by F. M. Parker
With a vengeful smile, he hoisted the foreman up against the high beam and tied off the end of the rope to one of the stanchions supporting the roof of the blacksmith shop. He backed away and gazed up at the foreman dangling in mid-air and slowly rotating on the end of the rope. The devil in Patrick laughed pleased with his handiwork. With his revenge taken, Patrick could now get on with the rest of his life.
He saddled his horse, blew out the lantern, and closed the door to the smithy. He was still smiling as he rode off for he was visualizing the sight the foreman would make when the smithy arrived and opened his shop in the morning.
CHAPTER 18
Patrick left Derbyshire and rode into the night toward London. When the new dawn first showed its dusky face and brought the land out of the darkness, he halted at an inn beside the road, fed his horse, and ate a hearty breakfast. Afterwards, he sat by the fireplace of the inn, and with his pistols hidden under his coat, slept with his legs stretched out to the flames. At noon he recommenced his journey. He had pushed his horse hard and now let it set its own pace.
During the following day and night of his return trek, he slept at the most expensive inn and ate the best food the establishment could provide. Toward the end of the journey, a steady rain began to fall and the dirt road turned to mud. He did not stop and seek shelter but sent the gray horse plowing onward through the sloppy mud. Late in the night, London came into view ahead and he reined the horse north on the road that ran along the Thames River. The road would take him to Thorne’s farm. From under the drooping brim of his hat, he watched the fog forming over the relatively warmer water of the river and drifting in twisting streamers across the path. With its head drooping in the pouring rain, the weary horse plodded onward through the fog.
Patrick, soaked and chilled, stabled the horse and entered the house. He built a roaring fire in the fire place and stripped off his clothing, wrapped himself in a blanket and sat in front of the leaping flames and rested in the splendid comfort of Thorne’s home. He would greatly miss his comrade, the first one he had had since Ben.
*
Patrick now had several thousand pounds in his possession and decided to spend some of it. He had a skilled tailor prepare stylish clothing for him, and dressed in his finery, went for long wanderings through the rich man’s section of London with its brick paved streets and large, expensive houses. He ate in the finest restaurants and attended the theatre. When he saw a pretty young woman that attracted him, he bravely stepped forward and bowed and struck up a conversation with her. Most often his approach was received with a friendly, welcoming smile. He found young women who would provide him the loving a young man desired. After his love for Alice, all the new girls seemed lacking.
CHAPTER 19
Always riding alone, Patrick prowled the King’s highways, the Great North Road, Oxford Road, Salisbury Road, Dover Road, and others, and waylaid the rich travelers and relieved them of their valuables of banknotes, gold, silver and jewels. He struck frequently. At each robbery, he cautioned himself not to grow lax and allow some brave man to shoot him. So as not to develop a pattern of robberies that the Horse Patrols or the thief-takers could use to anticipate his next strike and capture him, he chose randomly among the roads, never using the same one twice in succession.
At the beginning of his solitary robberies, Patrick saw a need, as Thorne had, for a second identity. He chose Dick Turpin, the name of a highwayman from a hundred years in the past. This was the name he used in all new associations with men and women. No one ever connected the name with the ancient highwayman. The name Patrick Scanlan was kept unsullied for use in all legitimate purposes. Identifying himself as Patrick Scanlan, he began depositing money in the Shippers and Merchants Bank on Commercial Street. So as not to arouse suspicion about the source of his money, each deposit was of modest sums, though frequently made.
The danger to Patrick as a highwayman was magnified as the bounty upon his head was increased with each successful robbery. Reward posters containing his general description, height, sturdy build, the color of his hair and eyes, and the gray color of his horse were tacked up in many places. Any informer could collect the reward. More dangerous than the informers, were the ruthless thief-takers who searched for him. They need follow no law in their capture of an outlaw. Nevertheless he did not let that worry him for he had known nothing but danger all his life. He went on with his sojourns of thievery upon the highways.
