The Journeyman by Stuart Hough

A bow haulier who pulled upstream trows through summertime shallows of the River Severn
remembered today in the play area of the Severn Country Park

The Star was typical of the upstream Severn trows that plied their trade along the river. He’d raised the three stepped mast from its dropped position at the stern, with the forestay winch. With the forestay now taught, he secured the mast with its large iron pin. He glanced through the constant drizzle, across the river. Many thin masts of the other upstream trows stood taller than the parapet of the bridge at Bridgnorth. The larger downstream boats were all further south. Their fixed masts meant they could not navigate the bridges any further than Gloucester.  In the fading light, the illuminated bridge clock glowed against the leaden sky on the far bank. It reassured him that he had plenty of time. With the boat unloaded, there wasn’t much to secure.

He climbed the steps onto the quayside. The river always smelt cold at this time of year.  As he stood amongst the barrels, bales and boxes to fill his clay pipe, the river took on a new life. Its ripples and flow now reflected the new lights from the many windows that clustered around the bridge. He packed the bowl of the pipe from a full leather pouch. ‘There’s never a need to buy this stuff’ he mused. A surreptitious cut into a momentarily unwatched bale of tobacco on a quayside would always yield what he needed. He set off on a meandering path through the stacked wares beside the river. The damp air close to the river, was heavy with the smell of wet sacks, rope, tar and coal smoke. He nodded to one of the pickett men who eyed him suspiciously. ‘Good luck’ He thought. ironically. ‘You’ll need luck more than you will your lantern and wooden belaying pin.‘

Any boatmen that hadn’t secured their cargo into one of the warehouses overnight were asking for trouble. ‘Low Town’. He smiled with affection. ‘Low by name, low by nature’. He had rarely ventured up into Bridgnorth’s more genteel ‘High Town’.

He knew where he was going. He loved the Cartway with all of its hustle and bustle. It had existed for centuries, because of the river. It was the link between the trade of the river and the marketplace nature of Hightown. As a street, it was a far cry from serenely floating along on the river and the silence of its sedgy banks. The peace of the Severn could be soporific. For hours, the quiet would only be punctuated by the hoots of geese or moorhens.  There may be the odd lowing of cattle or bleating of sheep, but otherwise it was idyllic. In the Cartway different rules applied. Mules would bray as they pulled heavily laden carts packed with all manner of goods up the steep narrow slope to Hightown and back again. Shouted conversations pervaded between the tightly packed buildings. Other mules would pull carts across the bridge, in the other direction. From there, goods would be consumed by the voracious appetite of the Black Country and beyond.

The aptly named Cartway wasn’t short of its share of loud, brash, colourful characters. It conducted its own self-contained, often chaotic and outrageous life. It was in stark comparison to the sane world which existed less than a quarter of a mile away in any direction. There were scores of places to drink. Aside from the ale houses, nearly every other place along Bridgnorth’s arterial route was either an eatery or a brothel. Some establishments offered all three. He wondered if he could remember them all.

‘The Red Lion. The Kouli Khan’. He started to recall. He smiled at the ale house’s pretentious connotations to the old King of Persia. Despite the fact that it was next to Bishop Percy’s house and its exotic name, there was nothing refined, or exotic about that place. Fights were inevitable there. Almost every night, tables would overturn and fists would fly. Both ale and blood would spill as some drunken oaf lost a week’s pay on a bad hand of cards or an unfortunate fall of a dice. Afterwards, the same ne’er do well would only have black eyes and empty pockets to show for his labours. Somewhere a wife would weep again at her choice of husband and their children would go hungry.

‘The Woolpack. White Hart. Ship and Anchor’. He continued to think.

He smiled to himself at the memories he’d made within each. Somewhere dogs barked and an argument raged behind the closed doors of a small house. Mules stood placidly at their mangers of hay, sheltered under ram-shackled roofs put up in what few gaps there were between buildings.

‘The Coopers. Horn & Trumpet… Tumbling Sailors’. His smile widened. The ale house sign showed three sailors, arm in arm. Despite the smiling faces on the sign, it was probably second only to the Kouli, in notoriety. Men gravitated with like-minds, to what was familiar. As the name suggested, the ale house was always full of sailors. Whilst the fights were fewer, a sailor’s marlin spike could often make them more serious.

‘The Railway. Saltbox. Forge And Hammer’.

Droplets of drizzle settled on his thick coat. They sparkled in the light of nearby windows with the opaqueness of freshwater pearls. The cobbles of the Cartway shone orange and black, slick and wet between the scattered hay and piles of mule dung. He’d left the soft-soled shoes aboard the Star. The hobnails of his own well-oiled and shining boots, crunched upon the smooth worn stones. Raucous laughter came from each of the eateries and alehouses that he passed.

‘The Star. Mermaid. Britannia. Cornucopia. Saracens Head’.

