Of the dangers of Counter-Insurgency in Lincolnshire and the Revolutionary Menace.

 

The fear of invasion has gripped blessed England on more occasions than were would like to be reminded but we have never been found wanting.  The Jacobite hordes turned back at Derby, realising that if Bonnie Prince Charlie went beyond that place, he ran the risk of being assailed by patriotic muggers, with which North London abounded.  The threat of the Swastika saw men rushing to the LDV and digging pits in parkland off the Piccadilly Line with the hopes of stopping tanks with a surfeit of optimism to fill the place of such mundane items such as Boyes anti-tank rifles.    Thank the Lord the Bosche were such duffers at sailing. 

It was in that kind of mood that the nation faced the threat of Revolutionary France in 1796.  To be honest the court of Louis XVI had it coming, rank bad hats to a man, with little understanding of their fellow man but being French themselves they should have known what a tetchy blighter the average Parisian was.  I know a certain type of cove will forgive anyone of royal blood, even if it is not properly British and blue, as long as they whimsically play at being shepherdesses, but it doesn’t substitute for actually picking a clever chap to run the country while you are frolicking in an over-large wendy houses.  I digress.

 

Across the Channel while the Armée des côtes de l'Océan menaced, Britons stood firm.  A Yeomanry Cavalry was formed to add solidity of frame to corpulence of purpose.   Money was found to buy commissions in the Infantry for sons so lacking in seniority that here to, they could have only expected a bribe to get them to be Post Master of a minor Hampshire village and the Royal Navy got busy providing copy for E M Forester and his ilk across the twentieth century.  Our own dear club formed a Volunteer Rifle Corps, although setting up a rifle range on the roof terrace had to be ended when local street vendors claimed to be being rained on by a positive storm of winged pigeons and downed starlings.

 

Absolutism Windgard was a man who did not like ‘Town’.  To tell the truth he became unconformable when another person came into the room.  Strong liquor had been taken to enable him to visit the Club and, learning on his arrival, that French ships had been seen near Cape Finisterre he fled back to East Legsby, his own dear moated manor in Lincolnshire and prepared for the worse.

 

For those of you who have never ventured into the middle Wolds of England’s neglected east, let me tell you that you are not alone, unlike Windgard.  East Legsby was so remote that even the Wesley Brother’s crusade to spread the word and hold back the Age of Reason failed to find the place.  It was for that reason that the church held on to its Rood Screen and painted walls as the Reformations firebrands gave up, after turning off yet another muddy, inconsequential track with the belief that if Popery wanted their souls, damn it, they could have them.

 

Once he returned home Windgard summoned his steward and bailiff and held council on how to keep his people safe.  All agreed cutting the estate off from the world was the best plan, making East Legsby a little bastion of Albion.  No Frenchie would despoil the fields with liberty or egality and as for fraternity, it could go hang.  What a Frenchman actually looked like was more an issue.  The locals knew, unlike the good people of Hartlepool, that they did not look like monkeys since that incident when the snows meant Pablo Fanque ‘s circus was forced to hole up in the Tithe Barn.  Monkeys, it was agreed, were better tempered than a Frenchmen ever could be and made a fine companion when partridge shooting.

 

Obscurity was to be their firm ally as was subterfuge.  Guineas changed hands and the men from the local Toll Road Company were persuaded to divert the main turnpike from to Gainsborough a few, critical miles further away. A public house was established on the cross-roads which marked the turning towards the manor.  A name without aristocratic connections was picked so as not to attract the fervent revolutionaries.  Further, as ‘The Old River Trent’ was nowhere near that mighty flow, more confusion was sown. The landlord was under strict instructions to ply any suspicious characters with strong drink and it is certain that as a reward for good service men of the Ordinance Survey for several generations were packed off for several weeks and told that a copy of the previous map would be acceptable as a true report of the land in that region.  When the Victorian era began to frown on enjoyment, a carefully placed rumour was put about that the whole area was a Trap Street, placed on the map to catch copyists out and so no further action was taken.

 

The County Authorities, who felt indebted to Wingard for his charitable donations to church and state, were happy to comply with is request never to attend to the upkeep of the lesser highways or perform modifications to vital bridges. The common traveller was discouraged.   It is  thought that in modern times at least one divorce case centred upon a wife bravely holding to the truth that the map app she vouched-safe was a true account of the terrain indicated that this was a county road and a public bridge, while the fuming husband maintained no acceptable bridge was made of railway sleepers and rope nor was any roadway of this age had such moon-like craters in them and wasn’t that a herd of cattle nestling in the bottom of that one over there.

 

The key to the deception lay in stopping casual visits.  The Sudbrooke family, one time game keepers on the East Legsby estate, had been charged with keeping the secret and keeping the ‘The Old River Trent’ as an outer bastion against the French.  Given that Wingard had granted them some minor orchards he owned north of London to pay for the upkeep, they now were maintained by some of plumpest real estate Islington had to offer.  Within the family, one member was sent out to run the public house and it became a special trust.  Wingard’s descendants would visit the establishment from time to time and it was considered by the Sudbrooke’s a solemn duty to protect their innocence of changing times.  The Wingards were warned never to enter a certain room.  They assumed some mad uncle or misfortunate wife was held there but in fact it was the public bar where visitors from the outside world would visit. 

 

Centuries past with hardly an alarm.  Panic ensued when a Sunday Magazine suddenly produced a glossy account of The Old River Trent’s olde worlde charm.  Action was taken to see off the Bohemian searchers after ‘an authentic pub’ by quickly installing a very large television which played, at an unspeakable loudness, Association Football.  To ensure this was not a hook for lovers of this game they played nothing but the Spanish Segunda B 1-1 draw between Coruxo and Pontevedra CF.  A sign was placed offering nothing but vegetarian fayre to deter the desires of fleshly men but on enquiry the provinder turned out to be an economically assembled cheese pizza to dismay the leaf eaters and make Vegans shudder.  It was debated whether it would help if the land lord was rude or incompetent to but it was feared this would attract a certain consumer amused by both states.  In the end they opted for just ignoring customers and treating them as if it were a favour that they were being allowed to buy from the landlord.  This is a strategy more widely and consciously employed than usually thought.

 

And then it happened  The trouble with family traditions is that people forget they serve a purpose.  There came a time when a Sudbrooke did not attend the duty, feeling it was much more fun to spend time with an amore in Leamington Spa.  A Wingard, getting no response to the rap on the door entered the forbidden room – just at the time when the West Butterwick Fabian Cycle Club were optimistically hoping to be served sparkling water if only the landlord would turn up.  Such garish attire!  Such strange wordage being used!  It was clear to Joshua Wingard the latest the French had landed!

Nothing happened much for a few weeks until the attack on White Lodge in Richmond Park.  Why the Royal Ballet School should be the victim of musketry was not clear.  Further attacks on private houses and National Trust properties caused confusion and dismay.  English Heritage blamed it on a rogue faction of the Ministry of the Public Works however it was soon discovered that it was in fact the Wingard Milita were attacking properties of ministers of the Addlington government which they had assumed were now in French hands.

 

You may rest assured that appropriate actions are being taken.  Stories are being spread of over enthusiastic members of living history groups and local pageants have been ignoring safety rules and one by one the Wingard flying columns are being rounded up but a word to the wise.  If you should see a chap with an odd beard and a flintlock- approach the cove with care and don’t offer them a croissant.