The Highwayman

by F. M. Parker

With the removal of the newspaper from the depths of the luggage, a leather pouch lay revealed. More lead shot, thought Patrick as he picked up the pouch. He untied the thong that bound the top shut and poured the contents out on the cot. Gold sovereigns cascaded out and lay glowing richly in the candlelight.

  “My, God!” exclaimed Patrick and staring down at the yellow hoard. He scooped up a handful of the golden coins and let them shower back and forth from one hand into the other. He had never imagined such wealth. Oh! Revenge was sweet indeed. He began to count the coins and found a hundred and fifty. Each sovereign was equal to one pound, or twenty shillings. He fell laughing down on the cot among his loot. Now his secret ambition could be realized. He would start at first daylight.

  CHAPTER 10

  Patrick finished the last sentence and closed the cover of the book and placed it on the desk before him in the rental library. His mind raced with the visions of men and ship and whales that Melville had described in his novel, Moby Dick. How could a man write such an enthralling tale? He was glad Adam Pulver, the owner and proprietor of the library had recommended the story. Patrick had read the novel in two sittings. He knew he would never get his fill of reading.

  He was seated at his favorite desk in a rear corner of the library. He had accomplished his secret ambition, to be able to read, write and use numbers to calculate. Due to his lack of learning, the lessons at the beginning had started with the most basic concepts, the alphabet and the numbers. He studied from first light to last light six days out of each week through the long, wet fall and winter, and now it was spring again.

  He had told Mrs. Bradshaw of his desire to learn and she had recommended the rental library of her nephew Adam Pulver on Commercial Street. For a fee, Adam had agreed to teach Patrick and allowed him to use the books in the library as much as he desired. Adam told Patrick that being able to read and perform mathematics didn’t make a man educated. Knowledge did that, knowledge he could gain from reading the writings of the great thinkers. He continued on to say that numbers gave true answers every time a calculation was made. On the other hand, what he read could be true or could be false, and that Patrick must always make a judgment as to the correctness of what he read.

  He found mathematics came easily to him. So too did reading, which was immensely more satisfying. Adam loaned him a dictionary to speed his learning. A new world opened for Patrick each time he opened a book and he became obsessed, intoxicated with the images and information that streamed off the pages as he read. The days became a blur, compressed to but a tiny fraction of what they had been before he started to read. Sometimes the thoughts contained in the writing would make his mind reel and he was unable to sleep when night came. At those times, he would take his walking stick, the late night streets were dangerous belonging to the foot pads, the thieves, and the head knockers, and wander the city until the wee hours of the morning.

  There was another reason that kept Patrick from sleeping. Though he had sufficient money for the time being and was learning many interesting things, something was missing in his life. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the exact cause, knowing only that now and again he felt discontented with his life.

  Patrick took up the list of writings by famous men that Adam had recommended he read. He examined the list containing the names of Petrarch, Thomas More, Plato, and several others and then laid it aside. There was much to learn, and much he wanted to learn. However, he would delay starting to read the writings of these authors for a couple of days. For now he wanted to escape the library and have a meal at his favorite restaurant, and after that perhaps go to a play. He took up his walking stick and left the library and directed his steps toward the lower part of the city.

  Upon reaching the Thames River, Patrick found a seat on the grass under a tree. He was amazed by the number and variety of boats moving up and down the greenish brown current, or tied to the floating docks anchored to the river bank by cables fastened to iron stakes driven deeply into the ground. Several of the boats were powered by steam engines belching black coal smoke into the sky. However, most of the larger boats were driven by wind pressing upon canvas sails. Boys paddled about in skiffs, with some boys holding fishing poles. He thought the sail boats were by far the most beautiful. He recalled Moby Dick and the exploits of the crew of the Pequad and promised himself that one day he would take a journey across the ocean on a sailing ship.

