The Secret of Kit Cavenaugh E-Book

Anne Holland

• Herausgeber: The Collins Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Christian – 'Kit' – Cavenaugh, born in 1667 in Dublin, grew up on a Leixlip farm. A dragoon in the Marlborough Wars, Kit led an adventurous life, courting women, fighting duels and arguing a paternity suit before the truth became known: Kit was a woman. After her husband and father of her three children, Richard Welsh, was press-ganged into the English army to fight in the European wars of the early eighteenth century, Kit disguised herself as a man and enlisted to find him. When she finally came face to face with Richard in 1704 she was enraged to find him in the arms of a Dutch woman. Kit's adventures did not end there ...

Leseprobe

About the author

ANNE HOLLAND grew up in Tunbridge Wells and went to school at Battle Abbey on the site of the Battle of Hastings where her love of history began. She has written over twenty books, including bestsellers such as Sea The Stars. Her most recent book, Winners All, was published in 2012. Anne trained as a journalist and contributed for thirty years to many publications and to radio and television. She now lives in rural County Westmeath.

www.annehollandauthor.com

CONTENTS

Preface

Acknowledgements

PART I

1:

The tomboy

2:

Sickles and scythes

3:

The Battle of the Boyne

4:

That inestimable jewell

5:

Love and reason seldom agree

PART II

6:

The fickle goddess

7:

A soldier’s life

8:

I heard the cannon play

9:

Courting a girl and fighting a duel

10:

Becoming a Dragoon; and a ‘father’

11:

Corporal John

12:

The long march

13:

Injured in action

14:

The big one looms

15:

The Battle of Blenheim

16:

Battle of the sexes

PART III

17:

My pretty dragoon

18:

Domestic drama

19:

Devotion and danger

20:

Smuggling and foraging

21:

He would fain tell you his master is dead

22:

A slippery slope

Appendix

Bibliography

PREFACE

DURING A VISIT to the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards museum in Edinburgh Castle, I saw a small item on display referring to ‘Mother Ross’, a woman who had enlisted as a soldier in order to search for her press-ganged husband. Subsequently, she was wounded three times while serving as a soldier before her sex was discovered, and that set my mind ticking ‘story’. Further research included reading a book in Oxford’s Bodleian Library, originally published in 1740 and purportedly written by Mother Ross (Kit Cavenaugh) herself. Here indeed was a story of adventure, danger, villainy; jealousy, love, human frailty and heartbreak, and it provides the main source for this book.

During the course of my research, I have visited the site of the Battle of the Boyne a few times, sailed to Williamstadt (where Kit landed), and retraced the full 250 miles of the Long March across the Low Countries, over the Rhine and Moselle, through the mountains, on to the Danube and the little village of Blenheim (Blindheim); although driving along the autobahn in a thunderstorm, lashing rain, lightning and intimidating juggernauts left me thinking the march, from dawn till 9 a.m. each day, then free time, was almost more attractive.

This was back in the 1990s when I inveigled a friend, Sue, to join me. At Hochstadt we were given a private viewing of a detailed model reconstruction of the battle, and at Tapfheim we climbed the church tower from where Marlborough and Prince Eugene had viewed the field of the impending battle. We also visited the battle sites of Ramillies, Oudenarde and Malplaquet, most of them now, like Blenheim itself, just farmland. I also visited Blenheim Palace, where the tapestries convey contemporary pictorial records of the battle; old ships at Portsmouth; the archives of the National Army Museum, London; and the Victoria & Albert Museum in London.

Some reports say Mother Ross was interred in the burial ground of London’s Chelsea Hospital with military honours; others, that it was more likely to have been at St Margaret’s, Westminster. According to Christine Reynolds of Westminster Abbey Library, the latter was not her final resting place. I have also seen the written entry of her admission to Chelsea from the War Office records held in the National Archives at Kew, courtesy of Alastair Massie of the National Army Museum. Page 289 records: ‘Grant of Chelsea pension to woman who served as soldier within Flanders, 1717.’ G.R. Gleig in 1838 quoted her admission from a ‘list of old admissions into Chelsea Hospital’ as ‘19 November, 1717. Stair’s Dragoons, Catherine Welsh, a fatt jolly-breast woman, received several wounds in the service, in the habit of a man; from 19 July 1717.’

