"Here, Ravi. Give me your kite."
He holds it out to me and I tie the strip of cloth to the bottom point of it and hand it back to Ravi.
"There. Now try that."
He runs off, trailing the newly tailed kite. It, of course, rises smoothly into the air, to the wonder of all.
"Very nice, Princess," says Allen. "I had no idea you were so expert in the science of aerodynamics."
"We used to fly kites every March in Boston, when I was at the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls. It was a very merry time, winter coming to a close after all, and, with the wind off Massachusetts Bay, well, it necessitated tails."
Ravi whoops with joy and comes back to our blanket.
"Look, Memsahib, it is flying!"
"Indeed it is, lad," I say, reaching out. "Come, hand me the string and I'll show you some tricks."
He does, and I say, "See, if you pull it this way, it will make the kite swoop down ... That way and the kite swoops in the other direction. See? Now watch that bloke over there..."
I let the line go slack and the kite comes floating down ... down ... down ... and when it almost reaches the ground, I pull it up sharply and it takes the wind and buzzes by the head of one of those men who called Ravi those things. I almost succeed in taking his hat off and he must duck to avoid our vengeful kite.
Take that, you mean bastard...
"Well done, Princess," says Richard, beaming. "You truly are a piece of work. Even kite flying falls within your expertise."
"Yes, well, one time I even went up into the air myself, riding a big kite. It almost killed me."
"Yes, Jacky, I know ... I can read, you know, simple soldier though I am."
"So you've read those books?" I ask, working up a maidenly blush. It's getting harder and harder for me to do that.
"Oh, yes, and enjoyed them hugely."
"Even the naughty bits?"
"Especially the naughty bits," says the rogue, grinning, his teeth gleaming white in the sunlight of the day. "I think I came out rather well in the Mississippi thing."
"Umm ... Well, Amy Trevelyne tends to exaggerate a bit."
Hmmm ...I notice that one of the little boys who was having trouble flying his kite has come up next to Ravi.
Uh-oh ... Trouble...?
But no. The boy merely says, "My name's Tom. Can you show us how to do that?"
Ravi, warily, says, "Yes, Tom, for certain."
"Good. Then, what's your name?" The lad seems to be a pleasant sort, for a boy.
"Ravi."
"Just Ravi? No last name?"
"No, I-I am Untouch—"
"His last name is Faber," I finish for him, loud and firm. "Ravi Faber."
I reach up under my dress and pull off the petticoat I had previously torn and toss it to Ravi, whose luminous dark eyes are brimming now, not with shame but with pride. Then I reach in my sleeve and flip him my shiv, which he expertly catches on the fly.
"There ... my son ... Cut tails for everyone's kite so that we might all decorate God's blue sky on this beautiful day."
Soon all the kites of Lincoln's Inn Fields are aloft and flying.
"My turn now, Richard. Up you go now, lad," I say, sitting him up and squirming around to plop my head into his lap. By turning my face, I can look out over the river. Boats on the Thames—mostly commercial coal barges—work their slow way up and down the river and suchlike, but there are some that are out for the mere pleasure of sailing a small boat on a glorious day.
"Does the offer of a ladyship still go?" I tease.
He leans down and plants one on my forehead.
"Yes, Princess, it does."
"Right, Lord Allen. You'd be tossed out of the House of Lords on your wellborn ear if you married something like me."
"I would not care. They're just a bunch of puffed-up old coots, anyway. I can barely stay awake when the House is in session. Which is why I'm a soldier and not a politician."
"Being a politico is a lot safer than being a soldier, Richard. I'd hate to see you hurt."
"Ah, well, nothing much happening now, so don't worry," he says. "No, at the moment, it's all parades and fine uniforms and impressing the ladies."
"Yes, but I hear Lord Wellesley is taking on Napoleon down in Portugal. You could be sent there."
"True, but it ain't happened yet, so not to worry."
"Right." I sigh. "Live in the moment, I always say, and the moment right now is truly fine."
"Indeed, Princess, an excellent motto, and one to which I fully subscribe." He makes so bold as to lean down and place a light kiss upon my lips. I should protest, but I do not really mind.
