by Ben Tripp
“Yer master, swab. By whatever name!”
“If you must,” said I, trying to imagine what a proper servant would do in this situation. “Please wait here while I rouse him from bed. I doubt he’ll like it very much.”
I prayed the man would remove his hook from the door, and my relief was tremendous when the sharp point slipped back outside. I closed the door firmly, locked it, and walked unhurriedly back into the depths of the Manse. As soon as I was out of view of the front windows, I ran for the kitchen.
“Master,” I cried, and wrung my employer’s hand.
To my inexpressible relief, his blue eyelids fluttered open.
“You didn’t call the doctor, I trust,” he whispered.
“No, sir,” I said. “But three ruffians have come to the door inquiring after you. They’re outside now.”
“Has one of them a hook?”
“Yes, and another a tremendous big hat with a feather in it, and the third a saber cut to his cheek.”
“Worse luck,” Master Rattle sighed. He took a deep breath and his next words came out all in a tumble. “I haven’t the strength to defend us, lad, but I assure you we are in mortal peril. It was Milliner Mulligan shot me; that’s him in the hat. But he doesn’t know if the ball struck me or not. Everything was confusion. The hook is Sailor Tom, and the third a mate of his: I added a scar to his collection tonight. Escape by the kitchen door, I pray you. Flee.”
“I’ll not leave you defenseless, sir.”
“I know it. But I wish you would. Do not take my part in any of this. If you must remain here, you’re going to have to get rid of them somehow. I can’t think of a way. My mind is in a fog. There’s a loaded pistol in the console by the door. If they attack you, kill one of them if you can; it may discourage the others.”
With that, Master Rattle gasped and fell back once again, senseless. Demon sniffed at his nostrils, as if to tell whether life remained. My mouth was as dry as a ship’s biscuit, and my heart thumped in my chest with as much fury as the hook I could now hear applied to the front door. I’d no idea what to do, and no time to do it. So I returned through the house, scouring my brains for a means to turn the visitors away.
It took all the courage I had, but with the pistol from the console concealed behind my back, I opened the front door once more. “I am surprised to find the master is not at home,” said I. “May I take a message?”
It seemed like the worst possible excuse to avoid allowing these three ruffians into the house, but nothing else had come to mind. They muttered between themselves for a few moments, and then Milliner Mulligan nodded his head, making the hat sway like the masts of a schooner.
“I’m not surprised to hear that,” he said with grim satisfaction. “We shall return on the morrow.”
With that, the men descended the steps and hurried away from the house. I closed the door behind them, tucked the pistol in the back of my belt, then raced around the ground floor of the Manse, checking that all the doors and windows were locked (those that would even shut properly). It was a futile exercise and I knew it.
I returned to the kitchen and found my master awake, staring sadly at his dog. Demon stared back, his wide-set brown eyes fixed upon our master. “They’ve gone, sir,” I said. “But I expect they shall return soon enough.”
“They’ll come back with reinforcements,” Master Rattle said. “If I could lift my hand I’d take up my pistol, but I’m done in. Save yourself, Mr. Bristol. Take Midnight and ride away from here before they return. But—ere you go, furnish me with some brandywine.”
I took up my master’s icy hand. “I’ll not leave you, sir,” I said. “You gave me my first proper home and treated me better than anyone ever has, and got hardly any work out of me in return. I owe you a debt of gratitude and I mean to repay it by defending your life.”
“Sentimental fool!” Master Rattle said. “I forbid you to take my side in any of this. Did I not say so?” A thread of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and I dabbed it away with a corner of linen. Then he muttered some nonsensical words, as if in a dream.
“If you would defend me, then go fetch the magistrate,” he said, after the wave of delirium had passed. “Treat me as an enemy of the law, and do nothing that would aid my cause. I beg you. I’m finished, and there’s no rope long enough to reach me where I’m going. But first bring me that wine. And fetch paper and quill, and I’ll write out my will. Quickly, before I lose my senses again.”
