The Tombstone Deliverance: Chapter VI

SIX

“Is there anything else I can help you with Uncle?”

“Take that broom, John, and sweep the deck outside.”

Charles Merton sat in the chair behind his shop counter, his wooden crutches on the floor beside him and a hastily rolled cigarette dangling from his mouth as he spoke. To his nephew it was miraculous that the old man could talk so often – and with such volume – without the cigarette falling to the floor.

“Okay Uncle.”

“Say John, how comes I haven’t seen that friend of yours around here lately? You’d get done a lot quicker if he helped out and I already told you that I’d let you split your earnings wit’ him?”

The Tombstone Deliverance: Chapter V

FIVE

“Look Judge-”

“You watch your tone with me Bill.”

The Tombstone Deliverance: Chapter IV

FOUR

Tombstone, Massachusetts stood proud as a thriving metropolis of both industry and commerce. Its climate warm and temperate, even during winter, it received rain from the heavens sufficient only to sustain the population dwelling there. The inhabitants of the town enjoyed a carefree existence; general stores, tailors, farriers, blacksmiths and gunsmiths lined the streets, eager to extract bills from the regular customers and passing travellers who were equally eager to use their services. If anyone became overexcited by the seemingly endless array of retail opportunities on offer, the solace of a bar could always be found at the corner of the nearest street. In one such establishment, in the fall of eighteen sixty three, a deadly poker game had recently begun.

“Are we ready gentlemen?”

The Tombstone Deliverance: Chapter III

THREE

From the perspective of the Confederate soldiers who fought on the front lines at Gettysburg, it was not a battle. It was a massacre. And it was followed by a long and arduous trek back to Virginia for those fortunate enough to survive. Those making the journey complained of fatigue, of malnourishment and of disease. The opinion of their comrades who had been left to rot in the fields was that they should have been thankful they could still walk.

The Tombstone Deliverance: Chapter II

TWO

The air of the autumnal dawn was chill. The stallion sucked it greedily through flaring nostrils, robbing it of its oxygen before its strong lungs forced it back into the atmosphere in translucent whisps of white. The resulting steam trailed past its matching white coat as it was spurred onwards by its rider. The journey had been long and hard, and the lips of the steed parted at frequent intervals to show its huge teeth and powerful jaw as it continued down the trail descending into Bleak Valley. No-one was walking the streets at that early hour and so no-one saw the dust clouds kicked up from huge hooves as both horse and rider approached. Only the lights of the saloon were still lit – a burning beacon of orange nestled within the darkness of the outlying buildings. It gave both man and mount renewed vigour, the thoroughbred continuing at a strong gallop until the rider pulled up hard on the reins and stepped down from the saddle. In the distance the sun had begun to rise.

The Tombstone Deliverance: Chapter I

ONE

Bleak Valley, in the year of the lord eighteen sixty two, stood adrift from the world in the sprawling grasslands of Massachusetts. A small settlement with a dwindling population, it had seen many of its male inhabitants conscripted into the military. Eager individuals sought glory and recognition against their fellow Americans – Americans following a separate flag. Those who remained behind lived quiet, introverted lives, safe from the horror of the battlefield. Disturbances were uncommon and, when instigated, would last no longer than the effects of the liquor.

That was until the Cohen gang arrived in town that fall.

Travelogue: Epilogue – Interview with a Navigator

Boxford
Suffolk
UK
Sunday 14 December 2014

After forty three posts and almost fifty thousand words, chronicling the events of six days, I thought it only right that the final post should be created by Jake. Those of you who have followed the Travelogue since the beginning have read only my opinions. Now it’s Jake’s turn to offer his perspective. The transcript of our recorded conversation is included below, unabridged and only mildly edited for ease of reading. It’s the longest post by far at over five thousand words and to me it represents a fitting end to our journey.

“So Jay; best thing, worst thing?”

“You can do best thing, worst thing.”

“See, because I can’t remember – not only can I not remember some of the stuff which went on during the trip that vividly, I can’t remember because you’ve spaced the blog out so much. So I can’t remember like, the first few blog posts either, so I can’t remember what you’ve covered and what I thought I should cover.”

“Just throw it out there mate. Throw it out there.”

Travelogue #43 – Homeward Bound

“Stop falling asleep!”
“You’d better hope I don’t fall asleep mate, I’m driving the car.” 

Somewhere on the UK road network
UK
Friday 09 May 2014

The return ferry voyage was worlds apart from the calm and uneventful crossing which we had experienced only six days earlier. The waters of the Channel pummelled the hull as soon as we left the safety of the breakwater at Dunkirk and what followed was an hour and a half or more of relentless sideways movement. Jake was unaffected – as he often is – since he had decided to remain seated on one of the cafeteria’s modestly plush couches and occupied his time by placing his nose back into Alex Roy’s book ‘The Driver’. In hindsight, this proved itself to be a very sensible move.

Travelogue #42 – The Beginning of the End

“So what now?”
“What do you think?”
“The Driver? Page or two a piece?”
“Okay, sounds good.”

Dunkirk
Nord Pas-De-Calais
France
Friday 09 May 2014

As we traversed the network of cones which directed us towards the boarding lanes, we saw ahead of us the ferry which should have been carrying us home. We were the second car to arrive for the eight o’clock ferry (or should that be the second car to turn up late for the six o’clock ferry?), with nothing to obstruct our front row view of the previous vessel’s departure bar the metallic silver Mercedes saloon in front of us. It was on German plates, with two men who looked to be father and son standing beside it. I imagined that they were conversing about their rotten luck. Most unlike the Germans to be late, I thought.

Travelogue #41 – Traffic

“I think we may end up dying in this tunnel mate.”
“I feel sick as hell.”
“I gave you permission to die, not to get ill.”

A Tunnel
Brussels
Capital Region
Belgium
Friday 09 May 2014

The journey out of Brussels was beset with orange cones, flashing amber lights and queues. We were stuck for several minutes within the ceaseless and haphazard arrangement of vehicles which struggled onwards their destinations. As a result I found it impossible to shift up from first gear as we crawled our way down one of the larger avenues, three lanes wide on each side which then reduced to two on ours as workmen busied themselves repairing a section of road within the area marked out by the cones and barriers.