by Ann Walsh
Barry. I shouldn’t have thought of him. Although I was showing a good front as the stage pulled out and the crowd waved and cheered, I was very frightened inside. I didn’t want to be going. I didn’t want to be responsible for the arrest of that man.
I forced myself to stop thinking about it. There was nothing I could do. I’d made a promise to Moses, and now I had to see it through. I settled back and tried to enjoy the trip.
The journey took about four days, fifty-two hours of actual travelling time. It was a demanding schedule for horses and passengers alike. The horses were changed every eighteen or twenty miles, and the passengers rested and ate about every six hours. We’d stop for the night at a roadhouse around seven or eight in the evening — later, if we ran into delays. We’d eat and tumble wearily into bed after our day of being bounced around on the road. Departure time was four the next morning, much too early for my liking. By the third day on the road I was exhausted, and regretting that I’d ever agreed to come.
“Chin up, Master Ted.” Constable Sullivan didn’t seem any the worse for the long journey. His round face was as cheerful as ever, and he didn’t look at all tired. “Only one more day of travel, then you can rest.”
I looked out the stagecoach window, trying not to let him know how miserable I was feeling.
“How fast do you suppose we’re going right now?” I asked, more to take my mind off my troubles than because I was really interested.
“I reckon about five or so miles an hour, maybe a bit more,” replied the constable. “We’ll ask the driver if you like.”
He stuck his head out the window and hollered to our driver. “Hey, Mr. Tingley, what’s our estimated speed in this rig?”
Stephen Tingley was our driver’s name, a name that lent itself to many crude jokes about how the seat of his pants must feel after all the years he had bounced around on a stagecoach. He carried a long whip, but he seldom used it on the horses. Stagecoach drivers were trained thoroughly for their jobs, and seemed to have a special relationship with the animals they guided. The horses, too, were unusual. We entered and left all settlements at a fast gallop, the horses tossing their heads as if they were showing off to the lazy town animals. Sometimes, on a steep curve, they seemed to know when to hold back or when to put on an extra burst of speed all by themselves, without any help from the driver.
“Who wants to know?” Mr. Tingley shouted back in answer to the constable’s question.
“Master Ted is curious. Wants to know how soon he can apprehend his murderer!” the constable yelled.
“Tell Master Ted that we’re going a steady six miles an hour, and he’ll be at the bridge tomorrow evening. He’s welcome to come and join me on the driver’s box after the next change of horses. I reckon he’s getting pretty bored with all you dull passengers back there!”
The constable grinned at me. “Did you hear that?” he asked. “Dull people, are we? Well, we’ll show Mr. Tingley on the return trip when we have a murderer to keep us company!”
I enjoyed riding up front, watching the horses, their muscles bunching and relaxing as they ran, and being able to see ahead to the next curve. Also, Mr. Tingley had a pocket full of licorice (his only vice he told me) and he shared generously. He was very kind to me, even allowing me to hold the reins on the straight stretches. He seemed to sense how much I was dreading the coming encounter, how afraid I was of James Barry. Although he never did say anything directly about our mission, he managed to make me feel more comfortable about it.
“It’s a fine thing to help the law men in their sworn duty,” he said once. Then again, “If I make the return trip before you’re ready to leave, I’ll make sure I see your ma and tell her you arrived safely.” I hadn’t said anything about being homesick, but I confess I was, a bit. I had never been away from home by myself before, and the long trip, early hours and strange beds had left me feeling a little sorry for myself.
The next evening when we stopped at the suspension bridge at Alexandra, just a few miles north of Yale, not even Mr. Tingley’s cheery parting words could raise my spirits. The red and yellow coach, the colours a trademark of all Barnard’s equipment, pulled away from the bridge, the passengers leaning out the windows and shouting words of luck and advice. The stage rattled around a curve in the road, Mr. Tingley raised his whip in farewell, and then the coach was gone.