It has been said that her account may have been written by Daniel Defoe but this seems unlikely, and the claim has been questioned by, amongst others, Dianne Dugaw, who supplied the entry on her in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. The story of Kit Cavenaugh is an unusual yarn and it is quite possible, indeed probable, that she herself had a vivid imagination, and there are a number of anomalies in her text, but we do know that her tale is based on fact. Laugh with her, weep for her, love her – or not – this is her story, and I hope you will enjoy reading about her adventurous life as much as I have been absorbed in writing it.

This is a story of actual events written in the creative non-fiction style. There are no fictional characters in the book and direct speech is taken either directly, or adapted, from the memoir published in 1740 of Kit’s life, or by using plausible conjecture relevant to a given scene. Scenes are dramatised using settings, personal gestures, and internal thoughts of characters. Details of clothing, military training and so on are described from contemporary records.

A. H. 2013

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I WOULD LIKE to acknowledge the help of so many supportive people, not least my publisher The Collins Press for enabling me to fulfil my dream of writing this story; thanks to Sue Parrish who has urged me to do it ever since that memorable trip together across Europe, retracing the Long March. I owe particular thanks to James Faulkner; and to the following individuals and institutions:

Blenheim (Blindheim) Museum, Hochstadt; the Bodleian Library, University of Oxford; the Brazen Head, Dublin; Turtle Bunbury; Laura Card, Christine Reynolds and Mark Smith of the Royal Hospital, Chelsea; John Colgan; Grattan de Courcy Wheeler; Colonel Charles Delamain; Patricia Donohue; Dianne Dugaw; Major J. M. K. Erskine; John Gibney; Peter Gibson; Theresa Harris; the Battle of the Boyne Visitor Centre, Oldbridge, County Meath; Ruth Illingworth; Irish Writers’ Union; Morgan Llewellyn; Michael McCann; Major Robin Maclean of the Scot’s Grey’s Museum, Edinburgh Castle; Alastair Massie of the National Army Museum, Chelsea; Ita O’Driscoll; Jane Ohlmeyer; Royal Scots Dragoon Guards Museum; Dr Chris Scott; Patsy Smiles; Tony Stapleton; The Tyrone Guthrie Centre; and the Westmeath County Council Arts Office.

PART I

1

THE TOMBOY

‘DO THAT AGAIN!’

Kit looked up startled, quickly pulled her skirt around her, and gasped at the sight above.

She and her four friends had been somersaulting down the lush green hill, giggling and as skittish as wild young colts at play. They had not noticed the nobleman watching from the road above. His coach was drawn by six magnificent grey horses, and his coat of arms was embossed on the side. But it was at the horses that Kit looked, mesmerised.

‘Do you hear me? I say do it again!’

He saw them hesitate.

‘I’ll give you money.’

Kit looked at the earl. His clothes were colourful and expensively cut, and he wore a shoulder-length wig. He had had a bird’s-eye view, and he wanted a repeat performance, bare bottoms and all.

‘How much?’ Kit called.

‘Half a crown.’

The girls conferred. Still they were undecided. The youngest started to walk away, thinking the showing of their backsides indecent; others were probably afraid that they might offend the nobleman. Did Kit urge them to do it again for the cash? Quite probably, for we shall see that her love of money was central to her character. One of Kit’s friends urged propriety.

‘Don’t do it again, Kit,’ she pleaded, ‘he’ll see us. Come on.’

But Kit tossed her hair and looked sidelong at the nobleman. No amount of finery would – could – make this man handsome, but Kit was looking beyond him at his six horses. All of them were grey – pure white really – and they were handsome.

Kit had, unusually, been well educated: ‘my parents were both very tender of me, and spared no cost in my education.’ She could read proficiently and was an able seamstress, but while Kit’s friends were probably demurely learning to spin and weave, earning good money from woollen goods, Kit preferred to tend the sheep that produced the wool.

The word ‘tomboy’ could have been invented for Kit. She loved nothing more than to tramp on the moor, to ride, or to work on the farm near the village of Leixlip, with its medieval castle and Protestant church, ten miles west of Dublin. She would guide the plough or wield a flail or pitchfork with, in her words, as much if not more strength and dexterity than any of her mother’s servants. She shepherded the flock, checked none were injured or flyblown – and doubtless treated them better than any of the servants if they were. Good farmhands were scarce. Kit relished the challenge of rebuilding the dairy herd after last year’s dread disease, of nurturing the land that grew the corn, and of riding around the countryside on her father’s horses.

