I looked into my food and began to eat faster.
“Are you so sure he’s a highwayman?” said the woman.
I looked up.
“I am,” said the young man with a smile demonstrating the art of saying hard things in a soft way.
The woman drew herself up stiffly. “Why should you care?”
“My sole desire, madam, is to deliver a message to Mr. Sandys from Mr. Jonathan Wild. I have no doubt he would be anxious to hear it.”
When that name was spoke—the person mentioned by Mr. Sandys—I could have sworn the woman winced. “And why would this Mr. Sandys need to be anxious of Mr. Wild?”
The young man laughed. “Men often are when they are on the road to Tyburn.”
That time the woman’s ruddy face turned pale.
I wondered where in the world that Tyburn was, but thought it safer not to ask.
By way of ending that conversation, the young man shifted about so that he faced the door, as if wanting to be the first to see who might come in. He also moved his pistols closer to his hands. He even cocked them.
The woman quickly turned to me and said, “Come along, boy. Your bed is ready.”
I hastily finished off the stew. Then I allowed myself to be led into a small, windowless room—a closet really—at the back of the house, with a high, narrow bed, heaped with blankets.
As she closed the door behind us, I put my hat on the bed. The moment I did, she reached out and plucked the bit of lace from the hatband.
“Where did you get this?” she asked, her voice low, strained.
Whispering, I said, “Mr. Sandys gave it to me. He told me you should have it.”
“Where is he?”
“At Mountjoy Fort. He asked me to tell you he’s there. That you might come and fetch him.”
Clutching the lace bit in her fist, the woman went to the doorway only to pause. “Say nothing to that man.” She pointed toward the front room.
“Please, then madam, tell me: Who is this Mr. Wild?”
“No one you’ll want to know,” she said.
“And Tyburn? Where is that?”
“It’s the London gallows,” she said. “The triple tree.” Taking her lamp and the lace, she left me in the dark, in more ways than one.
I threw off my coat and boots, climbed into the bed, and burrowed under the blankets like a mole in his tunnel. Then I gave myself over to think out the long day.
How very far did the poorhouse seem to be. I thought more of what Mr. Sandys, his mother, and the young man might have in common. The best I could come up with was that they were engaged in something unlawful. I knew Mr. Sandys was a highwayman. And here the young man was waiting for Mr. Sandys, with cocked pistols and a warning. How could he—I wondered—know enough about him so as to come to this inn? What business did he have with Mr. Bartholomew in Melcombe? Was he coming to arrest Mr. Sandys? And why did this Mr. Wild hover over all?
My situation called to mind those times I played in the sea along Melcombe’s beaches: The surface of the water might appear to be completely calm, but a dangerous undertow could pull you down at any moment and drag you into deep danger.
I therefore made up my mind to leave the Swan Inn as early and as fast in the morning as I could and hurry on to London. So resolved it was not long before fatigue overtook me and I fell asleep quite quickly.
It was the sound of gunshots that woke me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
In Which I Try to Escape.
The gunshots came in such rapid succession, and from such a great distance, I was not sure I heard them, being asleep. I lay abed, waiting to hear more. When no further sounds came, I decided it had been a dream, thoughts stirred by Mr. Sandys as well as the young man aiming pistols at me the night previous.
Since my small room had no windows, I could not judge the sun and therefore the time. I only knew I felt I had slept enough, and despite my unusual awakening, I felt restored. I decided that whatever the hour, I would put my resolution about leaving into action and depart as quickly as possible.
I groped for my coat and hat and put them on but left off my boots, so I could walk quietly. Then I stepped down the hall toward the inn’s main room. Even before I emerged from the hall, I saw pinkish light streaming through those diamond-paned front windows, which allowed me to perceive the time to be shortly after dawn. I recalled ruefully that was about the time the stagecoach left Melcombe, the one I had wished to be on.
