was becoming ever more apparent some of my closest allies persuaded me that caution rather than obstinate and futile bravery was the only recourse open to me. I had to flee the battlefield. At first I resisted. The sight of so many doomed, dead and bloodied companions was more than I could stand. But I was eventually persuaded and seizing a lull in the skirmishes nearby, we slipped undetected off the main road and into the concealing shelter of a dense wood.
In the weeks that followed. Weeks full of terror and deprivation I became a fugitive in my own country, hunted by Oliver’s followers and sympathisers. I could trust no one.
There was a price on my head. Enough money to keep the locals in food and drink for months. And the description of the ‘tall black man upwards of two yards high’ was posted in all the surrounding towns and villages.
That brief description was sufficient to arouse any suspicion and it was necessary for me to wear borrowed, rough labourers clothing, blacken my face with soot and suffer torn and bleeding feet wearing only makeshift, ill fitting shoes. A far cry from my customary apparel.
But despite the reward for betrayal there were many, nameless for obvious reasons, who risked their lives to conceal my presence. But one family I cannot avoid disclosing were instrumental in my eventual escape. They were the Penderell brothers. Five of them and all devout Catholics. They owned a sprawling manor called ‘Whiteladies’ in Shropshire and there I hid for several tense days and nights.
But Oliver’s men were making increasingly exhaustive searches in the surrounding countryside. The Penderell’s religious allegiance was well known and they knew it would not be long before their home was exhaustively searched and my presence discovered.
And so at the Pendrell’s suggestion, along with a certain Major William Careless, later to become a Colonel, it was decided that we two should hide in the nearby Boscobel Wood until the searches subsided. And so with no more than a two day ration of cheese, bread and a flagon of beer we fled to that dense forest, more in despair than hope.
As we beat a path towards the centre of the wood we heard voices, dogs barking and the sound of bushes being beaten with sticks or clubs. Our pursuers were getting ever closer.
At Major Careless’s urging we climbed up into a large oak tree. I was too exhausted to manage it myself and but for his strength and assistance I would have remained rooted to the ground. But with some difficulty he hoisted me up onto a sturdy branch. As I mentioned earlier I was exhausted and despite the peril I was in I quickly fell asleep on my new friend’s sturdy arm.
At nightfall we deemed it prudent to climb down from our unlikely sanctuary and seek permanent safety.
And that’s how I ended up, up in a tree.
Last Updated on August 10, 2022