Kit ignored the other girls’ pleadings. Avarice overtook modesty.

‘Make it a crown!’ Kit looked directly at the nobleman.

She saw him waver. ‘Do you want us to do it?’

He chucked down a crown and Kit stooped to pick up the newly minted coin bearing the date of 1685. ‘One for each of us!’

He agreed and the girls repeated their performance, some against their will, but for Kit it was with carefree abandon. All she felt was the warmth of the sun against her body, the rush of blood to her head, and the thrill of increasing speed as she neared the bottom of the hill, with the smell of the summer grass and wild thyme that was released by their cavorting.

The nobleman kept his word and threw the remaining crowns over the hedge, to land at the girls’ feet on the hill below him.

Stories like this abound in The Life and Adventures of Mrs Christian Davies, commonly call’d Mother Ross, published in 1740, a year after her death.

Christian – Kit – was born in Dublin in 1667, seven years after the Restoration of the monarchy, one year after the Great Fire of London, and 21 years before the Glorious Revolution that was to affect her life so drastically.

Kit ran for home, all the while whooping with joy as she imagined she was galloping on one of those magnificent grey beasts. She loved the freedom and the speed as her slender legs carried her effortlessly down the narrow road. It was flanked on both sides by high banks. On one side a flock of sheep was grazing in the field that led down to the willow-lined brook, the River Rye, while on the other the corn was ripening.

Kit, her body as lithe as a youth’s, knew she should be more ladylike. She tried to be, for her mother’s sake. But after an hour of struggling with needle and thread, or practising her chords, she always slipped out to the farm again. Anyway, she told herself, Mother needs my help out there with Father away in Dublin all week. He rented the farm off Arthur Whyte, whose family owned Leixlip Castle, for £80 a year, which his wife managed ‘with great prudence and economy’.

Kit’s family lived in what was probably a substantial farmhouse, believed to be on the hill above the village, close to where the Royal Canal now carves its way through the countryside. If the farmhouse was typical of the time, then Kit, returning from her high jinks, would have run through an entrance flanked by stone pillars and down a tree-lined drive elated, probably breathlessly clutching her crown. Around the corner stood the square-set stone farmhouse with its grey slate roof, big chimneys and leaded windows. She paused outside to rinse her hands in the stone water trough fed by a tiny brook. She loved listening to the water bubbling over the stones when she lay quietly in her chamber at night.

Across the yard from the house were the stables and the cow byre, their aroma adding pungency to the warm summer evening. She turned towards the oak front door and breezed into the cool stone farmhouse, straightening her hair and skirt with one smooth, practised sweep, already forgetting the nobleman, but not his magnificent horses.

‘Mother!’ She knew she’d find her mother in the study, sitting in the creaking, leather-bound chair at her desk, a pile of farm papers in front of her. ‘I think we’ll be able to cut the oats by the sheep next week, if this weather holds. It’s shaping up nicely.’

Mrs Cavanaugh turned slowly and looked at her daughter.

‘What have you been up to? You look more dishevelled than usual. Go and see what the maid’s preparing in the kitchen, will you, dear? I don’t want to be too late eating tonight, your father’s coming home and bringing a guest with him. And check the spare chamber’s been made up ready.’

It took a lot to fluster Kit’s mother, but Kit knew something was wrong now. Her grey hair was pinned back neatly as usual, and her plain, full-skirted grey linen dress was clean and crisply pressed, the white lace collar and cuffs being its only concession to prettiness. If anything, her deepening wrinkles increased the pleasantness of her normally rosy-cheeked face. But now it was pale and drawn.

During the week Kit’s father ran a successful brewery in the centre of Dublin, close to the various new merchants’ halls.

Dublin had several hundred breweries producing a variety of beers for the 1,500 or so ale houses and taverns that served a population of over 50,000. Kit’s father’s worked hard and made a good living, employing some 20 servants; Kit described him as ‘remarkable for industry and vigilance in his affairs’.