As soon as I stepped into the main room, I saw the young man. He appeared to be asleep with his bowed head upon his crossed arms at the table where he had been the night before. I walked softly and had barely gone halfway across the room when he sat up. Before I could react, his two pistols were in hand and both were aimed at me.
Shocked, I could do nothing but stand there, mouth agape.
The next instant, the young man grinned as if it all had been a jest. He put his pistols on the table.
“Not only do I have uncommon sharp ears and quick triggers,” he said, “my reputation for aiming wonderfully true is renowned. It’s not a good idea to sneak about me like that, lad.”
“I wasn’t intending to sneak, sir,” I said, which was not quite true.
“Did those gunshots wake you?” he asked.
“No, sir,” I lied again. “Were you shooting?”
“No, not I,” he said, “but I suspect we shall learn more before long.” He glanced down. “You have no shoes. Were you going to walk that way to London?”
“I didn’t wish to disturb anyone, sir.”
Momentarily serious, he considered me for a moment. “Do you know where your father is residing in London?”
I shook my head.
“Then how do you expect to find him?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What kind of money do you have?”
I dug into my pocket and held out my sole remaining shilling.
“Without money,” he said, “London is hell. With money it is paradise.” He laughed. “Consider that a sermon. I suggest you have some breakfast before you go. You’ve paid a great deal for it and you’re not likely to eat again for a while.”
I had to admit that was a good idea. What’s more, I rather appreciated the young man’s good cheer. I found him quite friendly and agreeable, a great contrast to the men with whom I had been dealing of late.
When I pulled on my boots and took a place at the empty table, the young man stood up and poked at the hearth fire with an iron rod there for that purpose. The flames flared. The room warmed. Then he came back to the table and inspected his pistols. Though I guessed he was still waiting for Mr. Sandys, I said nothing.
After a while the woman who kept the inn came into the room. Seeing the young man, she stopped. “Still here,” she said.
“I am.”
“I pray he will not come.”
“I’ve never known two men to pray for the same things.”
“Did you hear gunshots?” she asked.
“I did.” The young man looked at me and grinned.
They said no more to each other but I sensed the strain between them.
The woman turned to me. “Will you want some breakfast, boy?”
“Yes, madam, please.”
She went out of the room.
The young man looked to me and said, “If you get to London, how will you feed yourself?”
“My father.”
“You just told me you didn’t know how to find him.”
“I have to try, sir,” I said.
“There are many ways a boy can earn his keep.”
“I hope so, sir.”
“Last night I mentioned Mr. Jonathan Wild. Do you know who he is?”
“No, sir,” I said, not wishing to share what had been told to me by Mr. Sandys.
“Wild is one of the great men in England. He always has jobs for boys. Search him out when you reach London. You may find him at the sign of the King’s Head Inn. On Ship Court n
ear the prison. The ward is known as Old Bailey, near the law courts, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and Newgate Prison. You have one shilling left. Give it to me.”
I did as I was told.
He pulled a dagger from his boot and scratched an X on the face of the coin, then handed it back to me. “When you see Mr. Wild, give him that and tell him Captain Billy Hawkes—that’s me—sent you. He’ll treat you well.”
I was impressed by his kindness.
The next moment, there was a great rattling noise coming from outside, the sound of galloping horses, creaking leather, the jangle of chains.
Captain Hawkes said, “The stagecoach from Melcombe to London.”
I must have looked regretful, for he said, “Do you wish you were on it?”
“Yes, sir.”
He gave his easy smile. “But you have so little money.”
I shrugged.
“If you had been on the stage you might have lost even that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those gunshots. I suspect someone was attempting to rob the coach.”
I must have looked disconcerted because he laughed. “I believe you heard me say I am waiting for Mr. Sandys. Do you know why?”
“No, sir.”
“Mr. Wild knows every thief in England. Knows where they are and what they do. I have the honor to be one of Mr. Wild’s captains. Mr. Sandys considers himself to be a gentleman of the road and was once in the employ of Mr. Wild.”