  A family consisting of a man and woman and three children strolled past. The children chased about yelling and calling out to the parents asking if they could do this or that. The father was always the final arbiter of what the family would do. While the mother, a proud smile upon her face, watched her man and her children. He envied these people who had each other to talk with, express their feelings, to look to for comfort and protection.

  Patrick walked leisurely back into town and had supper at a restaurant he had frequented before. When he left the restaurant, he noted clouds moving in from the west. It would rain during the night. He came upon a troop of street actors performing a play. He halted and stood among a crowd to watch the troop. When the play was finished, he tossed a shilling to the young man who played the part of the hero. The short performance sharpened his desire to see a play in a real theatre with a real stage and he set a course for one that he knew about.

  Patrick lengthened his stride along Gloucester Street for he didn’t want to miss the opening of the play. He came to an alley that he knew would shorten the distance to the theatre and turned into it. He had progressed but a short distance when he saw among the abandoned boxes and barrels and other trash, three young men, one of them a large hulking fellow, kneeling around something they held on the ground. He slowed and considered retreating for this could be a gang of footpads who would try to rob him. But he could not bring himself to be a coward. He gripped his walking stick and moved warily on.

  Patrick drew a few steps closer to the men and there halted abruptly as the full scene came into view. The men were holding a girl about Patrick’s age penned to the ground. Her body was heaving and twisting as she fought desperately to break free of their hands. One man held his hand over her mouth. Patrick heard the men laughing at her struggles.

  The girl’s head snapped to the side and the man holding his hand over her mouth lost his grip. She screamed a shrill, frightened cry that knifed Patrick’s heart.

  The man caught her face roughly and clamped his hand over her mouth. “She’s a wild one,” the man said. “But she’ll be tame by the time we’re all done with her.”

  “I’m first,” said the big man and rose to his feet. He swiftly loosened his belt and shoved his trouser down. “This is going to be great. She’ll be better than any Rug Girl who lets everybody do it to her.”

  The girl tore a hand free and clawed at the face of the man smothering her mouth. He captured her hand and slammed it against the ground and jammed his knee down on it.

  “Damn it, hold her for me before somebody comes along,” the big man ordered. “Get her legs spread apart so I can get to her.”

  An ancient, primitive instinct to help the abused girl sprang alive within Patrick. His mind felt on fire with the urge to strike the men hurting her. He would never forget that feeling the rest of his life. He gripped his walking stick, its heaviness and stiffness made it a club that could maim if he struck strongly. He meant to hit with all his strength and crack some heads.

  Patrick stole upon the men, who intent upon the girl, had not yet spied him. The men had the girl spread eagle. Her dress was pulled up under her chin. Patrick could see her white skin, the puff of black pubic hair at the apex of her legs, and her breast. She looked so terribly small and frail in the big hands of the men.

  Now and again Patrick had come upon a Rug Girl lying in an alley and selling herself to a man. But this wasn’t one of those girls, not the way she fought the men. The one with his pants down and his prick hard and threatening knelt between the legs of the struggling girl.

&nb
sp; Patrick lifted his club high and charged upon the group. He must strike hard and fast and reduce the three to one odds against him. The big man with his prick out would get the first blow. Patrick came to a quick stop behind the kneeling man and struck down at his head with all of his strength. As the club descended, the man leaned closer over the girl, causing Patrick’s strike to be slightly off its target. Still the club landed solidly upon the man’s skull, and then slid sideways tearing loose a strip of scalp. The club continued down the side of the man’s head, ripping off his ear before thudding against his shoulder. The man collapsed upon the girl.

  Patrick stepped toward the next largest man holding the girl’s mouth, leg and wrist and struck a powerful roundhouse blow that crashed the club into his face. The strike of the club knocked the man over backwards to the ground. Patrick had felt bones break under the impact of the blow. Oh, what a grand feeling to hurt those hurting an innocent girl.