To my shame, I found my face was wet with tears. This was no time for childish grief. I had to save Master Rattle and needed clear eyes to do it. To conceal my sorrow, I fetched wine, paper, pen and ink, and some sand to blot the ink dry. My master propped himself up on one elbow and drank directly from the wine bottle, coughed painfully (which brought fresh blood to his lips), and lay back, his head lolling.
“Don’t be long, Mr. Bristol,” he said, in a voice almost too faint to hear. “Midnight is quick, but so are my enemies. I must rest awhile.” With that, he closed his eyes.
At the thought of the handsome black horse, inspiration came to me. The moon was down and it was the darkest hour of the night. With a little luck—if his enemies were on the road, and if they suspected he was unhurt—I might yet save the Manse, and therefore my master, from further attack.
“I’ll need your riding-costume, sir,” said I.
Chapter 4
THE IMPOSTER
I MOVED TO enact my plan as swiftly and surely as I could. Midnight did not tolerate strangers, but of all the people in the world, I’m proud to say the horse was second-fondest of me, who brought him apples and fed him mash. He was still wearing the saddle, his reins dragging along the ground. His flanks were wet and chill with sweat. Never before had Master Rattle failed to put the animal away properly, no matter how late it was, or for that matter how drunk he was.
But Midnight was startled when I approached him. He could smell the blood, and his big dark eyes rolled with confusion at the sight of me dressed in his master’s clothes. The black broadcloth costume fit me not too badly (although the long coat was prodigiously heavy), the scarlet-lined riding-boots were only a trifle too large, and with the mask across my eyes and the cocked hat* upon my head it would have taken an owl to spy the difference. I wore my own shirt and weskit, as they weren’t soaked with blood. Only Midnight could tell that I was not his accustomed rider in the clothes. Horses are not so easily fooled as men.
I was surprised to see Midnight had a white, diamond-shaped blaze on his nose, until I patted it to reassure him, and discovered the marking was made with chalk.
On foot I led Midnight out of the stable yard and down the lane behind the Manse, careful to make as little noise as possible. At a suitable distance from the house, I leapt into the saddle and we galloped straight onto the broad road that the trio of villains must have taken to leave the property. It had been less than an hour since I closed the door behind them. With any luck they were still on the road, whether coming or going.
Despite my fear, I was thrilled to ride Midnight. He was a graceful animal, powerful as a bull, seeming to flow down the road like the wing of some huge raven. Again I confess childish vanity: We must have made a fine-looking pair, me in my inky-black redingote* with the long skirts flying, a gold-hilted sword at my belt, and the mighty horse with his neck stretched out and his nostrils flaring, mane whirling like black flames.
We had gone less than a mile when I heard a coarse voice shouting up ahead on the road. Several man-shapes emerged onto the path from the concealment of some trees, and I distinctly heard Sailor Tom cry, “Whistlin’ Jack’s upon us, men, repel boarders!” There was a clash of steel, the yellow flash of a musket, and I spurred Midnight off the road as the shot whined past my head. The horse sprang over a tall hedge as if it were a whisk-broom and pelted off across a field on the other side. Behind us came shouts of desperate fury and men crashing through the thicket.
I didn’t dare shout anything le
st I give away the trick—my voice was nothing like my master’s—but I could still make noise. I drew the pistol from my belt and fired it wildly behind me. A volley of curses followed the report of the weapon, and then Midnight was galloping full tilt through a wood, and it was all I could to do avoid being swept out of the saddle by low branches. I kept my course directly away from the Manse, so that none would think “Whistling Jack” intended to return.
Twenty minutes later, I was back at the Manse by a roundabout route, with Midnight tied to a tree behind the carriage house in case the marauders had decided to pursue their original purpose. I crept onward to the kitchen door, then pulled open the small scullery window beside it. I’d unlatched it for just this occasion, the door being locked. I didn’t dare open the door in case my master’s enemies were already in the house—they would certainly hear the clank of the old, stiff lock.
I climbed through the window, and there the stealth ended. The window frame tipped my hat over my eyes, and then I tangled my legs in the sword. Thus encumbered, I fell headlong over the stone sink, smashed a stack of china plates, broke a couple of bottles, and upset a tin washtub that clanged like the bells of St. Ives Cathedral. Demon started making his shrieking sounds, somewhat like a hyena with its head caught in a jar. So much for caution. I limped into the kitchen.
