The Ballad of John Clare by Hugh Lupton Page A

no great mind. But now he was not surprised to find blood on the wall. He put down his musket and dipped his finger into a little pool of it that was held in a cup in the stone. He licked his finger. The blood was fresh. He picked up the gun and scrambled over the wall. There was a trail of dripped blood across the road. He followed it to the hawthorns. The smell of the butchering was still strong. With the barrel of his gun he pushed aside the brambles and saw the stag’s head with its antlers sawn off at the root, the white, curved, bloody bones of the spine like a notched bow. He saw the hooves and lower legs, the purple of the stomach and the grey tangle of the guts. He reached down and touched them. They were still warm.
    By the light of the sinking moon it was easy to see the path the poachers had followed. The long grass was broken where they’d skirted the edge of the Castor fields. He followed, keeping low, running as fast as he could with his head and shoulders held below the height of the bean stalks. It was as he approached Emmonsales Heath that he caught his first glimpse of them. There were six in all, they were more ambling than hurrying. They were carrying bags on their backs. Will snorted.
    “We all know what’s in those, by God .”
    He ran forwards again and crouched low behind a clump of gorse. He could see the last of them clearly in the moonlight. He was carrying the rolled deer-hide on his back. Will leaned forwards to look more closely. The shift of his weight snapped a twig beneath his foot. The poacher turned at the sound and glanced over his shoulder. Will Bloodworth, in that moment, saw his face as clear as day: the black hair, the long face with its quick, dark-lashed eyes. It was the gypsy whelp. It was Wisdom Boswell.
    There was a grim resolution writ upon Will’s countenance that bordered on contentment, as though something beneath his skin that had twisted him into mis-shape had been laid straight again. He crouched behind the gorse bush until the Boswell Crew were out of sight. Then he turned and ran back to the estate.
    The moon had set now and the sky was bright with stars. Will knew where he was going. He crossed the road and as he approached the estate wall he lifted his gun to his shoulder and fired it into the air. Then he re-loaded, ramming the new shot into place, tamping it with wadding. He fired again. He reloaded a second time. He clambered over the wall and ran between the trees and across the open parkland towards Milton Hall.
    Soon he heard the sound he’d been expecting:
    “Hulloa! ”
    Dark figures were approaching him.
    “Who goes there?”
    “’Tis I, Will, Will Bloodworth.”
    “We heard shots.”
    Will drew up to them, panting for breath.
    “Poachers, six of ‘em.”
    “Did ye stop them?”
    “No. They stopped me. One of them turned his damned musket on me.”
    “What! Are ye hurt?”
    “No, they missed by a whisker, I felt the wind of it against my cheek.”
    “Thank God for that Will, what did they take?”
    “A buck. They were climbing the wall with it when I first clapped eyes on them.”
    “Go back to the hall Will, you’ll be shook up. We’ll see if we can’t catch ‘em.”
    They began to make their way towards the wood.
    “I saw his face,” Will called over his shoulder, “I saw the face of the one with the gun, I saw him as clear as day, ‘tis etched on my memory.”
    “Ay Will, and if we can catch him we’ll see him swing.”
    The keepers tramped into the shadows and were swallowed by the trees. But without a moon there was small chance of them finding the trail that Will had followed. By dawn they’d returned to the hall empty-handed.

    *******

    Morning is come now. Will Bloodworth is being shook out of his short slumber by one of his fellow keepers.
    “Will, wake up!”
    He sits up and rubs his eyes.
    “The Earl of Fitzwilliam has sent to Helpston for the constable. He is come, Will. Get dressed. Come downstairs.”
    Will pulls