  He pivoted toward the third man who had been holding the girl’s other leg and arm. That person had jumped to his feet and pulled a blackjack. Patrick had to hurry and hit the man before he was within reach with the blackjack. As Patrick drew back his club to strike, the man sprang at him. Patrick struck swiftly and the tough wood club caught the man across the side of the head. The man’s momentum carried him onward and he crashed into Patrick and knocked him tumbling.

  The man fell to his hands and knees. He shook his head back and forth to clear it. He picked up his blackjack and struggled erect.

  Patrick rose to his feet. The collision with the man and the roll on the ground had caused him to drop his club. He snatched the weapon up and drew back ready to fight his last foe.

  That man was feeling the side of his head where Patrick’s club had landed. Blood was streaming from the injury and down the side of his face. He removed his hand and looked at his bloody hand.

  Patrick saw fear come into the man eyes. Hit him now, he thought, before he gets his courage back. With his club poised to strike, Patrick advanced upon the man. He felt confident for his club could reach out and smash the man before that fellow could get within striking distance with his blackjack. The man recognized Patrick’s advantage. His fear deepened and he whirled and fled off along the alley.

  Breathing hard and his hands trembling with the after shock of his violent fight, Patrick cast a look over his two fallen foes. Not one moved. With great relief, he realized that he had actually won the battle. He turned to the girl, who was watching him with eyes enormous from fright.

  “Get him off me,” cried the girl. “Don’t just stand there, get him off me.”

  Patrick stepped to the man, caught him by the arm, and dragged his limp body off the girl and let him fall to the ground.

  “Are you alright,” he asked. The girl’s face was red and bruised and smudged with dirt. She would be pretty without the dirt and bruises. A new thought came to Patrick that for a girl to be pretty was deadly dangerous for her. The men wouldn’t have dragged an ugly girl into the alley.

  “I think so. Help me up.” She held up her hand,

  Patrick pulled her to her feet. She hastily jerked her dress down to cover her nakedness.

  “Those filthy bastards. I hope you broke their heads.” She began to brush the dirt off her dress soiled from her struggle with the men.

  “I hit them as hard as I could.”

  “They deserved what you gave them, and more,” she said grimly. ”I wish you could have done the same to that one that ran off.”

  Patrick felt ice gathering in his gut as he remembered the savagery with which he had struck the two men lying unconscious. He could still feel the solid strike and the vibration of the club when it smashed into them. The girl had said they deserved it. But he was afraid that he may have killed one or both of them. Yet he was proud of what he had done.

  “I sure don’t want the law to get me.”

  “It’d be worse if that coward found some friends and they came after us.”

  “Let’s go this way,” Patrick said and started to move down the alley.

  “Wait. That one there has my purse.” She pointed at the man Patrick had lifted off her. She knelt beside the man and her slender fingers swiftly ransacked his pockets and took a woman’s purse and also the man’s. She moved to the other man and began to search his pockets.

  “What’re you doing?” Patrick asked.

  “I’m taking their money to make them pay for hurting me.”

  She quickly found the man’s purse. Patrick was surprised at the speed and deftness of her hands.

  “Now let’s go,” said the girl. “Where do you live?”

  “On the west side of town.”

  “How far from here?”

  “About two miles.”

  “My place is closer. We’ll go there and get off the street.”

  “Right,” Patrick replied. He felt intoxicated by the atavistic joy and relief of the warrior who has fought and won and survived without injuries. Protecting the girl was a grand bonus.

  Neither spoke as they hastened along the streets with night falling. They passed other people who, intent upon reaching their private destinations, paid them no attention. A lamplighter came out of a side street and turned to move in the same direction as they did. He lit his long handled torch and began reaching up to touch off the streetlamps at each corner.

  “I wish they’d leave the streets dark until we get to my place,” said the girl.

  Patrick checked behind. “I don’t see anybody that looks like they’re following us. How much farther?”

  “Quarter mile, or so.”

  “What will your folks say about you bringing me home with you?”

  “Nothing. I live alone. What’s your name?”

