Survivors of Origin Read online

  First published in Great Britain in 2021 by

  The Book Guild Ltd

  9 Priory Business Park

  Wistow Road, Kibworth

  Leicestershire, LE8 0RX

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  Copyright © 2021 Paul Swaffield

  The right of Paul Swaffield to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This work is entirely fictitious and bears no resemblance to any persons living or dead.

  ISBN 978 1915122 070

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  For my Mum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  The South of England, 1640

  Edward Buckingham rode into the confines of his fine home. He brought the horse to a standstill, leapt from the saddle and handed the reins to a waiting groom. Without speaking, he turned and marched to the house. As he entered, he threw off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. He walked into his study and poured a large glass of brandy. He never took the few seconds required to savour the subtle flavour of the expensive drink. He had no interest in the taste, only the effect. This had been his routine since the death of his wife.

  It had been the happiest day of his life. And the saddest. His wife Rebecca had given birth to their daughter whilst Edward had paced the floor of the grand entrance. The first sounds he heard from their bedroom were the healthy squeals of a newborn child. He didn’t wait for an invitation. He had waited long enough. It took him four great strides to reach the landing, where he took a moment to compose himself. He walked calmly to the door, knocked once and walked in.

  Rebecca’s physical beauty had drawn Edward to her, but after ten years of marriage, during which time they had endured the loss of three unborn children, it was his wife’s resilience, her fortitude, that had intensified his love for her. Rebecca’s family had been against their union. They believed their daughter would be marrying beneath her, and they had done everything in their power to dissuade her. The rows had been ferocious, but Rebecca was in love and she knew – as did her parents – that nothing would stop her from being with Edward. The couple were eventually married with the begrudging blessing of Rebecca’s parents.

  Cecil Buckingham had taught his son well. He had been the proud owner of Felicity-Ann, an old and creaky schooner, which he sailed regularly across perilous oceans, exporting goods from England and returning with an array of exotic materials that he would sell at the port on his return. As a young boy, all Edward ever wanted to do was to set sail with his father. At the age of fourteen, his mother had relented and the boy’s ambition was realised. He left the safety of his home and began his seafaring adventures with the man he revered more than any other. At the age of twenty-four, he commanded Felicity-Ann for the first time, taking her through the Bay of Biscay to Portugal. Fifteen years later, he owned six ships and had amassed a fortune by importing goods from around the world. It had been many years since he had set sail, and the ocean had yet to lure him back. He had found contentment with Rebecca. Having a child would be the fulfilment of their happy life together.

  *

  The room was poorly lit; a fire crackling in the grate, however, created a warm glow. Candles flickered on the bedside tables, with the flames casting mysterious shadows up the walls. Edward didn’t recognise the room. Everything looked different; there were too many people. He couldn’t see Rebecca because the physician who had been at the house for several days, at great expense, and old Ma Fish (who had been commandeered for the duration, on account of her having seen more babies born than the whole town put together) were fussing around her.

  Lucy, one of the servants, held the baby, who was tightly wrapped in a muslin cloth. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you can’t come in ’ere.”

  Edward approached the girl, ignoring her protestations. “Is the baby okay?” He eased the cloth back a fraction and he felt his finger brush the child’s soft skin.

  “It’s a beautiful daughter you ’ave, sir, and she’s fine. A sweetheart, sir, if ever there were one.”

  The doctor turned away from Rebecca and addressed Edward. “Mister Buckingham; please, sir, it really would be better if you left the room.”

  Edward took a few steps towards the bed and saw his wife’s face. Her eyes were unblinking and her hands were gripping the bed sheet; her complexion was eerily translucent. He forced himself to stay calm. He knew how Rebecca dealt with pain. There would be no screaming and no crying.

  “Mister Buckingham… Edward.” The doctor turned and looked fleetingly at the beleaguered husband. “There is another child.”

  “It’s bein’ born, Doc.” Ma Fish interrupted the two men.

  The second baby arrived in the world and although distressed, fought gamely for its first breaths; its right to survive.

  Edward Buckingham knew in those few moments that he had lost Rebecca. The birth of the second child had killed her. In his mind, the baby trapped behind his perfect daughter had taken his beautiful wife, and there would be no reconciliation. The events he had just witnessed shocked him to his core. The great Edward Buckingham, helpless, inadequate, unable to bring his influence to bear.

  *

  One year on, the pain of Rebecca’s last moments and his reaction to the second child – a boy, who was crumpled, purple and half the size of his beautiful daughter – still haunted him. The doctor had said the boy wouldn’t live, but old Ma Fish had wrapped him up, and although he had yet to utter a sound, she could feel his faint breaths as she held him close. Edward had ordered Ma to get rid of the child. He didn’t care whether it lived or died, he just wanted it out of his house. Forev
er.

