Fortune's Whelp (Fortune's Whelp Series Book 1)

by Benerson Little

  The half dozen Bath-to-London flying coach passengers grew quiet at the sight of Edward’s dark presence framing the door. Some stared rudely, others timidly. Edward glared in return, then realized what he must look like to them: muddy riding clothes, a large hat putting his face in shadow, a backsword hanging from a baldric, and a brace of horse pistols in their holsters slung across his left forearm—a threatening image underscored by the flickering candles that dimly lit the room.

  It was not a common sight on the road.

  Except perhaps for a highwayman.

  Edward doffed his hat and smiled. “Ladies, gentlemen,” he said.

  More silence.

  He smiled more broadly and nodded his head at a well-dressed woman at one end of the room, a wealthy merchant’s wife perhaps, or a country squire’s sister with a taste for fine clothing, or even a penniless woman pretending wealth in order to find a rich husband. Only she returned his polite gesture.

  Seeing neither conversation nor much amity forthcoming, Edward took a room, washed his face and hands, wiped off his boots, and returned downstairs to eat the three pence ordinary. He sat at the end of the table with the flying coach passengers, and learned from their conversation that they had been delayed a day by muddy roads and a broken axle.

  In a tone of cautious contempt, a portly but well-dressed merchant was the first to address him.

  “And your business, sir?”

  “My own, in London,” Edward said civilly.

  “A rather rude reply, I think, sir.”

  “To a rather rude introduction and inquisition,” Edward replied.

  The merchant fumed for a moment, wondering whether his sense of entitlement was sufficient to intimidate this arrogant Scotsman. He decided not to put the issue to the test. He harrumphed once to his wife but asked Edward no more questions.

  “Will you be accompanying us to London, sir?” asked the woman whom Edward had saluted upon his arrival.

  “I’m afraid I must decline, as I’m in great haste,” he answered.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

  “And I likewise, madam. Perhaps we’ll meet in London.”

  “One never knows, does one?”

  Another bored woman in need of adventure, thought Edward; it’s the company she keeps. Another time, another road, but not today.

  The mostly cold reception reminded him of how he often felt in England, Scotland, and Ireland: as an outsider. Too long had he lived in America, in Jamaica and Virginia in particular, at least when he was not upon the sea. Circumstances had compelled him more than once to the British Isles and parts of Europe, but as fond as he had grown of its several peoples, many towns, and beautiful countryside, he could not call these islands home.

  The passengers soon finished their meal and excused themselves. Edward stood and bowed to the lady, whose eyes implied regret. He finished eating, checked on his horses, and went to bed.

  He rose early the next morning, intending fifty or sixty miles before the night. Almost immediately he noticed that the innkeeper appeared nervous, and five of the travelers were clustered together and avoiding him. Only the lady who had spoken to him the evening before would bid him good morning, and even she seemed inclined to keep her distance.

  “I would have a quick breakfast,” he said to a serving girl. She looked nervously about, then disappeared, never to bring his breakfast. There was none of the usual “Do you call, sir?” from a drawer, nor any other sign that anyone intended to serve him. All present avoided his gaze.

  “Damn!” Edward said loudly a few minutes later, banging his fist on a table. “Are you all touched in the head?”

  He called for a boy to bring his baggage, then stormed outside, backsword at his side, pistols over his shoulder. Between him and the stable were several armed men, all clumped together. Two had swords and pistols drawn, and the rest were ready to follow suit. Two more stood at the stable, holding his unsaddled mounts. Immediately Edward drew his backsword, thinking Ambuscade!

  Yet as quickly as he drew his weapon and the armed men leaped back and stumbled one into the other, so did he realize this made no sense. He lowered his blade and did not advance upon them.

  “We are on the King’s business,” said one man, finally.

  “As am I,” replied Edward coldly.

  “Put up your sword, sir.”

  “Put up yours, and tell me your business,” Edward replied with a commanding air. “I am on the King’s business, and will submit to none but those commissioned directly by the King, damn you, not some few hired men or bailiffs of the county and clod-hopping volunteers.”