  “Patrick Scanlan.”

  “Mine’s Alice Childs.” She increased the pace and said nothing more.

  CHAPTER 11

  Night had fallen and thunder was rumbling when Alice stopped in front of an old brick, three-story apartment building on Cow Cross Street. She led Patrick up a dark, interior stairway to an apartment on the top floor. There she opened the door with a key and went into the dark interior. Patrick stood in the doorway and waited as Alice lit an oil lamp.

  He scanned the apartment containing a large front room that served as a sitting room and kitchen. Visible through an interior doorway, was the bedroom and a big double bed. Another door led out onto a narrow wooden balcony overlooking the back yard of the apartment house.

  “Nice place,” Patrick said.

  “It used to belong to a friend of mine. Now it’s mine alone.”

  Patrick heard sadness in Alice’s voice and saw her eyes glisten with unshed tears. He understood what the loss of a friend meant for he had felt like crying when Ben had left and not returned.

  “I’m going to take a bath to get the dirt off me and put on some clean clothes,” Alice said. “Why don’t you start a fire in the stove and I’ll cook us something to eat when I’m finished?” She pointed at the iron stove with a pot belly for heating and a flat top for cooking. A pile of kindling and a bucket of coal sat on the floor beside it.

  “Alright.”

  Alice held Patrick’s eyes for a moment. He wondered what she was thinking. She turned away and went into the bedroom.

  A most pleasant sensation came over Patrick as he laid kindling and coal and lit a fire in the stove. He felt comfortable in Alice’s home. He believed it was due to her green eyes similar to the girl with whom he had played tick-tack-toe at the orphanage. How did she earn money to pay for the apartment? She was a mystery girl.

  Alice emerged from the bedroom with a towel and clothes over an arm. She touched Patrick with her eyes. “In warm weather, I keep my bathtub out there on the balcony. In the night, nobody can see me bathe.”

  She left the door open slightly behind her to let some of the lamplight out onto the dark balcony so she could find her way. She began to strip off her clothing. Patrick could easily see her if he but
looked. She hoped he would look. She climbed into the tub of water and gave a little shiver as she found it chilled.

  She finished bathing as rain began to fall, a few large drops falling out of the dark heavens and pounding the wooden deck and hitting her. She hastily jumped out of the tub and dried and dressed and went inside.

  Patrick turned away from the stove when Alice came back into the room. She was dressed in a simple yellow dress and her hair pulled back and tied with a yellow ribbon of the same color. She gave him a warm smile, that lifted his heart and he smiled broadly in return. She began to hum in a sweet voice as she moved past him to the stove.

  Patrick was strongly stirred by Alice for there was a brilliance, a beauty about her that seemed more than human. The worry that he might have killed a man during her rescue faded away. He would willingly do it all over again to keep her safe. To hide his thoughts about her, he faced away and went to the door leading to the balcony and opened it and stared outside into the night and rain.

  “Take a bath if you want,” Alice called to him. “It’s just rain. Leave your clothes on that chair and I’ll brush the dirt off them. I won’t look,” she added with a laugh.

  Why not, Patrick thought. He removed off his clothing and placed them on the chair. He stepped out into the storm, closing the door behind him. The night was all blackness and a swift black wind poured out of it and bashed him with a torrent of black, cold rain. Shutters of the building banged. Lightening flashed down from the heavens all around and thunder rumbled powerfully. Just down the street, a sizzling white bolt of lightening struck a tall building and ran along the rain gutter and the down pipe and buried itself in the ground. As if this was a signal, the velocity of the wind increased to a higher level. The violence of the storm bothered Patrick not at all for his stimulating thoughts about Alice had created in him a fine feeling of pleasure and satisfaction at being where he was at this time.

  He braced himself against the wind and stood on the balcony and bathed in the driving rain, starting at his head and working downward rubbing his body clean. He wished for soap but would make do with what the clouds gave him.