  Chapter One

  Five miles along the coast from Edward Buckingham’s estate, the boy had enjoyed a good life, albeit a tough one, with Fred and Mary Quicklock.

  The day he was born, Ma Fish had walked the mile and a half to her home, clutching the frail child. She knew if she caught Pa Fish before he started drinking his home-made cider, she would be able to persuade him to help. She pushed her way through the front door slightly breathless. “C’mon, Pa, get off yer bony arse.”

  “Christ al-bloody-mighty, woman. Can’t a man have a quiet drink in ’is own bloody ’ome? What ya got there and where ya bin all bloody day?”

  “I’ve warned you about blasphemin’ under this roof. I won’t ’ave it, Pa. This ’ere is a baby, an’ we got some work in front of us if we’re gonna save it.” Before her bewildered husband could respond, Ma spat out her orders, “Go get that flea-bitten mule of yours, hitch it to that pile of junk you call a cart and let’s get on, afore it’s too late.”

  It was an unlikely trio that pulled up outside the small, stone dwelling on the edge of Old Milford a short while later. The creaking tumbril rumbled to a halt, and as she dismounted, Ma began to wonder if she was about to deliver a dead child to her only daughter. She offered up a silent prayer, knowing his chances were slim.

  Ma stayed with her daughter for two weeks, and between them they watched as the child gained weight gradually. “A bloody miracle” is what Pa Fish had called it. And, in truth, it was. The baby had fought for every breath, and with the dedication of Ma Fish and Mary the boy survived.

  Ezra Quicklock responded well to the dedicated attentions of the two women. His poor introduction to the world proved to be a temporary setback, and as the years passed, he grew into a strong, healthy lad. Fred and Mary had been given something special – someone special – and they loved the boy more than either of them could express.

  They had found it a little difficult at first to explain the arrival of a newborn child, and Mary had even been chided over “the immaculate conception”. Ma Fish, though, had concocted a feasible explanation by saying that the boy’s parents had been killed in a terrible fire, but the baby had somehow survived. Nobody knew how, as it was all a terrible tragedy.

  So, as the years slipped by, Ezra became the son of Fred and Mary, without question.

  *

  The five-mile distance between Ezra’s new home and his birth home could have been five hundred miles. Edward Buckingham and Ezra Quicklock had no inclination of each other’s existence.

  “C’mon, Ezra, I’ll not tell ya a third time.” As Mary passed the bed she gave her son a playful kick with the bottom of her foot.

  Ezra rolled over and pulled the prickly blanket over his head.

  Mary continued, “’Iding neath the blanket won’t ’elp. Yer father’ll be back in a minute or two, and then we’ll see ’ow fast ya can move.”

  Ezra heard the clunk of the door, and before it closed, he was out of his bed and pulling on his clothes.

  “’Ow d’ya do that, Fred Quicklock?” Mary shook her head as she asked the question.

  “Do what, me dear?” he replied.

  “That.” Mary pointed to their dishevelled son.

  “Sorry, woman, you’ll ’afta be a bit clearer. I ain’t got much of a clue what yer on about.” Fred stared across the one room of their cottage and wrinkled his face at Ezra, who had just finished dressing.

  Ezra returned the expression. Apparently, neither of them had any clue what Mary was talking about.

  Mary muttered an unintelligible response, all the while smiling to herself.

  Ezra had been helping his father every working day for as long as he could remember. They had a good walk to Fred’s ramshackle workshop where he had been repairing and making all things wooden. This included cartwheels, furniture, doors and the thing Ezra enjoyed most of all: bows and arrows. As yet, he hadn’t mastered the art of creating the perfect piece of furniture, but he had mastered the art of creating the perfect bow. His marksmanship astonished Fred. Every spare moment, Ezra would disappear into the back yard, where Fred had set up a target, and practise the art of releasing arrows.

  Ezra was a happy boy. He was content, to a point. When he wasn’t working or firing his arrows, his instinct took him to the sea. The cliff tops were a ten-minute walk from their home. Ezra had found a pathway down to a ledge where a natural pool had developed, and when the tide receded, he had his very own lagoon. Ezra spent hours swimming and diving to the bottom, watching the strange creatures that shared his secret location. At one end there was a prominent rock that overhung the water, and after many attempts at hitting the water without hurting himself, Ezra had developed a passion for diving. Initially, he would jump feet first, but the urge for more excitement led him to plunge headfirst, refusing to let the pain of his mistimed entries into the water deter his efforts.

