The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  As if conscious of what was passing around her, and of the danger that awaited her master, Black Bess exhibited so much impatience, and plunged so violently, that it was with difficulty the ostler could hold her. “The devil’s in the mare,” said he; “what’s the matter with her? She was quiet enough a few minutes since. Soho! lass, stand.”

  Turpin and King, meanwhile, walked quickly through the house, preceded by the host, who conducted them, and not without some inward trepidation, towards the door. Arrived there, each man rushed swiftly to his horse. Dick was in the saddle in an instant, and stamping her foot on the ostler’s leg, Black Bess compelled the man, yelling with pain, to quit his hold of the bridle. Tom King was not equally fortunate. Before he could mount his horse, a loud shout was raised, which startled the animal, and caused him to swerve, so that Tom lost his footing in the stirrup, and fell to the ground. He was instantly seized by Paterson, and a struggle commenced, King endeavoring, but in vain, to draw a pistol.

  “Flip him, Dick; fire, or I’m taken,” cried King. “Fire! damn you, why don’t you fire?” shouted he, in desperation, still struggling vehemently with Paterson, who was a strong man, and more than a match for a light weight like King.

  “I can’t,” cried Dick; “I shall hit you, if I fire.”

  “Take your chance,” shouted King. “Is this your friendship?”

  Thus urged, Turpin fired. The ball ripped up the sleeve of Paterson’s coat, but did not wound him.

  “Again!” cried King. “Shoot him, I say. Don’t you hear me? Fire again!”

  Pressed as he was by foes on every side, himself their mark, for both Coates and Tyrconnel had fired upon him, and were now mounting their steeds to give chase, it was impossible that Turpin could take sure aim; added to which, in the struggle, Paterson and King were each moment changing their relative positions. He, however, would no longer hesitate, but again, at his friend’s request, fired. The ball lodged itself in King’s breast! He fell at once. At this instant a shriek was heard from the chaise: the window was thrown open, and her thick veil being drawn aside, the features of a very pretty female, now impressed with terror and contrition, were suddenly exhibited.

  King fixed his glazing eyes upon her.

  “Susan!” sighed he, “is it you that I behold?”

  “Yes, yes, ’tis she, sure enough,” said Paterson. “You see, ma’am, what you and such like have brought him to. However, you’ll lose your reward; he’s going fast enough.”

  “Reward!” gasped King; “reward! Did she betray me?”

  “Ay, ay, sir,” said Paterson, “she blowed the gaff, if it’s any consolation to you to know it.”

  “Consolation!” repeated the dying man; “perfidious! — oh! — the prophecy — my best friend — Turpin — I die by his hand.”

  And vainly striving to raise himself, he fell backwards and expired. Alas, poor Tom!

  “Mr. Paterson! Mr. Paterson!” cried Coates; “leave the landlord to look after the body of that dying ruffian, and mount with us in pursuit of the living rascal. Come, sir; quick! mount! despatch! You see he is yonder; he seems to hesitate; we shall have him now.”

  “Well, gemmen, I’m ready,” said Paterson; “but how the devil came you to let him escape?”

  “Saint Patrick only knows!” said Titus; “he’s as slippery as an eel — and, like a cat, turn him which way you will, he is always sure to alight upon his legs. I wouldn’t wonder but we lose him now, after all, though he has such a small start. That mare flies like the wind.”

  “He shall have a tight run for it, at all events,” said Paterson, putting spurs into his horse. “I’ve got a good nag under me, and you are neither of you badly mounted. He’s only three hundred yards before us, and the devil’s in it if we can’t run him down. It’s a three hundred pound job, Mr. Coates, and well worth a race.”

  “You shall have another hundred from me, sir, if you take him,” said Coates, urging his steed forward.

  “Thank you, sir, thank you. Follow my directions, and we’ll make sure of him,” said the constable. “Gently, gently, not so fast up the hill — you see he’s breathing his horse. All in good time, Mr. Coates — all in good time, sir.”

  And maintaining an equal distance, both parties cantered leisurely up the ascent now called Windmill Hill. We shall now return to Turpin.

  Aghast at the deed he had accidentally committed, Dick remained for a few moments irresolute; he perceived that King was mortally wounded, and that all attempts at rescue would be fruitless; he perceived, likewise, that Jerry and the Magus had effected their escape from the bowling-green, as he could detect their figures stealing along the hedge-side. He hesitated no longer. Turning his horse, he galloped slowly off, little heeding the pursuit with which he was threatened.

  “Every bullet has its billet,” said Dick; “but little did I think that I really should turn poor Tom’s executioner. To the devil with this rascally snapper,” cried he, throwing the pistol over the hedge. “I could never have used it again. ’Tis strange, too, that he should have foretold his own fate — devilish strange! And then that he should have been betrayed by the very blowen he trusted! that’s a lesson, if I wanted any. But trust a woman! — not I, the length of my little finger.”