At that moment the woman came back, bringing two large slices of bread and a bowl of hot milk. She placed them on the table where I was sitting. I began to eat fast, more eager than ever to leave.
Captain Hawkes resumed his restless waiting, now and again fingering his pistols.
Quite suddenly, the door burst open.
CHAPTER THIRTY
In Which I Reveal Who Was at the Door.
Standing on the threshold was Mr. Sandys. He leaned hard against the door frame, his left hand clutching his right shoulder, his face pale and haggard.
On the instant, Captain Hawkes snatched up his pistols and aimed them at the man. Mr. Sandys looked at him with what seemed resigned disgust. Then he turned to me with an accusatory look.
The woman, seeing her son, gave a cry and rushed forward, put her arms about him, and helped him into a chair. He sat heavily, letting forth something of a groan. She then struggled to remove his jacket, which was not easy, for it caused him much pain. When she finally drew the jacket off, the sleeve of Mr. Sandys’s shirt was stained red.
In all this no words were spoken, but it was clear that Mr. Sandys had been wounded. Naturally, I thought of the shots I’d heard.
Captain Hawkes continued to stand there, pistols in hand, watching Mr. Sandys.
The woman hurried out of the room.
Only then did Hawkes speak. “The coach driver was armed, then?” he said to Mr. Sandys.
The highwayman nodded. It was a worn-out motion and suggested that he was suffering.
“Sandys, you’re a fool to work alone,” said the captain. “It takes more skill than you have.”
Mr. Sandys stared angrily at me and for a moment I thought he was about to reveal that he and I had met. Perhaps he thought better of it for he turned back to Hawkes and said, “Why are you here?”
Captain Hawkes said, “Mr. Wild was informed you were in the area. He sent me here and asked me to deliver a message.”
“Speak it then,” said Mr. Sandys. He was staring at the ground, as if resigned.
The woman came back with a bowl of water and a cloth. She pulled away Mr. Sandys’s bloody sleeve and began to wash the wound.
Captain Hawkes said, “You do not have Mr. Wild’s permission to be on the roads. Moreover, he requires you to report to him.”
“In London. At the King’s Head?”
Hawkes nodded.
“What will Wild do for me?”
“You can guess as well as me.”
“He’ll take out his book,” said Sandys, “and put a double cross next to my name.”
“You’ll have to take your chances.”
Mr. Sandys pointed to me. “Is this boy one of Wild’s coves?”
“Not yet, but I hope he will be.”
With that, Captain Hawkes turned to the woman. “I thank you for your hospitality, madam.” He bowed and flourished his feathered hat. To me, he smiled and made another bow. “Boy, I hope we shall meet again. Once more, I urge you to visit Mr. Wild.”
With that Captain Hawkes left the inn.
What was clear to me now was this: Mr. Sandys had attempted to rob the stagecoach, the same coach I had planned to be on. He had been held off, wounded by an armed guard—the gunshots I heard—and was escaping to where his mother lived, the Swan Inn.
Furthermore, Captain Hawkes was connected to the highwayman, and had come to give him a warning from this Mr. Jonathan Wild, the man Sandys told me was “the chief thief of the nation.”
In short, I had stumbled upon a nest of thieves and their disputes. Was I to be one of them? Or perhaps I already was one after taking those shillings. I believed my father had gone for Charity’s sake, but how I wished—with a dab of anger—he had not left me as he had done.
Mr. Sandys turned to me savagely with his wild eyes. “Did you tell him about me?” he fairly hissed.
The woman, who was dressing the wound, said, “He spoke only to me.”
Sandys relaxed. “Good enough,” he muttered.
“Will you go to Wild?” she asked her son.
“He’ll have me hanged. I need to get away. To the colonies in America. I’ll be safe there.”
Wishing to learn no more, I stood up. “Please. I have to go.”
“Still to London?” said Mr. Sandys.
“Yes, sir.”