My master was dead, it appeared, his underclothes stained with blood. Demon stood between his feet, small but determined, his short, tawny fur bristling and his face rumpled with agitation. The Master was entirely still, his eyes fixed heavenward, his face as white as sugar. But when I entered the room, those glassy eyes rolled in my direction.
“You’d make a fine cat burglar,” Master Rattle whispered. “But why are you dressed in my costume?”
“Sir, I think I lured them away,” said I, still breathless from my adventure. “It worked: They thought I was you. I heard them call your name, and they shot at me, sir. But Midnight took me off like a feather on a hurricane, and we left them handily behind.”
“You’re a fool,” Master Rattle said, his voice as faint as falling snow. “It was a good idea of yours—they won’t dare return tonight if they think me uninjured. After that it doesn’t matter. But I told you not to take my part in any of this, and now you have. You’ve sealed your fate.”
“You’re not done yet, sir,” said I, trying to sound encouraging. But my voice broke a little with grief. The shadow of death was unmistakably upon him.
“I think by now you know my secret,” Master Rattle continued, ignoring the encouraging words. “I’m Whistling Jack the highwayman. That’s why I’m out all night on occasion. My income doesn’t support a gambling habit and a drinking habit at the same time, so I’ve more than made up the deficit by robbing members of my own social class. I once stopped a coach belonging to my very own uncle, in fact.”
“I never knew, sir,” I said, as if my ignorance were some sort of error. My worst fears had come true. That scold Molly Figgs had been correct in her wicked conjectures, and I had served a criminal for two years and thought myself a gentleman’s gentleman. But at the same time, I knew him to be a good fellow, and kind, and a friend when he might more easily have been a tyrant. He was a gentleman. How he made his income didn’t change any of that. I was pulled both ways, and all the while my head whirled with sorrow and fear.
Demon was licking his master’s hand now, and the sight of that little creature’s devotion stung fresh tears to my eyes.
“You never suspected, that’s why,” Master Rattle said. “You’re far too generous for your own good. But there’s no time. Already my sight fails me. Mr. Bristol—Kit, if I may—you’ll find my last will and testament beside my hand. Take it. Turn Nell and the gray loose; they’ll find homes soon enough.”
“I’ll change out of these clothes, sir,” said I, “and fetch the king’s men once—if—you’re gone. There’s an end of it. I’m guilty of nothing, so I’ll remain. There’s no need to flee into the night.”
“No, Kit,” my master said, and found the strength to grip my wrist. He sat up a little, so urgent was his concern. His eyes blazed. “There’s a fellow about named Captain Sterne who will hang any man found with me. But he’s the least of your worries. Through your efforts on my behalf tonight, you are now bound to the very task I so feared—the thing that made me such poor company these last few months.”
He drew a long breath. It sounded like hard work. “You must bring Demon and Midnight to the deepest part of Kingsmire Forest, and there you’ll find an old witch. She’ll reveal your folly to you. Give to her my beloved bull-pup for safekeeping. Midnight is yours.”
Then my master turned his head to look upon the dog, and said, “Demon … farewell.”
“An old witch?” I blurted. “Oh sir, this is all too much for me. Let’s get you a surgeon, and—”
But James Rattle, alias Whistling Jack, was dead.
At that moment there came a great noise at the front door of splintering wood and breaking glass. I snatched up the fold of paper at my dead master’s hand, shoved it into the breast of the redingote, and rushed out the kitchen door. At the threshold I whistled sharply, and Demon, with a last, beseeching look at our master’s mortal remains, bounded after me.
Chapter 5
ESCAPE TO KINGSMIRE
DAWN WAS coming and the sky begun to grow light when I judged us safe from immediate pursuit.