*
The late summer day was grand with a moderate temperature and a gentle wind as Patrick rode the gray horse upon Holloway Road from Highgate toward Islington. He passed through cultivated land that gave way to one of fenced pastures as the land became hilly. The pastures fell away behind as well and he entered a forested area with the trees crowding the road and covering it with shadows.
He halted at the top of a hill and guided the gray into the big oaks and birches several yards from the road. The wealthy landowners returning from business or entertainment in London would halt their coaches here at the summit to allow their horses to blow and catch their wind after climbing the steep grade.
Patrick dismounted and reclined on his back on a bed of soft green moss in the shadowy woods. He was in no hurry for the day still held ample time for him to choose a rich man to rob. He rested looking up through the tree limbs overhead and watching small white clouds sail silently past under the great blue dome of the sky, and listening to the whisper of the slow wind in the leaves. He breathed the odor of the woods and the earth and they made a tonic that lifted his spirit more than would a glass of good wine.
A gray squirrel came out of hiding and showed itself in the top of a tall oak nearby. The squirrel flared every hair of its fine long tail, tripling its diameter, and flicked it nervously as it aimed bulbous, brown eyes down at Patrick. It studied Patrick for a goodly minute without once blinking. Then deciding it didn’t like Patrick’s presence and wanted him to know, it scolded him with scores of angry chattering barks. Satisfied with the abuse it had heaped upon the intruder, the squirrel bounded away from limb to limb and vanished in the leafy top of a tree farther away.
Patrick began to worry the old question of his actions of putting his pistols in men’s faces and taking their valuables. Was it stealing when he took money from the bulging pockets of the rich travelers on the highways? Did the money truly belong to the large land holders in the country, or to the rich owners of the factories in the city? The tenant farmers, working at slave wages, produced the crops that made the wealth for the land owner. The labor of hundreds of young boys half starved and working from first light until it was too dark to see and sleeping on straw pallets on the floor as he had done at the mill in Derbyshire, created the profits for many of the factory owners. In Patrick’s reasoning, the wealth of the land holders and factory owners was accumulated by stealing, and so when he stole from them, was that really a crime. Weren’t his robberies like picking up fruit fallen from trees and onto the public highway, which by common law belonged to that person picking it up? Wasn’t Patrick simply picking up valuables from those rich men traveling upon the road? He smiled at his comparison of gathering fruit and taking valuables by force for there was both truth and falseness in it.
After this robbery, maybe he should stop robbing men, even the most rich. He had ample money to buy shares in cargo ships sailing to all manner of foreign lands for trade and returning with honestly earned profit. He felt a growing desire to sign on as a crewmen and journey with one of the ships. With visions of that possible future, he concentrated on the highway.
From his place in the woods, Patrick watched a man with a cart pulled by a yoke of oxen pass. Later a peddler on foot with a pack on his back went past. A large boy carrying a long staff and with a large gray dog came by herding a drove of hogs. The boy used the staff vigorously and often to smack the swine to drive them along the road. A young woman, somewhat pretty, hastened along with hurried steps. He wondered why she was on the road without a man
accompanying her. Horsemen and men in coaches came and went. Patrick judged none of them worthy of being robbed.
He leisurely watched the road as the sun fell toward the wooded horizon. The passage of time meant nothing to him. He felt vibrantly alive and he knew it was because he saw the possibility of an honest, fruitful future ahead.
His horse stopped cropping the nearby grass and came and lowered its head close to Patrick’s face. It studied him with its liquid, gold flecked eyes and nuzzled him.
“You’re a fine fellow,” Patrick said. He fondly rubbed the long, bony head of the gray from its ears to its muzzle. The horse nickered contentedly at his master’s touch and tossed its head with a jingle of bridle metal.
“Quiet, old boy,” Patrick said. “We don’t want anybody to know we’re here.”
The sun hid its face behind a thin layer of clouds lying in the western sky and turned them a soft red. A bit of the red fell to earth and added a gentle flush to the evening twilight gathering in the woods where Patrick lay. Shortly the first star of the evening came alive as a silver speck high in the sky. Upon that signal, he arose and led the horse near the edge of the copse of woods and closer to the road. This was the time of day that was most safe for the task ahead. Should he be chased after the robbery, the coming darkness would hide him.