  “We’re at a standoff, then,” said the man who had spoken.

  “Nay. There are several of you and only one of me. You may have at me as you please,” Edward taunted. He slipped a pistol from the holsters hanging over his shoulder, his irritation overruling his common sense.

  Yet Edward knew they would not attack. They were unsure of him, these ‘clodheads.’ They surely did not want to get hurt, and he had warned them he was on the King’s business.

  “Your name, sir.”

  “Captain Edward MacNaughton.”

  “It’s a familiar name, but I can’t place it. Your profession?”

  “Need a gentleman a profession?” Edward asked sarcastically, just to be difficult, then realized that his title and pretended lack of profession might further imply that he was a highwayman.

  “Sir, we must know who you are.”

  Edward, annoyed at the ridiculous display of frightened officers called by frightened innkeeper and frightened travelers, knew he must break the stalemate. Nearby, the hostler hastily hitched six horses to the flying coach. The passengers boarded quickly and went upon their merry way, all peering from the coach windows and wondering if they were going to miss some excitement.

  “I am Captain Edward MacNaughton, mariner, master of fence, and former holder of the King’s commissions on sea and land, on business of State to King William. I carry letters under the hand and seal of Viscount Deigle, addressed to the Earl of Portland. I am not to be detained or delayed.” Edward put his pistol away, then offered his pass from Lord Deigle to the officer. Edward did not, however, sheathe his sword, and the bare blade so intimidated the officer that he would not approach. Edward flung the letter in his direction. The officer cautiously picked it up and stepped back several feet, motioning to his hired men to keep an eye on Edward.

  When he finished reading the pass, the officer looked up. “Highwaymen have been preying on this road of late, and we must know that you’re not one of them. You’re well-mounted and well-armed, sir, and dressed for the occasion. Perhaps you stole this letter from Captain MacNaughton. I’m going to take this pass before the magistrate and you will wait here. If you try to depart, we’ll arrest you.”

  Edward rested the blade of his Highland backsword on his shoulder. “I’ll give you two hours to come to your senses and let me pass. If you detain me beyond this, I’ll see to it that Lords Deigle and Portland, and even the King himself, shit upon your heads and wipe their arses with your shirts—if I even bother to leave you with heads to be shit upon, you clod-headed fules. While you’re detaining me, the highwaymen you’re looking for are probably robbing the flying coach that just departed. Two hours, mark my words. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have my breakfast.”

  Edward sheathed his backsword and went into the inn. With a smile he told the kitchen boy, who, like the rest of staff, had been listening to the exchange outside, “You look like you fear no man, lad. I’ll have my breakfast from you. Hurry now.”

  “So...are you a highwayman, sir?” the lad asked bluntly when he brought Edward his breakfast.

  “What was that, boy? Damnation, no,” Edward replied, then laughed out loud. The boy seemed disappointed. “But I’ve done as much in the past in distant lands to warrant such a reputation perhaps.” The boy’s eyes twinkled. “Have you heard of a buccaneer named MacNaughton who was t
ried in London two years ago?”

  The boy nodded. Probably he did not really recall the trial, but to have met any buccaneer was better than to have met none at all. He scampered away to fetch more ale. Edward smiled and ate. Soon the entire staff was at Edward’s table, including the innkeeper and his wife, and before long they were chastising the hired officers for detaining him. Eventually, as the end of the two hours approached, came the magistrate, a pair of the hired officers, and a witness who swore that Edward bore no resemblance to either of the highwaymen who had robbed him recently.

  With the farce at an end, Edward brushed the hostler aside and quickly tacked one of his two mounts himself, first making certain that none of the horse’s teeth had been greased to prevent them from eating during the night. He packed his bags on the other, then mounted and cantered away on the road to London. He had already drawn too much attention, and although he still did not consider it likely that he would be set upon by French or Irish agents, he could not put the idea from his mind, not after the night in Bath.

