The King's Shilling

by David Starr

  “I do have some experience with winter,” I tell Evans, remembering the blizzard that trapped Luc Lapointe and me under our canoe on the shores of Lake Superior, on our long voyage back to Montreal from Fort St. James.

  “Canada, you say? Then I’d wager you’re a tough bugger as well. The winters there are cold enough to freeze a man solid from what I hear.”

  “Aye. I spent the better part of the last three years in the wilds. The snow and ice out there are something to behold.” Although the mail coach fairly flies above its hard-packed surface as we chat, I still find it impossible to believe the driver, who assures me again that we will travel the two hundred miles in less than two days.

  “In Canada there were times when we considered ten miles in one day a guid distance,” I tell him, “and that was with heavy packs on our backs and our canoes over our heads.”

  “Twenty years ago a coach would have been lucky to make ten miles in a day as well,” Evans tells me, “but thanks to the turnpikes, we fairly fly through the countryside now.”

  The turnpikes are indeed remarkable. Hundreds of miles of these new roads spread across England now, from the Scottish border to the far southwest. They are not cheap, however.

  Our fare to ride on the coach includes our share of the tolls, money Evans gives to the men stationed at the tollhouses we encounter on the road south.

  It is a great deal of money, no doubt, but the convenience and the time saved is well worth the cost. Soon I will be in London where I will complete my last duty for the North West Company and begin my search for Libby.

  The day is overcast and grey, and though the skies threaten rain, it holds off as the horses trot steadily along the turnpike to London. Evans stops every two hours or so at post offices along the way, with the Royal Mail guard handing out or taking on letters and other small packages from the postmaster. At these stops, the horses are changed out while the passengers are given a chance to stretch their legs.

  “How are ye enjoying the ride?” I ask one of the passengers on our first break, one of the two older men, well-dressed with a bushy moustache. I am sharing the road with these people for two days after all, and it is only right I should make conversation with them.

  “Fine, thank you,” he says curtly, before taking his wife’s hand and walks away.

  “Don’t worry about that lot,” says Evans. “Figure themselves lords and ladies of the manor, too good to chat with the likes of us. Me though, I like a good story, so feel free to tell me all about your adventures in Canada.”

  With fresh horses in the trappings we continue our journey. Time passes quickly by as Evans and I talk. I tell him all about life in Canada, travelling the rivers, my encounters with the people who live there. In turn, Evans speaks of life in the valleys of South Wales, of the small mining town of Caerphilly, where he was born.

  It is nearly dusk when the silhouette of a lone rider appears on the side of the road in front of us. “Company ahead, Fred,” says Evans, ending the conversation abruptly. “Do you see?”

  The Royal Mail guardsman has seen the horseman as well. He sets his pistols on the seat beside him, then takes the short-barrelled blunderbuss into his hands.

  “Steady, Evans,” the guard says. “Nice and steady.” The horses slow down to a trot as we approach. Evans leans down and opens up a small chest in front of him. Two pistols are within.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “I ain’t sayin’ for certain that fellow ahead fancies himself Dick Turpin,” the driver says, reaching inside the chest for one of the pistols, “but lone riders in long black cloaks waiting on the side of the turnpike generally ain’t farmers or innkeepers.”

  A highwayman. It has to be. “I can fire a pistol,” I tell Evans, my breath quickening. “I learned to shoot in Canada.”

  “Fred, what do you think?” Evans asks the guard. “Might be good to have another hand.”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” the guard says, as he cocks back the hammer of the blunderbuss. “Three guns to one will make him think twice.”

  “Go ahead then, boyo,” Evans says. “Don’t point the thing at him unless Freddy gives you the word but have it nice and visible.”

  “Keep the doors shut and your mouths shut, all you inside the coach,” says Evans to the passengers below us. “We’ve got a bit of company out here and I don’t think they want to ask us if we know the way to Stoke.”

