“My name is Sandys. Mr. Sandys. That name mean anything to you?”
“No, sir.”
“You just came from Melcombe. Know anyone, see anyone looking for me? Someone mouthing my name?”
“I heard nothing, sir.”
“What about Mr. Jonathan Wild? Have you heard of him?”
I shook my head.
“ ‘Thief-taker general of Great Britain and Ireland,’ he calls himself. Don’t believe it. He’s the chief thief of the nation. You’d be wise to keep far away from him. If he puts your name in his book, you belong to him. He’s the devil’s own serpent.”
Mr. Sandys grimaced and shook his head—as if to clear away ugly thoughts. Then he leaned forward and added, “He’s searching for me and I don’t intend to let him find me.”
“I hope you succeed, sir.” Though I knew nothing of who this Mr. Wild was, or why he might be pursuing Mr. Sandys, I wasn’t going to ask.
Mr. Sandys rubbed his face all over, briefly shut his eyes, all of which suggested great weariness and desperation. “Perhaps,” he said, “it shows your intelligence that you don’t say more.” He studied me silently for a few moments.
“What I will tell you,” he resumed, “is the stagecoach you’re intending to board will go by here a little past six o’clock in the morning. If you had gotten on it at the Bear Inn, the likelihood of your getting past this place would have been very small.”
“Why, sir?”
“It would have been stopped.”
“By . . . you?”
He nodded and grinned and by so doing acknowledged he was a highwayman. When he said no more, I found courage enough to say, “I think I should go, sir. I have to get to London.” I added, “If I have to, I can walk.”
“Not cow-hearted, are you? Not afraid of the dark.” He leaned in. “You afraid of me?”
“Yes, sir. I am.”
He considered this for a moment and then shrugged. “You’ve got good reason to be.” He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Mind, if I let you go, and you go back to town and impeach me, do you know what I’ll do?”
“No sir.”
He pointed his pistol at me again. “I’ll use this. In some way or in some fashion, you’d be dead. Do you believe me?”
“Oh yes, sir, absolutely.” Out of habit I gave him my smile.
He studied me another long while. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Twelve, sir.”
“Older than I thought.” Pistol in hand, he continued to stare at me across the fire. “Tell you what: I’m going to let you go.”
“Oh, sir, thank you.”
“But only with conditions. If you keep to this here Dorchester Road you’ll reach the Swan Inn. Kept by my widowed mother. It’s where I’m intending to go, but I need be sure it’s absolutely safe. That no one is waiting for me there. Before I let you go you must swear to go to her.”
“Yes, sir,” I said instantly. “I swear.”
“Stand up.”
I did.
“Give me your hat.”
I did that, too.
He tore off some of his ragged sleeve lace and tucked it into my hatband. Handing the hat back, he said, “Leave that lace where I put it. Go to the inn. If there’s an elderly woman there, that’s my mother. The lace will tell her I’m near. She made it, so she’ll recognize it. If she’s alone—mind! Only if she’s alone!—tell her where I am. If it’s safe she’ll come for me. But, heed me, if anyone else is there, say nothing. Nothing! Not about the lace or me. Understand, nothing,” he repeated, jiggling his pistol by way of emphasis.
I said, “Might that . . . Mr. Wild you spoke about, sir, might he be there?” I was wondering if I was going into worse danger.
“Not a chance. Wild does nothing himself, but gets others to do his filthy work.” That said, he reached into his pocket and drew out two shillings and offered them to me. “Here! This should buy you some food at the inn,” he said, as if bestowing a generous gift to me. I thought it odd: he, making a gift of the money he stole from me, money I had taken from The Rose in June. And I was to give it to his mother.
“Get on then,” he said. “To the Swan Inn.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, taking the money.
“Don’t forget: Tell anyone about me other than my mother—any information against me—repeat what will happen to you.”
“You’ll kill me, sir.”
“By bloody stones, I will! Now, get on before I change my mind.”
I turned and fairly raced out of the old fort onto the Dorchester Road, the moonlight bright enough to illuminate my way.
Fearful that this Mr. Sandys might change his mind and come after me, I kept looking back over my shoulder, listening for the sound of a horse.
As for my promised mission to go to the Swan Inn, the savage Mr. Sandys had made me feel I must. Yes, my intent was to get as far and as fast away from him. But I was truly famished and had hopes that when I reached the inn I could at least secure some food. Except for that mouthful of old cheese, I hadn’t eaten for two days.
As I continued going along the road, I hugged myself tightly within my great coat against the deepening cold, and moved as fast as I could. I don’t know how long I had been going before I heard hoofbeats behind me. Terrified that Mr. Sandys had changed his mind and was coming to shoot me, I hurried off the road and flung myself upon the ground in hopes I would not be seen.
As the horse galloped by, I peeked up.
The rider’s speed was too fast and the moonlight not quite strong enough for me to be sure who it was. I didn’t think it Mr. Sandys. But whoever he was, he took no note of me. For my own part, as the horse flashed by, I noted a bright bridle decoration shaped like a star, which made me wish I had taken a better look at Mr. Sandys’s horse.