“Well, Ted, this is it. We’ll go into the tollhouse now, and wait for Mr. James Barry to put in an appearance. I hope we haven’t missed him.”
I didn’t have the heart to say so to the constable, but I hoped that James Barry was long gone and far away by now — that we had missed him. Murderer or not, I didn’t want to have to see him ever again in my life!
11
At the Bridge
The Alexandra suspension bridge is one of the world’s modern wonders. It was built only three years ago, in 1863, and there isn’t another bridge like it anywhere in the West.
It is 300 feet long and hangs across the Fraser River on thick cables attached to strong supports. At the end there is a large gate, stretching right across the width of the bridge, and a small house where the tollkeeper lives. He is responsible for collecting the money for passage from stages, freight wagons, and foot passengers alike. Although you can cross the bridge from the one end, you can’t set foot on the other side until you pay your money and the tollkeeper unlocks the gate. Coming the other way, you have to pay before you get more than a few steps onto the bridge. No one can get across the river without being seen. This bridge was the perfect place to set a trap for James Barry.
The tollkeeper, an old man who shuffled when he walked, took us into the small house after locking the gate, which had a large bell attached to it. Travellers at night would ring the bell until the noise woke the tollkeeper, and he came to take their money, and let them pass.
I was shown to a bed in one corner of the room. It was small and covered with blankets that didn’t look very clean, but I fell down on it thankfully, I was too tired to even want to eat. Just before dozing off, I heard Constable Sullivan and the tollkeeper making plans.
Having made sure that no one of Barry’s description had crossed the river in the last few days, the constable seemed to relax. “Well, then he’s still behind us on the road. We’ll get him for sure.” Carefully he placed his gun and handcuffs on the table.
He explained how Barry would almost certainly be travelling at night, and alone. The constable and I were to stay hidden in the gatehouse at all times. Once the bell rang, announcing the arrival of a traveller, I was to peer through a small window, one that afforded a good view of anyone waiting by the gate. The tollkeeper was to meet the traveller as he usually did, but would hold his lantern so that the light fell on the stranger’s face. If it were Barry, I would signal to the constable who would slip out the back door and be waiting, handcuffs and gun ready to seize Barry the moment he set foot on the road by the bridge. I heard the tollkeeper tell Constable Sullivan that he could lie in wait for Barry behind the large tree just at the edge of the bridge. I must have fallen asleep after they left to check the hiding place because I never did hear them come back into the house.
I was awakened once that night. The constable’s voice was gentle as he shook me, and I could hear the muffled clanging of the bell, announcing the arrival of a late traveller. “Come, lad. We’ve work to do.”
I rubbed my eyes fiercely as I took up my post by the small window, listening to the old keeper’s voice. “I’m coming, I’m coming. Just hold your horses for a while,” he shouted. A shadowy figure stood by the gate, impatiently pulling the rope that rang the bell. The tollkeeper angled the light from his lantern to fall on the stranger’s face. “Just a moment, now. Let’s have a look at you, see who is waking me from my hard-earned rest.”
A short, blond young man was revealed in the flickering lantern light. I sighed. “It’s not Barry,” I said. “It’s not anything like him.” The stranger passed through the gate and wen
t on his way, unaware of the trap he had just gone through. We found our way back to our beds.
The rest of the night passed without further excitement. So did the next day. By that evening I was bored. Having to stay out of sight meant that I was confined to the small gatehouse. I could listen to the rattle of coaches on the bridge, hear the voices of foot travellers, but I had to stay away from the window. I couldn’t see anyone or anything. The constable wasn’t taking any chances of my being seen. “Just in case Barry decides to have a little look-see during the day, before he tries to cross the bridge,” he explained. “If he catches a glimpse of you, or me either, he’ll turn tail and run like a scared rabbit. We have to make him believe that it’s safe to cross, that we haven’t caught up with him yet.”