He put his good hand into his pocket and to my surprise he drew out a fistful of shillings. “Here. Take your money back. You’ve played fair. You can’t walk to London. It’s too far. Continue along the Dorchester Road and catch tomorrow’s coach. But if you reach the city, be warned: I’m giving you those shillings for only one reason. So you don’t have to go to Wild. He’ll call you his friend and then hang you for the reward.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, taking the money and quickly moving toward the door. Before I reached it his mother handed me a penny’s worth of bread. “To eat upon the road,” she said. Thus with Mr. Sandys’s warning in my ears, and the bread stuffed in my pocket, I left the Swan Inn.
Once outside, I saw that Captain Hawkes’s horse was no longer at the hitching rail. Relieved to find him gone, I was pleased to take to the road. My sole resolution—other than to get to London—was to have nothing to do with such thieves. That, I told myself, should be easy enough.
Alas, when you talk to yourself, there’s no one to say that you are wrong.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
In Which, Even as I Made My Way to London, Something Startling Happens.
I walked fast, wondering how long I would need to travel before I could pause and wait for the next London coach. As I went along I constantly reached into my pocket to make sure my shillings remained. I did pass inns now and again. At each, I inquired if the London stage stopped there, only to be told I must continue north to an inn called the Anchor.
I continued thus for the better part of the day. At one point, sitting by the side of the road, I ate some of the bread Mr. Sandys’s mother gave me while reviewing my father’s now crumpled letter.
I still could not configure what the word “mXXXXXd” meant. Charity: not likely mothered, marbled, or matured. What had called my father to London with such urgency?
All in all, I believe I walked some fifteen miles until I reached the Anchor Inn. It announced itself by its swinging sign, which consisted of the image of an anchor, entwined by the word “Hope.”
It was bigger than the Swan, but other than having a large stable, it did not seem unusual in any way. Wanting to reserve all the money I had, I asked
for no food but only for some water. The innkeepers, a man and his wife, were perfectly agreeable. When I inquired and was told a London stage would arrive next morning, I offered to buy my London ticket then and there.
“Twenty shillings inside the coach,” I was informed, and rather smugly, too, as if doubting I could pay it. “Fifteen on the top, and ten to be in the basket.”
Naturally, I opted for the cheapest option, the basket—commonly known as a “rumble tumble”—and paid for my ticket.
Seeing me a legitimate customer, the innkeepers, with newfound kindness—for it is an old truth that money opens hearts as well as doors—gave me a penny’s worth of fusty bread and told me I was free to wait about until the next day. For the most part I stayed in the inn’s main room, where local folk came and went.
Idling in a corner, I heard much talk about a gang of highwaymen recently infesting the area, masked men who, though courteous, took everything passengers had. It was what Mr. Webber’s boy at the Bear Inn had warned me about. I assumed, too, they were talking about Mr. Sandys. But you may be sure I only listened, and revealed nothing.
That night I slept in the inn’s stables, knowing that when the morning coach stopped I’d be able to claim my place. Sure enough it arrived mid-morning. As soon as it came, the stable-nag, the boy employed by the inn, worked to change the horses.
The stagecoach was little more than an enclosed square box—maybe twelve feet high—on four large wheels. This one was driven by an arrangement of horses known as a unicorn, which is to say, three horses, with a postilion (a rider) on the lead horse. On the top, the foremost seat of the carriage was occupied by the coachman, who carried a whip and, I was glad to note, a blunderbuss.
With its short barrel, a blunderbuss can fire a fistful of shot at a short range. It is not known for precise shooting, but is the kind of gun whose scattershot is enough to drive off the likes of Mr. Sandys. No doubt it was that which had wounded him.
The carriage, when it reached the Anchor, carried two passengers inside, a wealthy man and his wife. There were two other men on the top, merchants, clinging to the rails provided for them. At the rear of the carriage proper—a common arrangement—was a large wicker basket attached to the coach, hanging between the wheels. That basket, the rumble tumble, was known for being the cheapest ride, and the most uncomfortable.