Back on my feet, I watched the rider gallop out of sight. As I stood there, I convinced myself that, whoever he was, he had nothing to do with me. Besides, I had left Melcombe and save that, I had lost money, I had dealt with a highwayman and come away unharmed. Nothing worse, I thought, could happen.
I could not have been more wrong.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
My Adventures at the Swan Inn.
I continued along the road, hands deep in coat pockets clutching my two shillings, occasionally wiping my cold nose. Happily, as I walked, that passing rider was the only person I saw, though now and again I saw dark houses. Even if I had seen a light—which I did not—I felt obliged to Mr. Sandys to reach the Swan. That is to say, I was sufficiently convinced of his violence to think it wise to keep our agreement. For his sake, I hoped that person he spoke of—that Mr. Wild who so clearly frightened him—would not find him. Or me. The very name, Wild, did not suggest benevolence.
Most of all, hunger was on my mind and in my belly, so I was eager to get to the inn.
I am not sure how long I walked—it might have been as long as two hours—the night ever colder—when I saw some wavering light ahead of me. Praying it was the inn, I used such strength as remained to sprint forward. Within moments I was standing before a building.
The pale yellow moonlight revealed an old wooden house with a thatched roof. There was a big, central door split in half, in the Dutch fashion. Over that door hung a broken carving of a whitish swan, the long neck missing. It took no imagination but much relief to believe I had reached the Swan Inn, tottering though it might be.
On both sides of its central door were windows, both of which had multitudes of small diamond panes, each pane glowing from what I took to be a hearth fire inside. A saddled horse was tied to a hitching post. With sudden unease I noticed the bridle, which bore that star-shaped bosset I had seen on the horse that had passed me on the road. In other words, that rider had come to this inn. I much preferred to think it was not Mr. Sandys’s horse, but I couldn’t be sure. What if it was the man who was hunting him, that Mr. Wild?
As I stood before the door, fingering my coins and trying to build some bold
ness, I smelled burning wood. That promised warmth. I also smelled cooking. Then I heard a man’s voice singing loudly.
Hark! I hear the sound of coaches!
The hour of attack approaches,
To your arms, brave boys, and load.
See the ball I hold!
Let the alchemists toil like asses,
Our fire their fire surpasses,
And turns all our lead to gold!
So hark, I hear the sound of—
To me, such singing suggested that a fair number of people were within, which I took as another good sign. Besides, by that time my stomach was all but barking with hunger.
I rapped on the door. On the instant, the singing stopped and was followed by silence. Momentarily, the top part of the door swung open. A woman stood looking out, lantern in hand.
She was an elderly woman, her tousled gray hair not contained by her white mobcap. The light of her lantern revealed distrustful eyes and a long and ruddy face full of tension. Her free hand was clutching a shawl against the cold.
I assumed that this was Mr. Sandys’s mother, the one to whom I was supposed to deliver his message. I would have told her right off, but the singing I heard informed me that someone else was there, and I had expressly been ordered that the message must be given privately.
Holding up the lantern, the woman peered out to see who was at her door. I had the distinct impression that she was expecting someone.
“What do you want?” she said.
I hastily pulled off my hat, gave her my cheerful smile, and said, “Please, madam, I’m just a boy on the road to London.”
“London’s far away,” she said, her voice heavy with suspicion.
“Yes, madam, I know it only too well.”
Momentarily, she looked past me. “Are you alone?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Are you begging?”
“Please, madam, I’m hungry and I can pay for food.”
“Can you?”
I pulled the two shillings Mr. Sandys had given me from my pocket and held them out.
Apparently convinced I was alone and worthy of her custom, the woman stepped back and opened the bottom half of the door.
“Come in then,” she said, but I noted she again looked beyond me to make sure I was truly unaccompanied. Her gaze was so intense I, too, peeped around.
No one was there.
Hat in hand, I stepped into a small, warm room whose well-worn wooden floor was smooth but uneven. Overhead were large square beams, coated with soot. At the end of the room was a hearth in which a low fire was burning. For the most part, the fire consisted of twinkling embers, whose flickering cast shadows that seemed to dance upon the walls.
Against two walls were settles with enough room for four men to sit on each. In the center of the room, two small square tables, with chairs set around. A young man was seated at one of the tables, with a cup and bowl before him, as well as a half-eaten loaf of bread. He was wearing a green jacket with buttons from neck to hem, plus fine lace at his wide cuffs. His hat was ornamented with a white feather.
He was the same man I’d seen talking to Mr. Bartholomew outside the guild hall earlier in the day.
Was this young man that Mr. Wild, whom Mr. Sandys spoke about? The one he said was hunting him? Then it struck me: perhaps at the behest of Mr. Bartholomew, this young man was looking for me. I hardly knew what to do—stay or bolt, the more so since on the table where he sat lay two fine pistols.
But when the young man turned toward me, I saw not so much as a glimmer of recognition or hostility in his eyes. Unless he was hiding his knowledge of me with great shrewdness, his gaze appeared to be little more than casual curiosity. I chose to think his presence had nothing to do with me and took him for a young gentleman, clean shaven and dressed elegantly. How utterly different was his appearance and manner in contrast to Mr. Sandys. To be sure, he was out of place in this small country inn, but I told myself he was probably just pausing for warm refreshment on a cold night.