He came alert as a richly decorated maroon colored coach with yellow wheels and drawn by two matched, high stepping roan horses came into view climbing the hill. Patrick saw a coat of arms on the door of the vehicle. He knew the owner of such splendid equipment would be wealthy.
At the crest of the hill, the driver, dressed all in black livery with a brimmed hat and a tall feather stuck in its band, pulled the team to a stop. He stuck the butt of his whip in its holder fastened to the rim of the boot, rose from his high seat and climbed down over the front wheel to the ground. Patrick saw gray in the man’s full beard, still he moved nimbly. He lit the wicks of the two oil burning lanterns, one on each side of the front of the coach. The lights glowed like yellow eyes in the deepening dusk. The driver climbed back up to his seat in the boot, picked up his whip, and sat awaiting the readiness of his steeds to move on.
Patrick pulled his scarf up to mask all of his face except his eyes. It was time to take the valuables of the passenger, or passengers who rode in the coach. He drew his pistols, cocked both weapons, and sprang out of the woods and close to the side of the team.
“Stand and deliver,” he shouted and thrust his right hand gun up at the coachman and the left hand gun at the windows of the coach. Death could come from either direction.
He steadied the pistol on the center of the coachman. “Drop your whip down in the boot.”
The coachman did not move. At Patrick’s sudden appearance from the woods, the man’s eyes had widened with surprise, but now they were hooded, hard and calculating.
Patrick’s wariness jumped a notch higher. The coachman, with Patrick’s pistol pointed into his face, should be exhibiting a serious degree of fear. This man’s expression showed none.
“Do it now before I put a ball through you,” Patrick ordered harshly.
The man dropped the whip down into the boot. His eyes never left Patrick.
“Now put your hands up. Higher, damn you!”
Patrick knew the coachman was stalling and there could be only one reason, to provide the people in the coach time to prepare for a fight. Some rich travelers hired coachmen who were skilled with guns and also acted as bodyguards. Patrick remembered the mistake Thorne had made and that had cost him his life.
“Everybody out of the coach,” Patrick ordered. He stood ready for a sudden movement by the coachman, or a pistol or musket to appear in one of the windows of the coach. He had never killed a man. However he knew that one day he might be forced to shoot to save his life. This day could be the time. He had an alternative to continuing on with the robbery, he could turn and run into the woods. He could not bring himself to do that.
At Patrick’s command, the coach door opened and a man climbed down with a leisurely air. He was a tall, slender man half the age of the coachman. He was richly dressed in blue satin trousers tailored to a tight fit to his athletic body and a wide sleeved jacket over a white silk shirt, and knee high leather boots polished to a fine gloss. He held a bulging purse out in front of him. He gave Patrick a cold smile, while his eyes held an expression of keen alertness.
Patrick noted the fellow’s manner, like that of the coachman, was not that of frightened victim of a highwayman. These two men were waiting for him to drop his guard and the fight would begin. He saw no gun; however the purse trust out toward him and the wide jacket sleeves of the man’s arm could hide a pistol in his belt. Patrick’s muscles coiled for quick action.
Abruptly the man spoke in a commanding voice, “Here! Take it!” He flung the purse at Patrick’s face.
Patrick had had purses thrown at him before by men angered at being robbed. Now rather than trying to catch the purse which would destroy his readiness for battle, he stepped aside to let the missile go past.
The moment the purse left the man’s hand, he snatched a pistol from his belt. He was quick. Very quick. He swung the weapon and Patrick saw the open bore of the barrel coming to bear on him.
Patrick’s action of not being distracted by the purse now saved him. He already had his pistol aimed and could have shot the man through the heart. Instead he moved his point of aim to the man’s gun arm and fired. The speeding round ball struck the man, rotated him half a turn and slammed him into the side of the coach. He lost hold of his pistol and it fell to the ground.