  The distance between the rider and the mail coach evaporates. Soon we pull even with him. The man is dressed all in black. A long black cloak, black shirt, breeches and a large black hat. I am surprised to see he’s not much older than I am.

  “Good evening to you, stranger,” says Evans, his voice calm and polite. I keep my eyes on the rider, watching him intently. At his waist I see a sword on his left side, the handle of a pistol on his right.

  “Good evening, back,” the rider says, though he speaks to the guard instead of the driver. To anyone riding past, it would seem as if two acquaintances have stopped to greet each other, but I can feel the tension, can almost read the rider’s mind as he takes the measure of Fred — and of us.

  The rider’s eyes travel from the flintlock blunderbuss in Fred’s hand to the pistols Evans and I hold on our laps. His own hand rests on the pommel of his saddle, within easy reach of either weapon he carries.

  His hand moves. I draw a breath and tighten my grip on the pistol. But instead of moving to his waist the rider reaches for his hat, tipping it slightly at us.

  “Safe travels, my friends. The road can be a dangerous place.”

  “And to you,” Evans replies with cold courtesy. With a click of his heels the rider spurs his horse on. The animal gallops away to the north, clods of dirt kicked up by his heels.

  “We’d have heard ‘stand and deliver’ and have ended the day short our purses and very likely our lives if we weren’t armed, boyo,” says Evans. “A highwayman for certain, eh, Fred?”

  “No doubt,” the guard says. “Well done, lad,” he says to me.

  “High praise, indeed!” says Evans with a grin. “A ‘well done, lad’ from our Fred here is worth more than a medal pinned on your chest by the King himself!”

  The sun has long disappeared by the time we reach Wolverhampton. “Not quite halfway there,” Evans says gratefully as he pulls the horses to a stop beside a coach house called the Lamb and Flag. “Time for a well-earned mug of hot cider and some roast beef, don’t you think?”

  The other passengers most certainly do. The early spring night is cool, and rain threatens overhead. They climb down from the coach and head straight into the light and warmth of the inn. I wonder if they know how close they came to being robbed.

  “I’ll have ‘em send a meal and a mug of ale up to your room, Fred,” says Evans as the Royal Mail guard unloads the heavy trunk he guards as if it were the Crown Jewels themselves.

  “Mr. Evans, I’m guid with horses,” I say as Evans starts to loosen the bridles. “Let me help ye take them out of the harnesses and feed them. They worked harder than I did today. They deserve to eat first.”

  “First pistols now horses! I’ll not be chopsing at such a kind offer, boyo,” the Welshman says gratefully. “The stables are to the left of the inn. We’ll get the horses out of their livery, let ’em have a good drink then we’ll rub ’em down and give ’em their hay and oats. When the horses are tended to it will be food and drink for us. We’re almost halfway to London, boyo,” Evans tells me again. “This time tomorrow you’ll be eating your tea in the biggest city on earth!”

  Chapter 4

  “Thank ye fer the ride,” I say to Evans as the coach pulls up at the Royal Mail Headquarters on Lombard Street. Fred, the Royal Mail guard, grunts a goodbye to me as he heads into the large building, trunk in hand.

  I climb down from the coach and take in my surroundings. London is truly the most remarkable, busy, dirty place I have ever seen in my entire life. The city is massive, dwarfing Glasgow, Montreal, Liverpool and
Quebec City combined, and I am overwhelmed by its sheer size. I have never seen a place like this great city, with its buildings five, six even seven storeys tall.

  The air is terrible as well, even worse than Glasgow’s, I think, with the coal smoke from what must be a million chimneys turning the evening sky above me grey.

  In the West, the Nor’Westers would go weeks without seeing another person. In London, however, the weight of humanity feels like it will crush the very breath from my chest. Suddenly I long for the quiet and empty space of the plains, the western forest or the sea.

  I feel dizzy. My head spins as I stumble a little, stretching out my hand onto the side of the coach to catch my balance.

  “Are you all right, boyo?” the coach driver says. I realize that Evans is looking at me, concern on his face. “You’ve gone a bit pale.”

