Highwayman- The Complete Campaigns

by Michael Arnold

  Tomkin Dome stood. “Long way to go yet, Lieutenant Chickering!”

  The most advanced rider twisted in his saddle, his face taut behind the trio if vertical bars that hung from the hinged visor of his helmet. “I am aware of that, Master Dome,” he replied testily. “I shall move this doltish beggar off the bridge and we'll be on our way.”

  The scarecrow shuffled forward a couple of paces. “Doltish, sirrah? No, sirrah! Not I! Not ever!”

  Lieutenant Chickering drew his sword, leaned to the side so that his saddle creaked. “No further, old man, I'm warning you. Move off the bridge or I'll move you myself.”

  Tomkin Dome sniffed hard, feeling mucus bubble into his throat. He hawked it up and spat onto the grass at the road's verge. “Enough o' this, Lieutenant. Run the bastard through, or trample him or boot him into the river. I care not, sir, but we must be off.” He lashed his horses with the reins and they lurched forth, clattering up onto the bridge. Behind him he could hear the five troopers follow. But Chickering could not move for the scarecrow remained steadfast, gibbering at the dark clouds and dancing a mad little jig, and the young lieutenant seemed unwilling to follow Dome's ruthless advice.

  Tomkin Dome laughed heartily, despite his various pains, because he knew Chickering was a kind man at heart, too pious for his own good, and that meant he was stuck for at least the time it would take to dismount and forcibly remove the old vagrant from their path. He did so just as Dome steered his cart up to the apex of the bridge, the rear-guard trotting blithely in his wake, so that the vehicle and all ten of its escort were crammed on the smooth stones above the gargling water.

  A pistol appeared in each of the scarecrow's hands.

  Chickering seemed to be half dozing, for he did not react for several moments. Eventually he stepped back a pace, jaw lolling, as he absorbed the implication. “Wh... what the devil?”

  The scarecrow straightened, losing the curvature in his hunched spine as though a miracle had been performed. He brandished a crooked grin. “Don't do anythin' silly now, me old cuffin. Ground your arms, get your men off their nags, and point to those angry-looking clouds, if you please.”

  Chickering was a young man, and rolled his shoulders to affect a bluff courage, but the delicate whiskers of his upper lip quivered ever so slightly. “We are ten men, sir.”

  The scarecrow's blue gaze flickered between the officer and the men mounted at his back. “Ten finely appointed fellows, sir. Shiny armour and pretty weapons. Which of you thinks he might prime his pistol before I stick a bullet twixt his eyes?” No one moved. The scarecrow spat bubbling saliva through the gap in his front teeth. He trained one of the pistols on the lieutenant's crotch. “No plate there, I'd imagine. Now ground arms, you ballock-brained maggot, less'n I turn your cock to a cunny.”

  “Why you treacherous cur!” Chickering hissed, but he dropped his sword nonetheless. His pistols were holstered in his saddle, too far away to be of use, but he still turned to order the troopers to discard their own.

  The scarecrow broke into his little jig once more. “Poor old crump-back! Crazed as a headless cockerel! You might be more respectful o' your elders in future, son.”

  Up on the cart, Tomkin Dome felt his heart race and he wondered if he would expire there and then. He heard hooves and murmurs behind, and turned, expecting to see Chickering's rear-guard following the order, but they had yet to relinquish their arms.

  “Oh God,” he whispered, understanding that resistance would catch him firmly in the cross-fire. Then out of the mist came a grey stallion. Its head resolved first, eyes bulging and wild above a diamond-shaped patch of pristine white, steam pulsing in roiling jets from nostrils flared black. It seemed to Dome like a ghoul rising from the very bowels of hell, a snorting demon come to claim souls for torment. He shuddered at the thought, but knew it was no spectre, for a man emerged from the wisps, perched atop the beast. He was dressed in dark clothes with a cloak of mossy green, reins in one hand, a curious double-barrelled pistol in the other. The man's face was sharp and lean, the deep lines at cheeks and brow making a once handsome appearance craggy like a sea-smashed cliff. But there was brightness too. In the green eyes, almost glimmering below the brim of his black hat, twinkling from the miasma like lonely stars on a cloudy night.