She may have enjoyed occasional trips into Dublin with him; certainly she was to display a sharp business acumen in later life. She admired her parents, and wrote that through their probity they were highly respected by those around them, a respect which ‘they had no claim to from their birth’. They were to imbue their daughter with their work ethic, but never rid her of her sense of adventure. Their Christian names are unknown; Kit never mentions them. We do know, however, that the nearby Confey graveyard includes a John and Edward Cavanagh, and there is another headstone in nearby Kilcock in memory of Charles and Mary Cavanagh, who died in 1715.

In spite of her parents’ example of hard work and upright behaviour, Kit could not resist behaving in an unladylike manner, none more so than when it came to riding horses. She would jump up on to them and ride them bareback around the fields, jumping hedges and ditches as she galloped.

There was one particularly fine and fiery horse that no other girl would venture near, which made Kit show off to her friends all the more. No one else could catch him, for he would gallop and dart this way and that, but Kit, with a few oats or a piece of bread in her hand to persuade him, had often done so. She would slip a bridle over his head, stand him in a ditch and from her vantage point on the bank would vault on to his back. Sometimes she would saddle him up and draw and snap pistols, and often ‘made my friends apprehend for my life’. She would ride for miles, galloping and jumping across the farm, and doubtless rode along the banks of the Rye to the Liffey. There, she might pause and ponder the mighty 16-foot salmon leap (now submerged to create a 100-acre lake for generating electricity) from which Leixlip gets its name.

Kit might cross the dark, deep river by an old stone bridge that was humpbacked and just wide enough to take a cart, little tufts of grass growing in the middle. She might pull up and peer over the parapet into the deep, still pool, and then look beyond it to where outcrops of rocks caused the water to tumble and surf on its way to Dublin and the sea. Sometimes, when her eyes had adjusted, she could see trout in the pool, almost stationary, their mouths opening and closing in steady rhythm. In autumn she would have seen the salmon leaping up the waterfall as the white water tumbled down over them. Beyond the bridge there was a grassy bank between clumps of gorse and sometimes Kit might sit there for a while in the sunshine, eating a hunk of bread and letting her horse nibble at the short, sweet grass. Sometimes she may have dropped a piece of bread into the water and watched, mesmerised, as the smooth surface boiled over with ripples as shoals of tiny fish vied with each other over the unexpected manna.

One day, she took a grey mare that her grandfather had given to her brother (the only time he is mentioned, and we do not know whether she had other siblings) and, tempted as usual to jump whatever obstacle lay in her way, she ‘took a terrible fall’ in a dry ditch and injured the mare. One of the farmhands witnessed it, and to keep it a secret from her father she was obliged to buy him a cup of ale every night for a considerable time.

The crop had ripened and Kit was stacking wheat on top of a pile ‘near 54 foot high’, giving her a view of the surrounding countryside. It was August 1685. Leixlip was nestled at the bottom of the hill and in the distance she would have been able to see the spire of the church in Lucan, the two villages linked by the River Liffey. She paused to wind a kerchief around her mouth and nose to protect them from the dust. It was a long, hot summer and the grain was coming off well.

Below her, to the right of the stack, her mother was one of a group of women binding the corn into stooks, bent low so the fronts of their skirts skimmed the dusty ground. Like this, her mother could have been just one of the workers, instead of their conscientious and prudent employer. The men pitched the stooks up to Kit on top of the stack. It was imperative to get in the crop before it was ruined by rain. But a distant drumming caught Kit’s ears, like a roll of thunder. It went again, a steady beat, and this time Kit caught a flash of steel in the sunlight. From her vantage point she was the first to see the men cresting the brow of the hill.

First came bobbing, splendidly bewigged heads, and then a splash of gold and silver coats as they rose further into view. She saw their horses sending out a cloud of dust behind them, their necks arched and their heads held high. They jogged rhythmically in time to the music, tossing their manes, alive and on their mettle. The riders were as fine as any she had ever seen. The martial music stirred Kit’s blood and her imagination. One can picture her waving an imaginary musket in the air, longing to be down there with them astride a noble steed. There were noblemen and esquires, all in their finest clothes, with bright red frock coats dripping with gold-braided trimmings and ermine collars and cuffs. At their head, on a sturdy, dapple-grey horse, was the drummer. The trumpeter, astride a bright chestnut horse with flaxen mane and tail, added to the rousing cacophony with notes so high and clear that they willed anyone who could hear them to listen and take note of their chief crier, whose words were echoed by the noblemen in chorus.

‘King James!’ they proclaimed.