  “I’m fine, thank ye,” I say, catching my breath. “I just felt a wee bit faint is all.” It is the city itself that made me feel this way. Finding Libby will not be an easy task in such a place.

  Evans nods in agreement. “London has that effect on people first time they see it. When I first came here from my small valley, I thought I would go mad from all the noise and the people. Even now I don’t like staying here more than a day or two. Where in London does your business take you?”

  “The Colonial Office,” I say. “I have a letter to deliver.” I instantly regret that I told Evans anything. The letter I carry bears very important news from Simon Fraser for the Empire itself. I had no business telling the coach driver where I was heading. “It’s nothing of any importance, business related.”

  Evans seems impressed nevertheless. “The Colonial Office? That is indeed an interesting answer. I’d have expected you were looking for a job or an old sweetheart or something like that. Instead, you’re a postman, just like Fred and me! You should have said something in Liverpool. I’d have given you a discount on your ticket!”

  “Do ye ken where the Colonial Office is?” Since Evans now knows where I’m going, I may as well ask for directions. I have no idea where the place is. I keep my other reason to be in London secret, although I like and trust the man. That part of my journey is not his concern at all.

  “Aye, boyo, I do,” says Evans. “Not far from here. Two miles at most. Head south to the River Thames, turn right then follow the water. Anyone you meet along the road will tell you the rest of the way from there.”

  “Thank ye, Mr. Evans,” I say.

  “Think nothing of it, boyo. Though I dare say it’s too late in the day to deliver your message now. Night is falling and the place will be locked up tight. If I were you I’d find myself a little tavern, get a room, have an ale or two and finish up my business in the morning.”

  The coach driver is right. No doubt the secretary of state for the colonies has long since left his office.

  “Do ye happen to ken of any places nearby I could stay?” I ask.

  “Walk south. In about ten minutes you’ll reach the Thames where you’ll see a little place called The Gun. It ain’t much to look at but the food is good enough and the rooms clean. You’ll get a good night’s sleep and be on your way in the morning. Good luck on your travels, boyo. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “And ye as well. Thank ye fer both yer company and advice,” I say, shaking Evans’ hand. Farewells made, I take my bag from the coach, sling it over my shoulder and make my way to the river.

  * * *

  I find the place easily enough. The Gun is full of sailors and dockhands, rough-looking men who would have scared me three years ago, but after all my time with North West Company voyageurs, I can hold my own in their company. I pay for a room, as well as a meal of cold roast pork, then I take a seat at a rough wooden table in the dining room and wait for my food.

  When dinner comes I eat it quickly then climb up the stairs to my room, lock the door then throw myself onto the bed. I have just enough energy left to take off my boots before crawling under the blanket, falling deep asleep.

  I wake up at dawn, slip my boots back on, make my way down the stairs and leave the inn, following the river west as Evans instructed me.

  It is simple enough to find the Colonial Office. I need to ask directions only once as I walk, and not twenty minutes from The Gun I reach a large, columned building that hums with activity, even at this early hour.

  Stern-faced politicians in black suits and military officers in brightly coloured uniforms come and go from the white-stone building — on important missions of state, no doubt.

  William McGillivray, the head of the North West Company, knew I was a wanted fugitive in England and gave me identification papers in the name of McTavish.

  I nervously introduce myself as such to an armed soldier at the main gates of the building. I state that I am an envoy from North America with an important message to be given to the secretary of state for the colonies personally.

  I am escorted into the building then wait impatiently inside the front door, guarded by a menacing soldier. A clerk disappears inside, but after thirty minutes or more he doesn’t return, and I start to get frustrated. I wish the man would return. I’m desperate to find my sister but I have this one last mission for the North West Company to complete, and for Mr. McGillivray I’ll do it, though precious minutes slip away.

  “Follow me,” the clerk says when he finally returns. He leads me briskly up flights of marble stairs until we reach a large wooden door, guarded by two more red-coated soldiers. The clerk knocks politely and walks away, leaving me alone with the soldiers. A moment later the door swings open and the soldiers step aside, allowing me to enter.