  CHAPTER IV. — THE HUE AND CRY

  Six gentlemen upon the road

  Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

  With postboy scampering in the rear,

  They raised the hue and cry:

  Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman!

  Not one of them was mute;

  And all and each that passed that way

  Did join in the pursuit.

  — John Gilpin.

  ARRIVED at the brow of the hill, whence such a beautiful view of the country surrounding the metropolis is obtained, Turpin turned for an instant to reconnoitre his pursuers. Coates and Titus he utterly disregarded; but Paterson was a more formidable foe, and he well knew that he had to deal with a man of experience and resolution. It was then, for the first time, that the thoughts of executing his extraordinary ride to York first flashed across him; his bosom throbbed high with rapture, and he involuntarily exclaimed aloud, as he raised himself in the saddle, “By God! I will do it!”

  He took one last look at the great Babel that lay buried in a world of trees beneath him; and as his quick eye ranged over the magnificent prospect, lit up by that gorgeous sunset, he could not help thinking of Tom King’s last words. “Poor fellow!” thought Dick, “he said truly. He will never see another sunset.” Aroused by the approaching clatter of his pursuers, Dick struck into a lane which lies on the right of the road, now called Shoot-up-hill Lane, and set off at a good pace in the direction of Hampstead.

  “Now,” cried Paterson, “put your tits to it, my boys. We must not lose sight of him for a second in these lanes.”

  Accordingly, as Turpin was by no means desirous of inconveniencing his mare in this early stage of the business, and as the ground was still upon an ascent, the parties preserved their relative distances.

  At length, after various twistings and turnings in that deep and devious lane; after scaring one or two farmers, and riding over a brood or two of ducks; dipping into the verdant valley of West End, and ascending another hill, Turpin burst upon the gorsy, sandy, and beautiful heath of Hampstead. Shaping his course to the left, Dick then made for the lower part of the heath, and skirted a path that leads towards North End, passing the furze-crowned summit which is now crested by a clump of lofty pines.

  It was here that the chase first assumed a character of interest. Being open ground, the pursued and pursuers were in full view of each other; and as Dick rode swiftly across the heath, with the shouting trio hard at his heels, the scene had a very animated appearance. He crossed the hill — the Hendon Road — passed Crackskull Common — and dashed along the cross road to Highgate.

  Hitherto no advantage had been gained by the pursuers; they had not lost ground, but still they had not gained an inch, and mu
ch spurring was required to maintain their position. As they approached Highgate, Dick slackened his pace, and the other party redoubled their efforts. To avoid the town, Dick struck into a narrow path at the right, and rode easily down the hill.

  His pursuers were now within a hundred yards, and shouted to him to stand. Pointing to a gate which seemed to bar their further progress, Dick unhesitatingly charged it, clearing it in beautiful style. Not so with Coates’s party; and the time they lost in unfastening the gate, which none of them chose to leap, enabled Dick to put additional space betwixt them. It did not, however, appear to be his intention altogether to outstrip his pursuers: the chase seemed to give him excitement, which he was willing to prolong as much as was consistent with his safety. Scudding rapidly past Highgate, like a swift-sailing schooner, with three lumbering Indiamen in her wake, Dick now took the lead along a narrow lane that threads the fields in the direction of Hornsey. The shouts of his followers had brought others to join them, and as he neared Crouch End, traversing the lane which takes its name from Du-Val, and in which a house frequented by that gayest of robbers stands, or stood, “A highwayman! a highwayman!” rang in his ears, in a discordant chorus of many voices.

  The whole neighborhood was alarmed by the cries, and by the tramp of horses: the men of Hornsey rushed into the road to seize the fugitive, and women held up their babes to catch a glimpse of the flying cavalcade, which seemed to gain number and animation as it advanced. Suddenly three horsemen appear in the road — they hear the uproar and the din. “A highwayman! a highwayman!” cry the voices: “stop him, stop him!” But it is no such easy matter. With a pistol in each hand, and his bridle in his teeth, Turpin passed boldly on. His fierce looks — his furious steed — the impetus with which he pressed forward, bore down all before him. The horsemen gave way, and only served to swell the list of his pursuers.

  “We have him now — we have him now!” cried Paterson, exultingly. “Shout for your lives. The turnpike man will hear us. Shout again — again! The fellow has heard it. The gate is shut. We have him. Ha, ha!”

