Heaven Sent by Dave Rigby

The quayside at Vlissingen was slick with fish waste, the stench almost unbearable. Away from the shelter of the warehouses, the cobbles were ice-covered. The two of them threaded a way through huddles of fishermen. Even the swirling tobacco smoke from their pipes failed to mask the smell of fish remains.

Ork’s mission to rescue his friend Gilou from the blood-soaked streets of Paris, avoid the revolutionary guards and make the long journey to the relative safety of the Low Countries had been successful.

A sea crossing lay ahead of them.

As soon as they boarded the boat, the skipper demanded payment. Arrangements for their voyage across the North Sea had been negotiated in a dark corner of Het Waterhuis the previous evening. They’d paid the agent his commission and now it was time to hand over a much bigger sum to the long-haired, bearded fisherman. Ork tried not to think about the tales he’d heard of desperate folk who’d fled France and handed over hard-earned cash, only to be left abandoned on the quayside.

But they departed the harbour without mishap.

The crew of the twenty-metre herring buss were used to fishing the Dogger Bank. But occasionally the skipper would sail further, either to raid English fishing grounds or to drop off lucrative undocumented passengers wherever they could make landfall. The speed and manoeuvrability of the boat was such that escape from any English craft in pursuit was almost a certainty.  

The swell increased as they left the Dutch coast and the buss pitched and tossed as it headed north west under a grey sky. Later the crew slept whilst the skipper and a changing watch kept the vessel on course.

While his friend rested, Ork, wrapped in two blankets, stayed wide-awake, unused to the motions of the sea, but also keen to guard their remaining valuables. He smoked and wondered about the further dangers they might face once they reached England, chief amongst these the risk of being caught by local militia on the lookout for Jacobin spies. Trying to prove Gilou was not a foreign agent, might prove extremely difficult.

+ + +

They finally reached the English coast at Filey, in the gloom of early morning. A small craft was lowered from the buss and the travellers were rowed, oars muffled, to the Coble. They watched from the landing for a moment as the tiny boat pulled away, turned to run along the beach towards the Brig, then cut off up the steep, narrow path to the clifftop.

Skirting the town, they set off along back lanes in the direction of Ork’s contact in the village of Rudston.

Once their stomachs had settled from the sea voyage, hunger hit them suddenly. Reaching into their packs, they tore chunks of bread from stale loaves, cut slices of Dutch cheese and walked as they ate, keen to put a good distance between themselves and their arrival point on the coast.

After a few miles they struck out across open country, avoiding hamlets and isolated farms. Their circuitous route meant that progress towards Rudston was slower than they’d hoped. By two in the afternoon, having just skirted the village of Wold Newton, they found themselves exhausted from the combined effects of sleeplessness and the many miles of rough ground they’d trudged. Despite the cold they decided to rest for a short while in the shelter of a small wood.  

+ + +

Ork came to with a start. There were voices close by. He moved silently to the edge of the wood and looked out across the field. A small band of militia was close by. He caught snatches of their conversation…two men…avoiding settlements…reports of a landing at Filey…can’t be far away.

He woke his companion. The land to the south, towards their destination, was open country which afforded no cover. They could hide in the wood perhaps and hope the militia moved on. But as they heard the order given to fan out and search, they realised the soldiers had other ideas.

Ork heard the men approaching, tramping across the ploughed field in heavy boots.

He had no doubt that they’d be found and captured.

An explosion! More like thunder than gunfire. Ork had never heard anything quite like it. 

Through the trees, he saw a dark shape fall through the air and hit the ground.

Another almighty sound, smoke billowing, sudden heat.

The men in uniforms didn’t wait for an order. They fled screaming across the field and were gone.

Ork and Gilou dashed out of the wood. What seemed like a huge stone lay, still smoking, in a crater. Ork had read about the outlandish theory that such rocks were from space. To him it seemed perfectly believable.

    “Heaven sent” he said to Gilou as they set off at pace across open land towards safety.

Footnote

At around 3:00pm on the 13^th December 1795, a meteorite landed in a field close to the Yorkshire village of Wold Newton. A plaque on the commemorative monument reads as follows:

Here on this Spot, Decr. 13^th, 1795 Fell from the Atmosphere an EXTRAORDINARY STONE In Breadth 28 inches In Length 36 inches and Whole Weight was 56 pounds.