Caught up in the excitement, Kit leapt down from the stack and ran towards them, She jumped over a five-barred gate, calling to her mother as she ran, imagining ‘every man there at least a prince’.

Only when she reached the roadside did Kit notice that her mother, instead of lining the route with the rest of the workers and joining in their cheers, was walking swiftly in the opposite direction towards their home, her head bowed and her shoulders stooped as she cried floods of tears. She ‘went back and wept bitterly for some time, but would never tell me the reason for her tears’.

2

SICKLES AND SCYTHES

THREE SHORT YEARS later, the new king was deposed.

At first, Mrs Cavenaugh’s fears had appeared unfounded. Ireland seemed stable and prosperous, but the reign of a Catholic king had made Protestants in both Ireland and England uneasy. He was seen as a potential saviour by many of Ireland’s Catholics, especially those who had been dispossessed of their land, and who felt that James might yet restore them to what they had lost. His viceroy Richard Talbot, earl of Tyrconnell, began slowly but surely to strip Protestants of their positions in the army and government, replacing them with Catholics. But all this began to change in 1688, when matters came to a head in England, and James’s rule ended, thanks to the ‘Glorious Revolution’; his English subjects made clear their distaste for his rule and James, facing the reality of his unpopularity, fled to France. His Dutch Protestant son-in-law, William of Orange ultimately took the English throne, and a Protestant dynasty was restored.

But on 12 March 1689 James landed at Kinsale, having been encouraged by the French to return to Ireland to fight for his three kingdoms. Ireland found itself giving refuge to the English monarch who was still technically its king. James’s arrival split loyalties across Ireland: it terrified most of his Protestant subjects and gave heart to his Catholics ones. More and more people began voicing their concerns, and even taking sides. Sometimes the restlessness and unease spilled over into something more than just marching round menacingly, chanting and waving pitchforks, as Kit was to discover.

One can imagine the scene and sense of shock when Mr Cavenaugh made a certain announcement to his family.

The meal that night was probably a subdued, tense affair. A hog roasted over a desultory fire and the smell of its juices, as they dripped into the pan beneath, failed to whet the appetites of those around the long oak refectory table. Conversation was formal and stilted, and a weight seemed to lie over the usually light-hearted household.

After the meal Mr Cavenaugh called his family around him in the study. A flame in the fire flickered and died, as if to draw attention to the speaker. Mrs Cavenaugh sat in a leather-bound chair, while Kit sat on a wooden stool, her brother standing behind her. The spinet, with its 61 notes of ebony and ivory, stood neglected in one corner, by the casement window. No one would be playing it tonight. Mr Cavenaugh stood at his wife’s side, one hand resting on her shoulder, and faced his children.

He went straight to the point.

‘I am throwing my lot in with James,’ he announced. A log in the fire hissed, sending a spit on to the floor that Kit quickly put out with her heel, but not before it had singed the edge of the mat, making Mrs Cavenaugh wrinkle her nose. Otherwise her face, drawn and pale, remained expressionless as her husband continued to speak.

‘I’m raising a troop of horse.’

‘But father, we’re Protestants and he’s . . .’

Mr Cavenaugh drew himself up to his full height. ‘My daughter, for once I don’t care. It is James, and James only in the last several hundred years, who has treated this country fairly.

‘You don’t remember the horrors of Cromwell’s time, but many of us do. It was through him that your mother’s parents settled here, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about what his Puritans did to this country and its people, Papists and Protestant.’

‘No, William of Orange can make all the promises he likes of how he will help us but I, for one, don’t believe him. We’ve heard it all before, and of them all, only James kept his word.

‘He deserves our loyalty in return, and if we don’t give it to him Dublin will be lost and much more besides.’

Until now the conflict had little affected their lives. The farm was thriving. Hearsay concerning William’s ambitions was one thing, but now the family was suddenly becoming embroiled in the war that was on the verge of erupting.

Mrs Cavenaugh, as ever, said very little. But her face gave away many of her thoughts. Her cheeks were wrinkled, worry lines furrowed her brow, and her eyes were dull, almost misted.

Mr Cavenaugh continued. ‘I’ll be taking our best horse for my own personal use.’

At this, Kit could not prevent a gasp. That was her favourite horse. She covered her mouth with her hand and continued to listen.

‘Kit, I want you to look after your mother and help on the farm . . .’

