Gilou (Part one) by Dave Rigby

It took him the best part of three days to reach London, sleeping out under the stars, the dog on guard.

It was the first time he’d ever set foot in the capital. His friend Jonas had told him about the inn by the river, cheap but clean, wholesome food and wholesome ale, which was more than could be said for many a hostelry.

There was a glimpse of the Thames from the attic bedroom window and he caught sight of a boat moving slowly upstream. Lying on the bed with only his boots removed, Ork re-read the letter, whilst Digger slept on the threadbare rug.

The script was neat, the letters well-formed. There was the occasional word that Ork had difficulty with, but after a moment’s reflection he recalled the meaning. The pamphlet was in the pocket of his jacket.

The staircase was steep and twisting, unlit, without a handrail. He felt his way to the bottom, before taking his seat in the dimly-lit snug. A tankard of porter was placed on his table, alongside a platter of bread, cheese and pickles. He was famished, his first proper meal for three days.

The candle guttered, as two men entered the snug, the first tall and thin with a shock of red hair and the second smaller, wiry, dark-haired.

    “Mr Ork?” the taller man asked.

    “Just Ork” was the reply. “And you are Gilou?”

    “No, my friend here is Gilou. He speaks no English. I have been travelling with him since he arrived from Holland, his guide you could say. My name is Tawse, Henry Tawse.”

Ork spoke to the Frenchman in his own language, asking him about his journey from Paris. Gilou told him he’d only just managed to escape the authorities and his route had taken him by way of Lille, Antwerp and Rotterdam and thence by boat to the Thames. He asked Ork where he had learnt his French.

    “From my mother. She was French and we always spoke the language at home. When I was young, it was better than my English. Some people tell me that is still the case.” Ork smiled and Gilou chuckled.

More drinks and more food arrived. Ork closed the inner door, saying one could never be sure who might be listening, who might be spying for the Government. He pulled the pamphlet from his pocket, smoothed it out on the table, then read it aloud to Gilou, translating as he went.

    “This is excellent,” Gilou said. “You seem to have an instinctive understanding of where I and many of my compatriots stand. We supported the revolution, but then things changed when the zealots and the madmen took over. Now Paris is a foul place to be amidst the Great Terror. But if we can help you here….” He took a long drink from his tankard. “Your ale is excellent, better than ours, but you cheese is strange.” That chuckle again. The man’s face was drawn, a scar crossed his left cheek and the dull vestige of bruising still coloured his forehead.

When he heard the knock on the door, Ork swiftly plucked the pamphlet from the table, slipping it into his jacket pocket, before the door opened to reveal a uniformed man, with small piggy eyes.

    “We have reports of French being spoken here. We cannot be too careful. We know how quickly the revolutionary contagion can spread. What have you to say?” The question was addressed to Ork, but it was Tawse who answered.

    “This man here is a French émigré” he said, pointing to Gilou. “He has managed to escape from revolutionary France, to the safety of Albion. But he speaks no English and my friend here, who is a teacher of the French language, is acting as interpreter.” He spoke with confident authority. The uniformed man hesitated, muttered something under his breath, turned and left the room.

    “We can be sure he will be back” Ork said quietly. “I suggest we conclude our contentious business as quickly as possible."

They agreed arrangements for the meeting in a tavern in Southwark. Ork would ask a printer friend to produce copies of the pamphlet. Word would be spread only through trusted groups of the Corresponding Society.

With the dog to heel, the three of them walked along the riverside, breathing in the night air, the moonlight fleeting and the wind strong. They talked of Rameau and Vivaldi, of Rousseau and Voltaire and the pleasures of a good Bordeaux.

There was no warning. Ork was the first to be seized, Tawse the second. Gilou was suddenly nowhere to be seen.