  Dome stood on his rickety timber platform and pointed at the newcomer. “Might wish to check your backs.”

  The five troopers behind the cart twisted as one. All at once the horses were still. They were trapped on the bridge between two shooters. Yet still they had the superior numbers, and a mad rush at the brigands would certainly sweep them away. Dome swallowed hard, wondering if the soldiers were weighing up their chances.

  As if reading their minds, the newcomer let his ghostly grey lope up to the bridge. “This pistol has two shots,” he called. “My friend has two also. Fight if you must, but be certain some of you will perish.” He lifted a gloved hand to push a tendril of matted sandy-coloured hair from his eye. “Drop your weapons. I will not ask again.”

  The troopers did as they were told, dismounting and filing up the side of the cart to join their comrades. The cloaked man remained in his saddle, watching from on high, while the scarecrow corralled them like armoured sheep, impotent in the face of the elderly footpad's wolfish delight.

  “You,” the man in black said, green eyes darting to the waggon.

  Tomkin Dome touched a hand to his breast. “Me?”

  “Get down and collect the weapons. Toss them in the river.”

  Dome dropped his reins and scrambled down to the smooth stones. “Aye, sir.”

  “Then be rid of their mounts, save two.”

  Dome nodded, already cradling three swords, a pair of pistols and a carbine. “Right away, sir.”

  As he scurried about his work, he saw that the scarecrow was jabbing his twin pistols in the faces of the soldiers. “Over there, and be quick about it,” he ordered, forcing them back against the side of the bridge. “Any one o' you makes a move, you'll get a ball in the throat.” He looked between them at the crystal water. “Or maybe I'll save the lead and shove you straight into the drink. Pretty deep, ain't it? Wonder how well you'll swim with all that plate weighin' you down.”

  “Cover yourself, Eustace,” the man perched on the big grey called.

  The scarecrow screwed up his face. “They've seen me.”

  “They've seen a haggard old man. Give them no more to recall than that.”

  Reluctantly, and with a spiteful sneer, the scarecrow tore away his eye bandage and pulled a black cloth over the lower portion of his face. Chickering bristled, his own features crimson with rage. “You won't get away with this.” He glanced across at the mounted assailant. “You'll swing. Both of you.”

  “Both?” a new voice startled the lieutenant. It was high pitched, the tone of one very young, though it came from the river.

  Chickering's eyes widened, as if the speaker were some kind of mythical creature, a nymph dwelling amongst the reeds. The scarecrow grinned and nodded, encouraging the troopers to look down at the water. When the lieutenant turned back, his face was a picture of bewilderment. “A girl? What kind o' highwayman brings his slattern on the road?”

  Tomkin Dome had an armful of weaponry, and he staggered to the side of the bridge and dropped them into the glistening depths. He saw her, then. Her face was covered in a silken scarf, but her long hair cascaded over her shoulders to the base of her spine. She too held a pistol, but it was what her other hand clutched that interested him. The girl held a pair of ropes, each taut as they stretched out into the centre of the Wey. Bobbing at their far ends were two small skiffs. She looked up at the bridge. “Get down here, piss-a-breech. And I ain't no slattern. Not any more, least wise.”

  The scarecrow cackled. “You heard her,” he said to Chickering. “Off for a nice trip down the river.”

  The mounted man walked his horse up to stand beside the cart. He gazed down at the cage, then at Dome. “Do you have the key
?”

  Tomkin Dome shook his head. “Alas, no, Major. The key is at Portsmouth. None here may open it.”

  Lieutenant Chickering had been trudging at the head of his men towards the far bank and waiting boats, but now he froze. He turned slowly back, eyes settling on the carter in a look of blazing malice. “You? You have betrayed us?”

  Tomkin Dome's entire body hurt. His lungs felt weak and sore, his skin crawled. But he managed a deep bow in spite of it all. “I am a loyal subject of King Charles. And his murdered father before that.”