"Lady Allen, Jacky Faber, herself," I say, laughing. "Look down there, Richard. Do you see that muddy patch of open shore next to Blackfriars Bridge? You do? Good. It is mostly gravelly mud, but still a beach ... sort of ... Well, anyway, when she was a kid, the grand Lady Allen used to swim there in summers with the other street kids. It was neutral territory between the gangs, like."
"Ah yes, the youth of London, frolicking in bucolic splendor."
"Well, no, it wasn't quite like that, milord, no—a bit more squalid. For one thing, the water was dirty and muddy, with things floatin' in it."
I sink back into remembrance.
"Shall I tell you a tale of Cheapside you ain't yet read in any of those books?"
"Please do, Princess."
"All right," I say, and I begin...
"We had back then what we called 'chicken fights'—they were gladiatorial contests, actually. How to explain? Well, here's how Rooster Charlie, our gang leader, used to describe the game. 'Y'see, gents, we 'ave the Bulls and the Chicks. The Chicks, bein' the girls, ride the shoulders of the Bulls—the big lads, like—into the water, about waist deep, and the object of the contest is to topple the opposin' team. The rules, as they was developed over the centuries, Sirs, was this: The Bull cannot hold the Chick onto his shoulders—the Chick has to do that by clamping her legs about the Bull's neck as hard as she can and holding on to his hair. The Chicks can do whatever they want to the other Chicks—bite, scratch, pull hair—and the Bulls can wrassle with each other but can't touch the Chicks. The battle is won when one team's Chick topples off into the water, or mud, which is more likely to be the case. Oh, sirs, you ought to see it, when four or more teams stride into the water, ready to engage, well, it's a Battle Royale, I can tell you. Tomorrow, twelve noon, when Big Ben strikes, you'll be in for a treat! The mud and water shall fly!'"
I have to chuckle when I think back to Rooster Charlie explainin' the game to the local sportin' toffs—he did have a way with words, our Charlie did, I recall fondly.
"'What's the scam, Charlie?' asked the leaders of the other gangs when we all gathered under a flag of truce.
"'The scam is this,' says Charlie. 'The toffs bet on the fights, I collects the bets and takes ten percent off the top and divides it up later twixt the gangs. Got it? Hey, it's better than beggin', and it's legal and ain't about to get you hanged, neither. Now, every gang should put t'gether at least two teams ... and yes, there'll be prizes for winners, too. Got it? Tomorrow noon.'"
"And you, of course, were a Chick," interrupts Lord Allen.
"Yes, of course," I reply. "Me and Hughie made quite a team, too." Hugh the Grand we called him—the biggest, strongest, bravest, and sweetest member of our gang. He was simple, but he was good, and some of the happiest times I've ever had in my life was in riding his broad shoulders, whether to be high enough to read the broadsides on Fleet Street or riding into gang battles on the rough streets or in the Chicken Fights on the Thames. We used to have Hughie fight the prizefighters what would come into Cheapside with the autumn fairs, takin' on all comers, but I hated to see him hurt, even though he won most times, to our benefit. But still, wiping the blood from his face afterward ... I just didn't like it. I liked the chicken fights a lot better. At least it wasn't Hughie what got pounded.
"Anyway, the next noon we had maybe twent
y spectators at the foot of Blackfriars Bridge, and we got down to it. Charlie got up first to announce the matches.
"'Step right up, gents, and place your bets! We have five fine teams here for the first bout—the Royal Cavaliers, the Rounders, the Lords, the Shankies, and, of course, my very own Blackfriars Bridge Crew. You can be sure we don't throw no fights like them pugilists sometimes do, no sir. Nay, we're honest to the core. And throw a fight to a Shanky? Why, Guv'nor, we'd rather die, we would. Step right up, gents, and place your bets. Hurry up, now, the first match is about to begin ... Go!'
"With the Bulls bellowing, we waded into the first bout and my good Bull and I went for Toby Oyster's team first, as they seemed the weakest. 'Over there, Hughie, hit 'em hard!' and he did. The girl Toby had up was game, but she didn't last long. I got her by the hair and twisted her about so's I could get my arm around her neck and squeeze till she made gargling noises and dropped off into the water without further protest, and Hughie and I swung around to confront the next challenge ... It was from the Shankies, but they didn't field their best team, I knew, 'cause Pigger O'Toole wasn't the Bull. Not yet, he wasn't...