  “Come in and be quick about it,” beckons a voice from within the room. I enter the spacious office and see, through large windows, the River Thames running placidly below. Large charts hang on the wall. My eyes are drawn to one in particular, a map of North America covered with three coloured lines. I find Montreal then look west, across the prairie to the Rocky Mountains, and the Pacific Ocean beyond.

  “You’re familiar with that country, I’d wager,” says a red-haired man with a faint Irish accent. “I am Viscount Castlereagh, secretary of state for war and the colonies. I understand you have a message for me of great importance from McGillivray of the North West Company. I apologize for the wait, but you can understand I’m a very busy man these days, what with Napoleon trying to destroy the British Empire.”

  Castlereagh motions for me to sit down in a leather armchair. “What’s your name, boy? I like to know who it is I’m talking to.”

  “McTavish, Sir,” I say, handing over the sealed envelope McGillivray gave me back in Montreal.

  Castlereagh takes the letter. “You’re awfully young to have been given the weighty responsibility of travelling across the ocean with a diplomatic despatch, Mr. McTavish.”

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, a small smile crosses my lips. “Did I say something funny?” the viscount asks, his eyebrow arching.

  “Nae, my laird,” I say. “I mean no disrespect, but I’m almost nineteen and the voyage from Montreal was by far the easiest trip I’ve taken in quite some time.”

  Castlereagh breaks the seal and starts to read. He is a busy man and however curious this diversion is, I know he has serious business to attend to. England is at war with France, after all. Castlereagh quickly scans through the pages, then places the letter on his desk.

  “My predecessor, William Windham, and his preoccupation with the Pacific, would have found this all very interesting,” says the viscount, “but he is gone and Europe is burning. Napoleon is on the march, country after country is falling to his guns. News about the North West Company’s financial difficulties and a river in some god-forsaken corner of North America are of little concern to the Empire these days. They will be addressed when the war with France ends. If it ever does. Thank you for your service, Mr. McTavish,” says Castlereagh. “You may go.”

  There is no mistaking the tone. The most remarkable jo
urney of my life means nothing to him. I am free to leave, my duty to both the North West Company and the British Empire complete.

  Chapter 5

  It is time to find Elizabeth Fry. She is the only person on earth who may know where Libby may be. Back in Liverpool, Old John said she was famous, but in the vastness of London the thought of finding one person, no matter how well known, seems almost impossible, a task made harder when I start to ask after Fry.

  Famous or not, at first nobody has a clue who I’m talking about. I ask person after person over the next half an hour, and I start to panic until I chance upon an older woman selling apples in a market stall.

  “Of course I know who Elizabeth Fry is,” she says. “She’s a saint, she is. Them prisons are terrible places. Newgate ’specially. What kind of country are we to lock up old women and young girls for years, and for the most minor offences? She’s got the ear of the prime minister they say, and will reform our prison system.”

  “Horse feathers!” says a man walking past who overhears our conversation. “What do you want with that meddling Quaker busybody? You ain’t a con, are you, boy?”

  “Nae, Sir,” I tell him. “Mrs. Fry has been helping a friend of mine. I came to say thank ye to her.”

  My answer does not allay the man’s ill will towards Mrs. Fry — or to me. “In that case, your friend is a no-good criminal, and that damnable woman has been helping him evade justice, no doubt. Good day to you, Sir.”

  “Never you mind him,” the woman says. “I don’t know where Mrs. Fry lives exactly, but they say she has a house in Newham. It ain’t far from here, actually. Just a short walk from here north up Lombard Street will get you to Newham. I’m sure somebody will point you in the right direction once you get there.”

  I thank the woman and give her a shilling for her help. This is a fantastic piece of luck and well worth the coin. I find Lombard Street easily enough and walk north, a spring in my step, feeling more hopeful about finally finding my sister than I have in years.