The flight from the Manse had been terrifying. I’d no sooner stuffed the little dog into a saddlebag and urged Midnight back onto the road when redcoats—the king’s soldiers—came tumbling out of the kitchen door behind me. It hadn’t been the bandits, after all. There were more soldiers running on foot around the corner of the house. Had I not been expecting Milliner Mulligan and his accomplices, I wouldn’t have fled in the first place. But now that I’d been seen racing away from the house, it was no good claiming innocence. They wouldn’t listen. In calling Demon, I’d even whistled in imitation of my master—the very sound they’d expect from a brigand named Whistling Jack. In any case, I was dressed as the highwayman and riding his horse—they might even think I had murdered Master Rattle!
I thought myself well away from them when I heard a clatter of hooves, and to my dismay saw Captain Sterne in close pursuit. Midnight was tired, but that is when he showed his true strength. His stride was sure, even in the darkness—and he reached into his heart with every pace and found more speed. The brown charged after us, propelled by Sterne’s curses.
“I’ll have you, Jack!” he cried. “You robbed my fiancée’s coach a month ago!”
That sounded rather bad. Having no response, I tucked low against Midnight’s neck and we sailed through the night, gaining ground with every stride. But the captain had one more thing to tell me. When I heard it I knew we were deadly enemies and he would never give up the pursuit:
“And she fell,” he screamed at my fleeing back, “in love with you!”
At the very outermost edge of the estate there was a crossroad. Could I but reach it, I might escape the captain by several routes which Midnight knew so well he could outrun an arrow upon them. Midnight galloped, the captain’s horse fell ever behind, and then through the dark hedges I saw the glimmer of pale gravel where the several roads met.
Just as I bore down upon the crossing, a knot of men sprang into our path from behind a broken cart, starlight glinting off the weapons in their hands. Those voices again—it was Sailor Tom, Milliner Mulligan, and the rest of their crew.
Demon, whose furrowed head was poking out of the saddlebag, let loose his uncanny cry. Midnight reared up and threw his hooves about, and a moment later the captain had covered much of the distance between us.
“I’ll spare you the gallows,” he roared. “You’ll die here, tonight!”
I tried to head Midnight around despite the encircling ruffians—we might be able to get past Sterne’s whirling sword, if we went off the road. But there wasn’t room to maneuver.
It seemed I was
a dead man. I thought to draw my sword as Sterne spurred his mount directly at me, but got the handle caught in the redingote, and it hardly showed an inch of blade.
Then there was a blinding hoop of green fire in the air, as if a blazing firework had been swung around us on a cord. My eyes were fair dazzled, but it went worse for my attackers—they behaved as if someone had flung gunpowder in their eyes. The captain himself was nearly unhorsed. Sparks flew in all directions.
[ Fleeing Through the Night ]
“I’ll have your liver,” the captain cried, “though the devil himself sets me afire!”
It appeared that was precisely what had occurred, so in terror I goaded Midnight up the verge above the road and clapped heels to his sides. We were well over the top when the green fire suddenly went out.
We rushed across fields of grass and cabbages, flowers and barley. The morning sun would soon meet the sky. I could hear pandemonium behind me: the soldiers pursuing on foot had caught up to their captain, and the bandits were putting up a fight. Ahead of me was a dark band that rose up into broken stone hills: Kingsmire Forest.*
“Just a little further, Midnight,” I implored the horse. Whatever the ring of green light was, it had saved our skins. I had no time to ponder the meaning of it, nor to dwell upon the cause of the phenomenon—I was now Whistling Jack, highwayman, whether I liked it or not, and I had a mortal foe in Captain Sterne. He was nowhere to be seen when I looked over my shoulder. Between the blinding light, colliding with a nest of genuine bandits, and the ensuing fracasso, he was probably too busy to worry about me for the time being. Still I urged Midnight to keep up a brisk pace, only slowing when we reached the deepest darkness that lurked beneath the trees. As dawn broke, we were already far into the woods, and the rays of the sun penetrated the gloomy mist in slender threads, like fine gold chain.
I walked Midnight for some time after daybreak, and when we came to a hill of massive broken stones with a white waterfall spilling down among its slabs, I bade us stop for a rest. We all drank deeply from the icy pool at the foot of the spate. Then Demon dutifully marked every stone for yards around.