Patrick spun toward the coachman. That fellow had lifted a shotgun up from the boot and was putting it to his shoulder.
“Hold! Or you’re dead!” Patrick shouted. With his blood running hot with anger at the attack, he had a powerful urge to send a bullet through the man.
The coachman froze with the weapon not yet pointing at Patrick. His face showed intense disappointment.
“Throw the gun on the ground.”
The man dropped the shotgun over the side of the boot to the ground.
“Get down here and help him with his arm.”
The coachman climbed down from the boot and went to the wounded man.
“Use your belt, Albert,” said the wounded man, his face ashen with pain. “Cinched it down tight and stop the bleeding.” He turned hostile eyes upon his foe.
Patrick picked up the dropped pistol and knew the weapon had been made by a skilled gunsmith. Several words and the drawing of a stag were engraved on the barrel. Silver was lavishly inlaid in the walnut grip. The wood was worn from much use during practice. Patrick was lucky to have escaped a shot from the weapon. He hefted the pistol and found it finely balanced.
He positioned the pistol so that he could read the engraved words in the failing light. They read, To Charles Langdon, 111 on his 16th birthday, from Charles Langdon 11.
Patrick stood silently as Albert stopped the flow of blood from the injured arm and made a sling for it from a sleeve of the wounded man’s jacket. Both men had showed much bravery. Patrick could have been friends with them had he met them under different circumstances.
He flipped the firing cap off the nipple of the pistol and handed the weapon out to Charles Langdon 111. “This probably means more to you than your money.”
“By God!” Langdon exclaimed. ”It surely does.” With a surprised and delighted expression, he took the pistol from Patrick.
Albert whirled upon Patrick. “That won’t stop me from hunting you down and seeing you hung for this.”
“I could’ve killed both of you, but I didn’t,” Patrick responded quietly. “I could have easily shot Langdon through the heart, or broke the bone in his arm and made him a cripple for the rest of his life. Instead I only gave him a flesh wound to stop him from shooting me. Now, Graybeard, you remember that.”
“Why you…”
“Wait Albert,” Langdon interrupted. He spoke to P
atrick. “Yes, you could have killed us. But now that you have our money may we go? I’d like to find a doctor.”
“Yes. Certainly.” Patrick backed away.
Albert helped the wounded man into the coach and then climbed up the nearer front wheel and into boot with its high seat.
Patrick picked up the double barrel shotgun from the ground. He still didn’t trust the graybeard so he pried off the two firing caps before he handed the deadly weapon up to him.
The coachman gave Patrick a fierce look. Then he shouted at the horses, snatched up his whip and brought it down upon their rumps. The stung animals went off the crest and down the slanting hillside at a run.
The night came alive around Patrick as he stood in the road and replayed what had just happened. The robbery had been damn hazardous due to the bravery of Langdon and his coachman. Patrick had been forced to shoot a man. An unpleasant evening.
He drew in a slow, deep breath of air fresh with the smell of the forest. He felt the wind brush him as it moved past in the night. For the first time, he noted the bats had come out and begun their search for prey. He centered his attention upon the bat’s tumbling dance in the deepening night. Yes indeed, he had been very lucky this evening.
He picked up the purse from where it had fallen on the road. From its feel and weight he judged it held paper money and many gold coins. This had been a highly profitable robbery. But the price had been too high for he had come close to committing murder. He vowed never again to ride the roads as a Two Pops and a Galloper. He could choose from a hundred other possible worlds. This called for a celebration.
*
Patrick rode directly to the Bull’s Head in London without going to the farm. That left him wearing two pistols in holsters on his belt. He buttoned his long tailed coat to hide the weapons and entered the crowded public room of the tavern.
As he passed among the tables to find one for himself, some of the men drinking and talking called out to him in good spirits and he returned their greetings. The odor of ale and gin was strong and pleasant. He admired the pretty barmaid with her full breasts straining against the bodice of her blouse and her round hips moving provocatively beneath her shirt as she hurried about serving the noisy patrons their drinks.