  “You will die too, you pathetic little worm,” Chickering said darkly.

  “I embrace it, young man, for I have taken this small revenge and will die happy.” He turned to look up at the horseman. “Thank you.”

  Major Samson Lyle nodded and slid from his horse. Star grumbled, but kept calm enough. He thanked God for His providence, for the plan had worked. The party had left Newbury on time, and Bella had tracked them so that he knew when they were likely to cross the River Wey. He felt so alive, his blood zinged through his limbs in a way that it had not done since before Ireland. He thought of Felicity Mumford, and, for the first time, felt no guilt.

  Lyle reached for one of the saddle's leather loops, through which hung a long war hammer. They were designed for piercing or crushing plate armour, though he had used it against many an infantryman, and the effects on an unprotected skull had been more horrific than he could ever have imagined. Now, though, the target was not skin and bone. It was the heavy lock that hung from the doorway to the cage. Lyle lifted the hammer, poised to strike. “See to our friends, Eustace!”

  “Pleasure, Major!” Grumm called back. The old man jerked his pistols and the prisoners resumed their slippery progress down to the grassy bank. “Couple o' nice, cosy boats for you to try, chums,” he chirped at the backs of the crestfallen troopers. “Perfectly river worthy I assure you.”

  Lyle swept the war hammer into the waiting lock. It clanged, the sound echoing about the trees with unnatural loudness, the gurgling of the river its only competition. He repeated the blow twice more with deep grunts, the flapping of startled birds shaking the canopy above, and then there was an almighty crack as the lock twisted and broke. Lyle slid the bolt back, tugged open the door. “Sir James Wren?”

  The man in the cage had barely reacted to the frenetic action swirling around him, but now he crawled stiffly to the little doorway. “Aye.”

  “Then come. The coast awaits. You must take a ship.”

  Wren took Lyle's proffered hand, bracing himself against it as he stepped out. His hair was lank and filthy, falling over his face in greasy clumps. His eyes stared out from behind the dark veil. He seemed exhausted, broken, though a new light came into his face, as though waking from a terrible dream. “I know you.”

  “Lyle.”

  Wren seemed puzzled. “A Roundhead, were you not?”

  “I was.”

  “Allied now to the king?”

  “Allied to none but myself.”

  It was Wren's turn to extend his hand. “I shall tell the king of your service nevertheless.”

  “As you wish.”

  Tomkin Dome had chased off eight of the troopers' mounts. Now he came to stand before the man who had hitherto been a captive of the Protectorate. “Sir.”

  Wren stared at him for a few heartbeats, before his eyes widened. “Sergeant? Sergeant Dome?”

  Dome beamed. “You have it, sir, and good it is to see you again.”

  They shook hands. Wren swept the hair from his face, the life pouring into him with every moment. “What risk you have taken in this enterprise.”

  Dome's face became sad, and Lyle thought of their first meeting, when the brittle carter had told him of his illness. It had been a Godsend for the mission, but that did not make him happy. Dome cleared his throat awkwardly. “I am not long for this world, Sir James. I would fight for my king one last time.” He glanced at Lyle. “Thanks to this man.”

  Lyle could not stifle a smile. “A small matter, gentlemen. Now if you wouldn't mind, I must be away from here. And you have a ship to catch.”

  “How?” Wren said.

  “The major has arranged our passage to France,” replied Dome. “We must ride hard for the coast.”

  Lyle nodded. “Ride like devils, for they will hunt you.”

  Wren was already walking gingerly towards the two mounts Dome had selected for their journey, but he looked back at his rescuer. “Why are you doing this, Major? You were a rebel.”

  “It will hurt Goffe and Cromwell, Sir James,” Lyle said as he watched the two men hoist themselves into the saddles and quickly kick the beasts into a canter. The hooves clattered south over the bridge. “That is enough!”

  Lyle went to the side of the bridge. He leaned over the stonework to peer down at the two skiffs. They each carried five passengers, fury etched into every face. He waved. “Give my regards to Major-General Goffe!”