‘I do already.’

‘Don’t be impertinent. You’ve been lucky enough to have a better education than most young women. Don’t waste it. Oh, and by the way, I’m also taking the cowherd with me, you’ll have to do most of the milking from now on.’

Kit records that the Irish ‘very readily’ espoused James’s cause, and her father’s conscience told him it was ‘incumbent on him to support his lawful sovereign, notwithstanding his being of a different religion, which he thought not sufficient reason to affect his loyalty’.

Now her father, the cowherd, and many of the other able-bodied men were gone, as were the sons and servants of neighbouring farmers. So too were their horses, all gone to join Cavenaugh’s troop in support of King James.

Battle could not be far away, and tension spread. One morning, Kit wandered up to the cornfields after milking; she would check on the state of the harvest before helping her mother indoors by sewing together grey jackets suitable for battle.

The countryside looked and smelled beautiful. God, she loved it. It seemed a cruel irony that the country was being thrown into war, on behalf of the rightful king.

An old hound bitch rubbed up against her leg while Kit paused, listening to the skylark. It was a beautiful summer’s day. A group of sparrows that had been picking up bits of food at the edge of the rough road rose up, scattering dust behind them, at the approach of Kit and the hound, now rather slow and lame.

As she neared the wheat field Kit heard an extraordinary noise. Men were yelling, metal was clanging, and all appeared to be in uproar. On the crest of the hill, Kit was confronted by what appeared to be a pitched battle. Workmen – boys too young to join up and men too old – from the neighbouring farm and hers were slashing at each other with their sickles. Blood and frayed clothing were everywhere, and the men uttered blood-curdling yells, like battle cries.

‘Get off our land, I tell you!’

‘It’s not yours, it’s ours!’

‘You’re stealing!’

‘No, you’re stealing, you filthy beggars, now get off.’ With that an old man who looked much too ancient to be flaying a sickle at corn let alone in anger, struck out again.

A youth ducked and yelled again. ‘We’re under orders to cut this corn!’

‘You’re not, you can’t be, it’s ours . . .’

Just then her mother, having heard the noise, arrived and, with difficulty, called them off. Kit’s father had failed to tell his wife that he had sold the corn (in fact, he had done so in order to buy enough good horses and muskets in Dublin for his troop), so she sent their remaining men up to begin harvesting it, only for them to find the neighbour’s men already doing so. At length she was able to appease her erstwhile workers, but only after regaling them with ‘a good breakfast and strong liquors’.

Keeping control of the farm was going to be tougher than Kit had thought.

‘Heave!’

The motley gang did as the sergeant bade, all the while chanting and shouting as they hauled on whatever solid objects they could find with which to block the church door. The peaceful Irish countryside was being filled with scenes of turmoil and distrust, like this one outside the church in Leixlip.

‘Pull harder!’ the sergeant commanded the men around him as they laboured with massive lengths of lumber. One of them had got hold of a butcher’s block, and another was trying to force a plank through the heavy iron latch on the church door, effectively locking it. The men wiped sweat from their foreheads and hauled the timber again.

The church was now secured, its Protestant congregation locked inside.

Mrs Cavenaugh was inside the whitewashed church with its plain glass nave windows. It was built along simple Norman lines. A wooden gallery at the rear was supported on each side by plain stone pillars. Perhaps Mrs Cavenaugh sat beside the black iron plaque in the wall erected by Lady Ursula Whyte in memory of her husband, who had died in 1654, and one of her sons, Nicholas, who had died ten years later; she was the mother of the Cavenaugh’s landlord, Arthur Whyte. The sermon would probably last an hour and was unlikely to be alleviated by hymns, which were generally sung in private houses. Perhaps her mind wandered: was it true that Robert the Bruce and his horses had sought refuge in this very church? And was there really an underground tunnel leading from it to nearby Leixlip Castle?

A commotion outside shattered such reveries. For a moment the vicar, the Rev. Mallory, continued, but raised voices and the sound of heavy objects banging against the door stopped him short.

Kit was in the house but heard the noise and, fearing for the safety of her mother, she snatched up a spit, ran to the scene and tried to force her way through.

‘How dare you!’ Kit yelled. Almost blind with fury, she shoved her way past the bystanders, cutting a path through the mob by the swing of her spit.

‘Detain that woman!’ the sergeant ordered.