We sat in the gloomy house throughout the long day, waiting for the dark which might bring James Barry within our reach. With a strange feeling of uneasiness, I watched the night fall. We didn’t know for sure that tonight would be the night Barry would try to cross the river. Constable Sullivan said that it might be as long as a week yet, depending on how fast Barry travelled and how often he stopped to rest or hide. But James Barry was coming, coming to meet his destiny, as surely as the stars come out in a clear night sky. I was a large part of that destiny — and I didn’t want to be!
It was sometime after midnight when once again I was shaken awake. The tollkeeper was pulling on his boots, muttering to himself about being awakened two nights in a row. The bell sounded clearly, ringing urgently in the dark.
I took up my post at the window, my heart pounding. Again the tollkeeper made his slow way to the gate, again he lifted the lantern so that I could see the traveller’s face. This time it was a tall man, dark, but not bearded. He sported a luxurious moustache, the ends curling upwards and carefully waxed to keep them in place. I remember thinking that a moustache like that would be hard to keep tidy while travelling, and wondering why he bothered with it. I studied him closely as the tollkeeper fumbled with the lock, giving me lots of time to make the identification. “No,” I said, finally. “It’s not him.” I turned, relieved, and started back towards my bed.
I could hear footsteps as the stranger and the tollkeeper passed the house together. “I’m sorry to awaken you, old man, but my business is urgent. Here, take this for your trouble.”
He must have come across with a good tip, for the tollkeeper replied, “I’d waken every night, and gladly, for such compensation.”
“And I would gladly pay it every night, for my freedom.” Then the stranger laughed.
I whirled around. There was no mistaking that laugh. The sound of it made shivers run up and down my spine, and my heart began to beat at twice its normal rate.
“Constable …” I began.
“What is it, Ted?” You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Quickly, Constable, quickly! It’s him, it’s James Barry!”
The words had hardly left my mouth when the constable was gone, slipping out of the house as silently as a shadow. I sat down at the table, my head between my hands, waiting. Would he be in time? Would he be able to spring his trap, to capture Barry as he stepped off the bridge? Or would he be too late, and would a man who was probably a murderer have reached freedom?
It would be my fault if Barry escaped, if he managed to make a dash for freedom. I had not recognized him soon enough, not given Constable Sullivan enough time to reach his hiding place and be ready to take Barry by surprise. It would be my fault if he got away. I had stared too hard at the stranger’s moustache, and forgotten to look at his eyes. I had let the constable down, let Moses down.
“Oh, catch him, Constable,” I half prayed under my breath. Then, without being able to help myself, the next words slipped out. “Oh, don’t catch him, Constable! Don’t bring him back here for me to face!”
12
We Return
The tollkeeper didn’t have to ask any questions when he came back to the house. One look at my face told him the whole story. “Ha! That was your Mr. Barry, then.” He looked thoughtfully at the coin in his hand, then shrugged and pocketed it, “Oh, well. I guess his money’s no different from any other man’s.”
There were footsteps outside and both of us looked up. The door flew open and James Barry, his hands cuffed behind him, stumbled through the doorway. Right behind him came Constable Sullivan, his gun drawn. The trap had been sprung!
I shrank back against my chair. Now that I saw Barry close up I recognized the hard, glittering eyes and wondered how I had ever been mistaken about his identity, even without his beard. His hair was mussed now, and the fancy moustache drooped on one side, but he didn’t look any less menacing.
He saw me and stopped, astonished. “You!” he snarled, “It was you, was it, pointed me out to the law? I should have done away with you while I had the chance.”
I didn’t speak. He came closer, bending down so that his face was only inches from mine. “I’ll be free again one of these days, Master Percy, sooner than you think. Then I’ll come after you! We have a score to settle, you and I — a large score!”
“Enough of that, Barry. Leave the lad alone, now. He’s just been doing his duty.” The constable gestured with his revolver and Barry moved slowly away, his eyes still on my face.
“Don’t you be forgetting now, young Percy! Don’t you forget James Barry, for he will never forget you!” He laughed, softly.