  Molly, Lydia, Lynch and his ilk, all possibly connected somehow. And Jane, too, somewhere along the way.

  The large wallet pushing into his stomach beneath his waistcoat reminded him of his purpose. Deigle’s secretary himself, John Bunion, had delivered the correspondence the morning Edward was to depart.

  “Are you certain no one else has had access to these letters?” Edward had demanded.

  With great professional dignity and more than a touch of injured pride, the secretary had replied with a resounding, “Absolutely, sir! Not even Lord Deigle has a key to the chest where I kept the letters locked.”

  The secretary’s confidence reassured Edward, and he began to consider, as he rode through the beautiful countryside, that perhaps his fears were ungrounded. Lydia sought to feather her nest, and at the moment Deigle was her best chance, even if he kept her only as his mistress. On the night she and Edward had taken each other in the coach, she was working on two fronts: one of practicality, one of pure pleasure, he argued to himself. Edward’s vanity let him take pride in the fact that she was attracted to him, and he felt certain he would know if she were faking her sexual passion. Via this line of reasoning he was able to somewhat settle his apprehensions.

  He rode into the afternoon at a quick trot, unhappy that he could not now make fifty miles unless he kept on the road until late at night. He carefully watched the woods and fields around him. He often looked behind, and just as often sought far ahead. In a wood he would look through it, focusing beyond the trees, letting his eyes and mind scan for the image of horse and rider, or of man afoot. He found none.

  By mid-afternoon, after passing without stopping through Reading, he was ready to rest, to walk the horses and stretch his legs before changing mounts and riding hard again. For a mile he cantered, then eased his horse back to a trot, then a walk a few miles past Twiford. Both animals had pleased him. Both had good wind, went well at the trot and canter, ponied well, and were generally quiet and calm, seldom shying at strange noises or sights.

  Ahead, the road took a dog leg to the right into a small wood. As Edward prepared to dismount to rest by walking in the shade of the trees flanking the road ahead, he thought he heard a voice. A few seconds later he was in no doubt: there were two voices, one a man’s, commanding; its cadence might match “Stand and deliver!” although he could not make out the actual words, and the other a woman’s, sharp and brief, a scream or exclamation. The voices came from ahead or just to the right, perhaps from where the road would be as it tracked slightly south through the cover of the trees. He looked down and saw the fresh impressions of wheels in the mud, tracks he had been gaining on all day.

  Fool! he thought as he prepared to ignore his better judgment.

  A purely practical man, one of business and nothing more, a fortune hunter, would never rush into the unknown to defend the unknown from the unknown, especially not when the unknown prospect might ruin his future prospects.

  He drew his sword and pistols anyway. He hung his backsword from his right wrist, cocked and carried one pistol in his right hand, and held the other with his left, in which were also his reins and the halter rope of the ponied horse.

  He lightly spurred his mounts into a good canter, muttering under his breath as he did. If all were innocent ahead, they would take him for a highwayman. Yet onward he rode, into the wood, and soon he saw the flying coach, saw it stopped, saw its passengers debarked, saw one man, no, two: one mounted, one dismounted, both armed.

  “Do not prate, you fool, but deliver your money or, damn you, we will shoot you immediately!” barked one of the highwaymen, a pistol in each hand.

  Edward let go of the halter rope and leaned forward. When his mount did not fly to the gallop, he spurred it hard and almost lost his reins as he did, so hard did his mount buck and bolt into a hand gallop.

  The masked highwaymen heard the sound of hoof beats. They turned and stared briefly, stunned. The highwayman afoot leaped to his horse and fled at the gallop. His mounted companion spun his horse in a circle, as if unsure whether to flee or fight. He raised a pistol at Edward then lowered it, perhaps realizing that if he shot and killed anyone the hue and cry to find and hang both highwaymen would be remorseless, then he raised it again and fired anyway, as passengers dropped to their knees or ran.