  Lieutenant Chickering tried to stand, causing the boat to list violently, throwing him back onto his rump. “He will track you down,” he snarled as Lyle, Grumm and Bella brayed to the scudding clouds at his floundering.

  “I count on it! Be sure to tell General Goffe who it was that outwitted him.”

  Chickering stared up at him as the boats slipped swiftly downstream. “Then who are you?”

  “Major Samson Lyle, sir. The Ironside Highwayman!”

  Historical Note

  The Rule of the Major-Generals was a 15 month period of direct military government during Oliver Cromwell's Protectorate.

  The new system was commissioned in October 1655 and the country divided into 12 regions, each governed by a Major-General who was answerable only to the Lord Protector. The first duty of the Major-Generals was to maintain security by suppressing unlawful assemblies, disarming Royalists and apprehending thieves, robbers and highwaymen. To assist them in this work, they were authorised to raise their own militias.

  Colonel Maddocks and his men are figments of my imagination, but William Goffe was indeed Major-General for Berkshire, Sussex and Hampshire, and it would have been his responsibility to hunt down Samson Lyle and men like him.

  Sadly, Lyle himself is a fictional character, but he is indicative of many outlaws of the period.

  Contrary to the classic tradition of the 18th Century dandy highwayman, mounted bandits have infested England's major roads for hundreds of years.

  Indeed, in 1572 Thomas Wilson wrote a dialogue in which one character commented that in England, highway robbers were likely to be admired for their courage, while another suggested that a penchant for robbery was one of the Englishman’s besetting sins.

  During the years immediately following the Civil Wars, highway banditry became more widespread simply due to the sheer number of dispossessed, heavily armed and vengeful former Royalists on the roads. This idea was the inspiration behind Highwayman: Ironside, though I felt it might be more interesting if my protagonist had been a Roundhead rather than a Cavalier.

  The locations in the story are all real. The London to Portsmouth road became a major coaching route in the eighteenth century, but it had already been an established highway for centuries. Many inns punctuated the route, and the Red Lion at Rake (now a private house) was certainly present in 1655.

  The Manor House at Hinton Ampner was indeed purchased by the Parliamentarian, Sir John Hippisley after the wars. The current house was built in 1790, and is now owned by the National Trust.

  The Ironside Highwayman will ride again.

  Michael Arnold

  HIGHWAYMAN: WINTER SWARM

  Michael Arnold

  1

  Priors Dean, Hampshire, December 1655

  The White Horse was not a large establishment. Indeed, the tavern’s low ceiling, supported by tobacco-stained beams and mellow walls of wind-smoothed stone, reflected a former life as a modest farmhouse, the kind of place a small family might congregate after a day of toil in the seemingly endless h
ills. But this night, up high on the Froxfield plateau where the downland chalk was made sticky by clay and the frozen fields were smothered in a glittering blanket of snow, the White Horse seemed like the very centre of the world.

  The noise emanating from its windows was raucous, pulsating over the gently undulating terrain and through the dense blocks of white-capped woodland that marked the plateau’s fringe. And the light — warm and tremulous — blazed between shutters flung wide, bathing the snow and the outbuildings and the distant hedgerows so that the deep night glowed orange for fifty yards in all directions.

  Towards the light walked an old man, a young girl and a large dog. They trudged carefully, steps crunching but gently placed, along the track that bisected the field from the main road. Their breaths plumed thick and white, a rasping chorus, unnaturally loud in a land muffled by the long-dwindled blizzard. The clouds scudded above them, by turns masking and revealing a bold moon, though they hardly needed its guidance when the boisterous hails of the isolated inn beckoned them so readily. The smash of a dropped — or thrown — pot rang out suddenly, followed by a fresh guffaw, and the dog froze, jerking its leash taut. The girl swore, for the rope was coiled about her thin wrist. She twisted back, tugged hard, forcing the frightened animal to proceed. It was a huge thing, brindle-coated and wide-pawed, but it was clearly disquieted by the light and the noise. She coaxed the loping creature to her hip, its half-raised hackles climbing higher than her waist, and patted its head as she walked.