"And that was just the first round. Bruises and cuts were addressed, fresh Chicks were put up, and the battles resumed. 'Course us Chicks didn't wear nothin', being just kids and all, and why give the enemy Chick somethin' to grab on to other than your hair, which you couldn't do nothin' about? We could've cropped our hair, but even though us Chicks were gutter girls, we still had some pride about our appearance. And so the teams gained some renown. As we went down the bank to battle, it became common for the Chicks to stand on the shoulders of their Bulls and hurl taunts at their enemies, further garnering the cheers of the crowds that came down to watch us. It was actually a pretty fine time.
"Yes, we had many Battle Royales in the days after that—we fought the Shanks, the Cavs, the Rounders, and the Lords, and we came up winners most times, thanks mostly to Hughie. But some we lost, me ending up with my face in the mud. But money was waged and gradually odds were made and Hughie and I ended up among the favorites ... and then Pigger O'Toole himself entered the fray as a Bull, and then—"
"Hello. What's this?" says Allen suddenly, looking off over my recumbent form.
Startled, I sit up to see Dragoon Cavalry Sergeant Enoch Bailey, Richard's good right-hand man, come striding purposefully across the green.
Uh-oh...
He approaches, salutes, and says, "Pardon, Sor. Mum. A message from the General. Thought you ought to see it right away."
He hands Richard a note, who opens it and reads as I say, my voice full of trepidation, "So good to see you again, Sergeant Bailey."
"Mutual, Miss," says the stolid Bailey. I do not know how much he means that, considering the fact that I was instrumental in peppering his hide with a good dose of rock salt fired from one of my guns on the Belle of the Golden West. He steps away, respectfully out of hearing, to await further orders.
"Is it orders for Portugal, Richard? Is it...?" I ask, breathless.
He looks out over my head, deep in thought.
"No, Jacky, it is not that."
"Then, what news?"
He takes my hand and says, "The town fathers of London have deemed its local constabulary to be either corrupt or incompetent. I suspect they are both. Whatever the reason, I have been ordered to take my troop of Dragoons out onto the heath and not come back until I have captured the Black Highwayman."
Oh, no...
"I know, Princess, I know. I will try to take him alive ... and unhurt, if I can."
"When do you go?" I ask, trembling, the joy of the day gone.
"Today is Sunday. We ride out on Thursday."
"Thank you for telling me, Richard," I say, wrapping my arms about him, putting my face to his chest. "Now I think it best we go back and prepare for what it is we both have to do. Ravi, come!"
I have been lax in my duty to Jaimy. I know that. Because he has been inactive on the moor, I have relaxed and let my affection for Richard Allen guide my days and my actions. No more. We must set things in train ... and we must do it now...
Chapter 46
"Yes, Sir," I say, all respectful like, with a neat little curtsy. "My name is Mary Alsop, and I'm writing a piece on the Black Highwayman. I hope to write a book about it. I heard that you were most cruelly robbed, Sir, and if you would be so kind, Sir, can you describe your experience for me?"
Earlier in the day I had gone back to the Shipping News office on Fleet Street. With the help of my friend who had been so helpful the last time I'd gone looking for information, we pulled out as many eyewitness accounts of the Black Highwayman as we could find. I wrote down the addresses of those who lived nearby, thanking my friend in my usual way, with a hefty tip. Hey, always make 'em glad to see you comin', I say. I went on my way to seek out these witnesses to hear what they had to say.
"Women on Grub Street? By God, it's an abomination!"