  However, as he grew older and stronger, the urge to test himself began to manifest, and from his lagoon, he would look up to the cliff top, which formed a jagged promontory jutting over the sea. He had examined the climb and spent many hours staring at the intended point of entry where the force of nature crashed relentlessly into stubborn resistance. He also knew that, once in the water, if all went well, he would have to swim a good half-mile to the beach. There was no other way out of the sea. Ezra knew that, one of these days, he would have to confront the irrepressible desire that was mounting inside him. He spent long periods contemplating the facets of the task he had set himself: the climb, the dive, the explosion as he hit the water and not least the swim to safety. Why? He had no answer to the question that prodded his good sense constantly.

  Ezra’s apprenticeship with Fred continued to go well, although both parents had noticed their son’s momentary lapses into a sombre mood. These silent abstractions, however, didn’t appear to affect the boy in a detrimental way, and his parents tried their best to accept that his lineage was somewhat different to their own, and that there was something inherent in common folk that alienated them from the upper classes.

  Fred had experienced the odd skirmish with the owner of all a person could see for miles around. Notwithstanding these incidents, he had found Baron Milford to be a reasonable-enough person, providing you could supply him with his requirements, as and when ordered. And, of course, pay your rent on time. His son, however, was proving to be more than a little worrying.

  “Quicklock.” There was a pause. “Quicklock!” The sound carried into Fred’s workshop where Ezra was working. “Get yourself out here, you lazy dobbin.”

  Ezra came out and saw Persius Milford sitting atop his fine horse, flanked by two burly-looking guards dressed in full regalia, with their tabards displaying the Milford ensign. Persius, now twenty years old, was the eldest son and he was determined to exact his authority, as he saw it, over the inhabitants of Old Milford and the surrounding district.

  “How may I help, sir?” Ezra managed the enquiry in the most subservient manner he could muster. Perhaps an arrow through the eye? He kept that thought to himself.

  “You – you little bastard – can’t help me at all. I want to speak to Quicklock.”

  “Beggin’ you pardon, sir, but I am the only Quicklock available right at this moment. My father—”

  “Did you hear that, men? The boy thinks his father is Quicklock himself. The son of a so-called master tradesman he thinks himself, indeed he does. Look at him! He’s nothing more than a miserable little bastard.” Persius Milford was in his element; he had a victim, and his vicious tongue was only equalled by his propensity for violence. “Now run along, Pissquick, and fetch Quicklock.”

  The three men all chuckled at the boy’s new name.

  “Ezra, get in ’ere.” Fred beckoned his son just in time to prevent a reaction from him.

  Ezra could feel anger and confusion welling inside himself, and at the sound of his fa
ther’s voice, he turned and left the smirking Milford to deal with Fred.

  “Arrows, Quicklock. My father requires two hundred for next weekend. See to it, Quicklock. You know his terms.” Persius pulled sharply on his horse’s left rein and applied his heels to its flanks, and with a snort and a grind of an iron-clad hoof on the dusty ground, his horse turned and lumbered away, its rider puffed up with self-gratification.

  Ezra watched from the doorway as the men disappeared. Their gold-coloured tabards were emblazoned with the Milford ensign: the halberd with its scrolled decoration and the tip split into two points. Ezra didn’t know what it meant, but he would never forget it.

  “What’s he mean, Pa? I ain’t a bastard. He’s a bastard.”

  “Aye, lad, ’e’s a bastard all right, but we need to stay on ’is right side, Ezra. ’E’s a wrong ’un.” Fred could feel the anguish inside him as he searched for the words to reassure his son. “Take no ’eed of ’is words, Ezra; ’e ’as a cruel mouth and ’e’ll goad a person into confrontation. That’s what ’e wants, lad – a fight – an’ ’e’ll pick on anyone who’s beneath ’im. ’E’s a bully, Ezra, but ’e’s a dangerous young man, so when ’e comes callin’, promise me you’ll not vex ’im. C’mon, let’s get on with ’is order, else we’ll all be in the muck.” Fred wrapped a comforting arm around his son’s shoulders and walked him into the workshop. “Why don’t ya go out the back for a while an’ shoot a few arrows, to take yer mind off that dollop o’ donkey shit.”

  Ezra smiled at his father; he had never heard him speak in that way before. “Okay, Pa.”

  Ezra took his bow, put on the leather sleeve that Fred had made for him to protect his wrist and disappeared into the yard. All he could see as he took aim was the pasty, slimy features of Persius Milford. The centre of the target stared back at him as he released his arrow. It passed, dead centre, through the eye of his tormentor.