Ahead of him, a man was thrown out of the Magpie. He lay sprawled on the street. With a clink, some of the drunk’s coins fell from his pocket onto the cobbles. Like minnows darting from the shallows, two small boys appeared from nowhere. They picked up the coins and ran away as fast as they had appeared. The drunk picked himself up and began to stagger way, cursing his own misfortune and the behaviour of others.

He never usually carried more coin than he needed. As with parts of many towns, an outwardly light, pleasure-seeking appearance could also have a darker side. That said, Bridgnorth was far safer than other places. ‘It’s also well known for having a much better class of prostitute’, he grinned to himself. Never the less, a robbery in the street for the unwary was not unheard of, particularly late at night. This night however was different. He carried with him all of the wealth he had accumulated in his lifetime. It was a pretty penny. He’d sold his labour astutely and spent little, over the course of the last year on the river. The drunken man ahead fell again. This time he remained prostrate. By morning he would probably make up one of the small knots of men who gathered on the quayside. His companions in the next day’s “Motley Crew”. He’d keep the company of others who had missed their boats by slumbering too long in a whore’s bed or had slept in the same drunken stupor into which they had fallen. Their accents would be as varied as the river’s length. The Welsh in the north, to Bristol at the Severn’s mouth and all places in between.

The Severn Trow. Compasses. The Bush. ‘That’s all of them’ he thought.

All apart from one. He stood outside the Black Boy. A portrait of King Charles II looked down at him. This tavern was probably the best of them all. Light poured from its large, intact windows. It was frequented by the merchants, bosuns and chargehands. Bow hauliers, deckhands and dockers would never think to enter. “Wines, tonics and revivors”. He read out loud the words painted on the wall. “Precisely what I need!” He said as he pushed the glazed door. A wave of sound washed over him as he did so. The air was vibrant to the sounds of conversation, the laughter of women and of song.  “All of them.” He said to himself more loudly, as he stepped inside.

He peered through the glowing haze of steam and tobacco smoke. The nails in his boots slipped on the tiled floor. Here and there, a bosun would nod in sceptical recognition. He’d built a reputation for reliability, hard work and punctuality during his year on the river. This night he would trade upon that. A worn copper coin bought him dark, nutty ale served in a pewter mug from a buxom barmaid with a ruddy complexion. Not for him, the “spit and sawdust” alehouses with their stone jars of cheap rough liquor to even rougher men and women. Not for him, the cheap bowls of boiled eels, cabbage and other fodder. Not for him, the dingy places lit only with a small fire and a few tallow candles. Tonight there would be no need to look away from the overly painted whores who smiled through low light and bad teeth.

He found a seat next to the coal fire. His damp woollen coat gave off its familiar “wet dog” smell as it began to dry at the bright fireside. Another couple of coins bought a large pewter plate of hearty beef stew with thick slices of warm bread. Squawks of birds and loud encouraging cheers of men came from the cock fight in the yard behind him. A muscled bull terrier on the other side of the fireplace assumed a sitting position from its previous spawl in front of the fire. It was held by the gnarled hands of its owner, a thick leather collar and a large-linked chain. The dog tilted its head to one side and blinked, as it calmly watched him eat. A tilted head and a pleasant smile greeted him also, from the two seemingly unattached ladies at the end of the long bar. He smiled back at each of them as he finished his meal. ‘Like a double rainbow at the end of a dark day ’ he  thought, as he used the last of the crusty bread to mop up the rich, succulent gravy.

He sat back contentedly and more ale appeared, this time in a tankard. ‘Getting better, all the time’ He thought to himself. He stuffed his cap into his coat pocket and hung his drying coat on the high-backed chair. As he settled again, he wiped the foam spill from the tankard, exposing the word “Quart” engraved into the soft metal. The first ale had merely served a purpose, but this one he would enjoy. He’d been looking forward to this night for weeks. He would not spend any further nights under a wet tarpaulin on an open deck in the rain. He’d done with the river. He’d pull no more trows through the shallows of the river. He’d not pull them under bridges on the end of a rope, along the riverbank. He’d no longer load, nor unload any more cargoes. There were however, parts of the last year that he’d grown fond of. The Severn trows were tough little ships. They were equally capable of sailing the tempestuous tides of the Severn estuary as they were the way upriver to Bridgnorth and beyond.

Never the less he was done with it. This night would bring good ale and good food. Afterwards warm water in which to wash away the dampness of the river. After that a warm bed, preferably with a warm body beside him. Or, two. He mused roguishly, in light of his current ‘double rainbow’ surroundings. In any case, tomorrow would bring a hearty breakfast in a new light of day and in fresh clothes. He’d always gone to where the opportunity appeared to shine the brightest. “A new light”. He thought again. He liked that idea.

Tomorrow, he’d walk into Hightown. From there, his journey would continue.