Didn't get far with that bloke, no I didn't. He was a cheese merchant down on Earl Street. He looked me up and down and then tossed me out even though I was dressed all prim and proper. Wasn't worth my time to point out to the sod that many women were workin' the literary trade now. Grub Street was where most of 'em worked, male or female. Grub Street Hacks, they were called, and I'd be proud to be named as a member. If ever I were to work on land in England, I'd work there. Yes, I would. And I'd drag Amy Trevelyne over here, too. Can't get published in Puritan America? Well, try Grub Street, m'lass, and I am sure you would prosper. That little play I wrote back there on the Mississippi? Yes, the one I named "The Villain Pursues Fair Maiden" is now most often titled "The Villain Pursues Her." I hear that it has been performed many times and in many places, and that gratifies me, even though I ain't made a dime off that epic since coming off the Big Muddy, but so it goes. Hey, anyone, lad or lass, can lift a pen and make up stuff, and the money ain't bad sometimes, neither. So good day and bad cess to you, Sir. I'm glad the Highwayman got your gold. May your cheese turn as sour as your disposition. Grrr...
By and large, I have better luck with the ladies...
"Yes, Missus," I say, with a curtsy and my eyes cast down. "My name is Mary Alsop, and I'm writing a piece on the Black Highwayman. I hope to turn it into a book later on. Can you describe your encounter for me, such that my readers might experience for themselves some of the dreadful feelings your own poor self must have gone through in that ordeal. Hmmm?"
Yes, I had much better luck with the women. They tended to be better witnesses, anyway, not being half drunk at the time of the robbery, as most of the men generally were. My best source was a Winifred Beasley, a seamstress, wife of a hackney driver, who had gone down to Plymouth to visit her aged mum and had been in the coach with her daughter one evening when it was stopped by the Black Highwayman.
"Oh, Miss, it was just so 'orrible! He comes roaring up on this great black horse, which I swears was breathin' fire out o' its nostrils!"
Her daughter, who sat excitedly by her side, had a slightly different opinion...
"Oh, he was ever so dashing, Miss!" she says, clasping her hands and looking off, her eyes shining at the memory. "His horse rearing up, his black cape swirling around him, a sword on his hip, and a pistol in his hand! 'Stand and deliver!' he shouted. 'Everyone out of the coach!'"
"Aye, and we did get out, you may be sure, Miss," continues Mrs. Beasley, looking a bit askance at her daughter.
"Now don't you go getting all romantical, Griselda," says the mother, disapprovingly. "After all, he is a robber and a brigand."
"Yes, but he was so gallant ... at least to us ladies. He told us we were not to be fearful because his business was not with us," says this Griselda. "But he did stand the men in a line in front of him and he looked in each face ... and in each of their purses. From the rich blokes, he stole their gold ... From the poor, nothing. Oh, what a noble outlaw!"
The mother gives the daughter a gentle swat. "You calm down, you!"
"Did you see the color of his eyes?" I ask of them both. Griselda shakes her head.
Mrs. Beasley looks at me curiously. "His eyes? Miss, when you are looking down the barrel of a gun, you most certainly do not notice the gun toter's eye color. Dear me, no, you do not!"
"Oh, it must have been horrible for you, Missus, just horrible," I simper, then thank them for their time. I stand and prepare to leave. "Aside from the black boots, trousers, and cape, is there any other thing you might remember about the Highwayman? Some small detail?"
The woman thinks for a moment and then adds, "The mask he wore that covered his lower face ... it was silk, and it had little gathers in the top where it went across his nose, you know, like this." She points to the tucks at the top of her bodice.
Hmmm ... Trust a seamstress to notice that.
She turned out to be the most reliable witness, but even she did not notice the color of his eyes, nor did her awestruck daughter.
Which is good, I'm figuring.
The other witnesses I interviewed were no better at describing the Highwayman. Their accounts varied wildly. 'Course when you stand there in fear for your life, your mind can play tricks on you.
One thing the men were good at ... recounting exactly where the Highwayman stopped them. It was almost always at a sharp turn of the road near the crossing of Gallywall Road and Halfpenny Lane, where the coaches are forced, by the curve and the roughness of the road, to slow to a crawl. There are fens, pools of dark water, all about, and woods, the former being treacherous for horses, the latter making for good hiding places for highwaymen ... and maybe others.
Which might be good. We shall see, for this afternoon I shall go there to scout it out.
On my way back to the Nancy B, I spy a sign outside a rather shabby shop—it shows three balls arranged in a triangle, proclaiming it a pawnshop, a place for people who need a quick bit of money. They put up personal articles as security for loans. If they pay back the loan on time, they get back their stuff; if not, the shopkeeper puts it up for sale.