The young man and woman gazed at me with looks of interest, as if unsure what to make of an unaccompanied and hungry boy appearing out of the night.
As I stood there, not knowing what to say, I saw the woman’s eyes glance at my hat, which I had in my hand. The fragment of lace cuff, put there by Mr. Sandys, was surely visible. I couldn’t be certain if the woman saw it, for she quickly shifted her eyes away. Yet the look in her eyes changed, becoming even more watchful. I decided she had noticed the lace.
“Where are you from, boy?” she asked.
“Melcombe Regis, madam.”
“Not so far. And you say you are on your way to London?”
“Yes, madam.”
“I’ve just come from there,” said the young man with an unstinting smile that suggested he was at great ease with the world. “On the way I paused at the Bear Inn. The innkeeper told me he had noticed a solitary person hurrying along the road. Was that you?”
My heart thumped but I managed to say, “I don’t know, sir.”
“Are you,” he asked, “intending to walk all the way to London?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A long journey.”
“Yes, sir,” I returned, continuing to stand there, hat in hand, wishing for an easier welcome.
“And you travel at night,” said the woman. “Why so? And your parents? What of them?”
“My father,” I said, “who is in London, summoned me in haste, which is why I’m going there. My mother died long ago.” Unable to hold back, I said, “Please, madam, I’m very hungry.”
“A lonely boy and hungry at that,” said the woman with what sounded at last like some kindness. “It’ll cost you a shilling for supper, bed, and then breakfast before you go on in the morning.”
Though she was speaking to me, she kept glancing at the young man. It was as if she had to ask his permission to make the offer.
“Go on,” said the young man, “feed him. He looks fairly famished.”
The woman’s proposal seemed expensive fare to me, but I had neither desire nor strength to bargain. I held out a coin. She took it and put it in her apron pocket.
“Sit here,” she said, and gestured to the empty table.
When I did—putting my hat on the floor—she left the room, but not without another darting, anxious look at the young man. It was as if they were engaged in some private give-and-take, though I had no idea what it might be.
The young man picked up his half-eaten loaf from his table and placed it before me. “You can begin with this,” he said, his smile suggesting he found me amusing.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. Appreciating his kindness and his easy smile, I took up the bread and began to devour it.
The young man laughed. “When did you eat last, boy?”
“This afternoon, sir. A piece of cheese.”
“And before that?”
“A goodly while, sir,” I said.
“Why,” he asked, “were you at Melcombe?”
“I live there,” I said and bit off another large piece of bread.
“Were you there when the storm struck?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Did you hear about the wreck?”
It was suddenly hard to swallow the bread. Perhaps Mr. Bartholomew had told him about me.
“The customs master told me the ship was looted,” said the young man, his eyes steady on me. “Did you have a hand in that? Is that why you’re on the road at night?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Which Concerns Certain Talk at the Swan Inn.
Though the young man smiled when he asked his question I was so startled I had to struggle to resume my smile. Yet I saw no accusation in his face, merely casual interest. I preferred to believe he was that kind of adult who finds young people a general source of amusement.
The woman came back with a great bowl of steaming stew. She set it down before me along with a wooden spoon and more bread. As I ate with gusto, sh
e stepped back to watch me, now and again glancing nervously at the young man while also shifting her eyes toward the door.
I continued to consume the food while the two adults watched me as if the rate of my eating was a marvel to behold. But I was equally sure they wished to ask me something.
Sure enough, the young man said, “Tell me—between mouthfuls—did you see anyone on the road?”
I glanced up from my bowl. The woman’s eyes were fixed on me.
“No, sir,” I said, remembering Mr. Sandys’s warning. “No one.”
“Not even a man . . .” and the young man went on to describe Mr. Sandys quite neatly.
As he spoke the woman’s face paled and her fingers entwined, as if tying and untying a nub. Meanwhile, I tried to keep my face blank.
“Anyone?” persisted the young man.
“Please, sir, it was too dark to see much of anything.”
Though he studied me intently, the young man kept his smile. “I like to think I can read faces,” he said. “And you have as honest a young face as I’ve ever seen. Pure innocence. You could do wonders with a face like that.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, not sure what to make of his remark.
I finished the bowl, at which point the woman filled it again. I was getting my money’s worth.
At length the woman said to me, “It’s late. I suggest you get to sleep.”
I needed no urging. Between final gulps of food, I said, “Yes, please.”
The young man laughed. “The more rest today, the quicker your step to London,” he said.
“I’ll fix your bed,” the woman said, and once again she left the room.
I kept eating. Now and again the young man glanced at me as if making an appraisal. I tried to ignore him.
The woman returned. That was when the young man said to her, “Have you any notion as to when Mr. Sandys shall come?”
My spoon halted halfway between the bowl and my mouth.
The woman said, “What makes you think he will come?”
“I’ve been informed he’s in the neighborhood.”
“By whom?”
“There’s talk in Melcombe. I assure you, madam, when a well-known highwayman passes through town, he will be noticed.”