“To the kitchen, Barry. Move now.” The two of them, followed by the tollkeeper, went into the kitchen. Judging by the sounds coming from there, Constable Sullivan was adding extra bonds to his captive and Barry didn’t care for it much. “There. That ought to hold you until the stage comes tomorrow morning,” I heard the constable say. “And it will keep you out of my sight, too, you misbegotten murderer!”
“Murderer? We’ll let the judge decide that, Constable. You’ve not one bit of proof against me!”
“We’ll see about that, Barry. We’ll see.” The constable and the tollkeeper came back into the main room, leaving Barry in the kitchen. “He’s bound well,” said the constable. “He’s not going to get loose, or even move much tonight. And I’ve got his gun and knife.”
He looked at me closely. “Don’t worry, Ted. He can’t hurt you. That was talk, just talk.”
I still didn’t speak. Constable Sullivan came to me and put a hand on my shoulder, trying to reassure me. Don’t worry, Ted,” he repeated. “The law and Judge Begbie will take care of him. He’s seen his last day of freedom.”
I nodded at him, not wanting to trust my voice. “Come, now,” he said gently, “let’s get you back to bed. There’s a few hours of sleep left before the stage arrives.” He took my arm and led me to the small bed in the corner. “I’ll not be sleeping,” he said. “I’ll be awake, keeping an eye on him, until he’s safely away in a nice strong jail. You can sleep, Ted. You’re safe.”
I lay down and turned my face to the wall. The constable pulled up a chair and sat facing the kitchen door, gun in hand. The old tollkeeper settled down on his cot and was soon snoring.
Hour after hour went by, until finally the sky began to lighten. I lay there, still awake. I knew then that I, like the constable, would not be able to close my eyes and rest until James Barry was safely locked up.
The stage arrived early the next morning. Mr. Tingley stopped at the tollhouse to see if we had any news. “Will you look at that!” he exclaimed as he caught sight of the handcuffed Barry. “I see we have an extra passenger on the trip home! Nice work, men!”
Barry and Constable Sullivan boarded the stage, Barry’s handcuffs being fastened to the edge of the wooden seat so that he could barely move. “In you go, Ted,” said the constable. “We’re off.”
I looked at Mr. Tingley. He nodded, understanding. “I think the boy would prefer to ride up front with me,” he said, “away from the monster we’re carrying.”
I smiled at him, relieved. I didn’t think I could bear the thought of sitting next to Ja
mes Barry for the long trip home. “If I may, Mr. Tingley?” I said.
“Sure, son. All the way home if you like.”
Because the stage was carrying a wanted criminal, all the other passengers were dropped off at the next roadhouse to wait for tomorrow’s stage. We went on alone. Our rest stops were shortened and the fastest team of horses brought for us at each change. We made the journey home in thirty hours of actual travelling time, almost half the time it had taken us to get to the bridge! I stayed beside Mr. Tingley all the way, refusing his offers of licorice. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t even eat at any of the rest stops. I didn’t sleep, either. None of us did. We didn’t stop anywhere long enough to put our heads down, even for a few minutes.
I arrived home exhausted, pale, with large black circles under my eyes. Pa took one look at me, then lifted me off the driver’s box. “It’s to bed with you, son,” he said. “But first a bowl of hot soup.”
“Pa — he — I —”
“Shh. No need to talk about it. I understand.”
We pushed our way through the large crowd that had gathered, eager to catch a glimpse of the man who was suspected of murdering Charles Blessing. The jail was just behind the courthouse, and Chief Constable Fitzgerald was helping Constable Sullivan escort their prisoner to it. I looked back and saw Barry between the two of them, standing tall, almost proudly. He lifted his head and, through the crowd, caught sight of me.
“Remember, young Percy,” he called. “I’ll be coming for you just as soon as I get free. Don’t you forget James Barry!”
Pa pulled me close to him. “He’ll be safely locked up in a few minutes now,” he said. “You have no cause to worry.”
We turned our backs on the crowd and on James Barry, and slowly started walking home.
13