  Edward raced through the scattering passengers and fired a pistol at the highwayman before him. At the sound of the shot, his own mount leaped sideways and nearly threw him from the saddle. Edward flung the empty pistol away, regained control of his horse, passed the other pistol to his empty hand, and saw the highwayman’s other pistol coming to bear, but he fired accidentally before it was well-aimed. The thief wheeled about and fled at the gallop a second before Edward fired his second pistol. The retreating horse bucked and squealed as swan shot struck him in the crupper, and perhaps hit his rider as well.

  Edward reined up, passing the empty pistol back to his left hand and grasping his backsword as he did.

  “You!” he called to two men, one slight, in his forties, a well-off tradesman perhaps, the other the merchant he had exchanged words with the past night. “Fetch my other mount if you please, and my pistol as well.” Then, “Ladies,” he said, touching his hat with his sword hilt as a manner of salute. He passed his gaze over the other men. “Who here is armed or was armed? Coachman! The blunderbuss in the mud, fetch it, check that its barrel is clear and the priming still good. Who else? Fetch your arms from where you cast them or from where they’re hidden, make sure they’re loaded and primed. I’ll escort you to the next town where you can raise the hue and cry. I’ll want someone up with the driver; who will volunteer? You, good man! Hurry now!”

  His heart beat with the rush of violence, of fight or flight. It would be a few minutes before it settled, although to the passengers he appeared entirely in cold-blooded control. Edward sheathed his sword and reloaded his pistols under the gaze of the woman who had spoken to him back at the inn, a gaze so warm and intense that he blushed and would not speak to her for fear he might say something stupid.

  Two hours later they drew up at an ordinary in Maidenhead, the travelers shouting for a constable, raising the alarm, praising Edward profusely and embarrassingly, buying him food and drink from their own pockets and begging him to stay with them until they came safely into London. Edward, covered in mud from helping heave a coach wheel from a hole in the road, was too tired to argue. He would leave them in the morning after they were well on the road again, their courage bolstered and the edge taken off their excitement. He could be in London by tomorrow evening.

  There was much talk at the inn, of highwaymen past and present, of how some were great gentlemen, or acted as such, never taking anything from a traveler, instead taking only what was carried in the mail, of how some never robbed the poor, only the wealthy, of how many were men of great wit and humor. They spoke of their horses, always dark and swift, of their women, always beautiful, maid or l
ady (often they had both, and more), and of their courage at the gallows, always a cheerful and generous final act. Most of this was mere folklore, but with enough truth to keep the myths alive. In reality, most people robbed by highwaymen were happy to see them hanged.

  Given his notoriety, it occurred to Edward that he might better travel in company, if more slowly, but a safer prospect given the vital correspondence he carried.

  He resigned himself to delay, but only of an extra half day. After a raucous meal with the passengers that evening, all of whom seemed enamored of his company and determined not to permit him to remain aloof, he finally relaxed by the fire.

  “I would thank you again, from all of us, for what you did today,” said the lady whose eye Edward had caught. “And please accept my apology for even thinking for a moment that you might have been a highwayman.” She had an attractive forthright quality that likely derived from natural intelligence and insight matured by three or more decades of experience.

  “It was foolish, what I did,” he replied.

  “Foolish? Why?”

  “I imperiled us all.”

  “No more than we were already.”

  “They would only have robbed you. But in the exchange of arms some of you might have been hurt.”

  “But we were not. And our valuables were preserved.”

  “It was nothing but my pleasure.”

  “How gallantly you dismiss your courage, sir. But perhaps I should expect nothing less from a famous privateer captain.”

  “Do you know me, Madam?”

  “Indeed, sir, I do. Word travels fast, and besides, I remember you now from Bath. One will hear of a famous former buccaneer—and a former pirate, some say—seeking a privateer commission. Doubtless you set all the ladies’ hearts aflutter. I wish I had remembered you earlier, to spare you the indignity of false accusation. But then, if I had known you, you would have departed on time and been far ahead on the road, and not nearby to rescue us in our hour of need.”