  The old Hornsey toll-bar was a high gate, with chevaux-de-frise on the upper rail. It may be so still. The gate was swung into its lock, and, like a tiger in his lair, the prompt custodian of the turnpike trusts, ensconced within his doorway, held himself in readiness to spring upon the runaway. But Dick kept steadily on. He coolly calculated the height of the gate; he looked to the right and to the left — nothing better offered; he spoke a few words of encouragement to Bess, gently patted her neck, then struck his spurs into her sides, and cleared the spikes by an inch. Out rushed the amazed turnpike man, thus unmercifully bilked, and was nearly trampled to death under the feet of Paterson’s horse.

  “Open the gate, fellow, and be expeditious,” shouted the chief constable.

  “Not I,” said the man, sturdily, “unless I gets my dues. I’ve been done once already. But strike me stupid if I’m done a second time.”

  “Don’t you perceive that’s a highwayman? Don’t you know that I’m chief constable of Westminster?” said Paterson, showing his staff. “How dare you oppose me in the discharge of my duty?”

  “That may be, or it may not be,” said the man, doggedly. “But you don’t pass, unless I gets the blunt, and that’s the long and short on it.”

  Amidst a storm of oaths, Coates flung down a crown piece, and the gate was thrown open.

  Turpin took advantage of this delay to breathe his mare; and, striking into a by-lane at Duckett’s Green, cantered easily along in the direction of Tottenham. Little repose was allowed him. Yelling like a pack of hounds in full cry, his pursuers were again at his heels. He had now to run the gauntlet of the long straggling town of Tottenham, and various were the devices of the populace to entrap him. The whole place was up in arms, shouting, screaming, running, dancing, and hurling every possible description of missile at the horse and her rider. Dick merrily responded to their clamor as he flew past, and laughed at the brickbats that were showered thick as hail, and quite as harmlessly, around him.

  A few more miles’ hard riding tired the volunteers, and before the chase reached Edmonton most of them were “nowhere.” Here fresh relays were gathered, and a strong field was again mustered. John Gilpin himself could not have excited more astonishment amongst the good folks of Edmonton, than did our highwayman as he galloped through their town. Unlike the men of Tottenham, the mob received him with acclamations, thinking, no doubt, that, like “the citizens of famous London town,” he rode for a wager. Presently, however, borne on the wings of the blast, came the cries of “Turpin! Dick Turpin!” and the hurrahs were changed to hootings; but such was the rate at which our highwayman rode, that no serious opposition could be offered to him.

  A man in a donkey-cart, unable to get out of the way, drew himself up in the middle of the road. Turpin treated him as he had done the dub at the knapping jigger, and cleared the driver and his little wain with ease. This was a capital stroke, and well adapted to please the multitude, who are ever taken with a brilliant action. “Hark away, Dick!” resounded on all hands, while hisses were as liberally bestowed upon his pursuers.

  * * *

  CHAPTER V. — THE SHORT PIPE

  The Peons are capital horsemen, and several times we saw them, at a gallop, throw the rein on the horse’s neck, take from one pocket a bag of loose tobacco, and, with a piece of paper, or a leaf of Indian corn, make a cigar, and then take out a flint and steel and light it.

  — Head’s Rough Notes.

  AWAY they fly past scattered cottages, swiftly and skimmingly, like eagles on the wing, along the Enfield highway. All were well mounted, and the horses, now thoroughly warmed, had got into their paces, and did their work beautifully. None of Coates’s party lost ground, but they maintained it at the expense of their steeds, which were streaming like water-carts, while Black Bess had scarcely turned a hair.

  Turpin, the reader already knows, was a crack rider; he was the crack rider of England of his time, and, perhaps, of any time. The craft and mystery of jockeyship was not so well understood in the eighteenth as it is in the nineteenth century; men treated their horses differently, and few rode them as well as many ride now, when every youngster takes to the field as naturally as if he had been bred a Guacho. Dick Turpin was a glorious exception to the rule, and anticipated a later age. He rode wonderfully lightly, yet sat his saddle to perfection, distributing the weight so exquisitely that his horse scarcely felt his pressure; he yielded to every movement made by the animal, and became, as it were, part and parcel of itself; he took care Bess should be neither strained nor wrung. Freely, and as lightly as a feather, was she borne along; beautiful was it to see her action — to watch her style and temper of covering the ground; and many a first-rate Meltonian might have got a wrinkle from Turpin’s seat and conduct.

  We have before stated that it was not Dick’s object to ride away from his pursuers — he could have done that at any moment. He liked the fun of the chase, and would have been sorry to put a period to his own excitement. Confident in his mare, he just kept her at such speed as should put his pursuers completely to it, without in the slightest degree inconveniencing himself. Some judgment of the speed at which they went may be formed, when we state that little better than an hour had elapsed and nearly twenty miles had been ridden over. “Not bad travelling that,” methinks we hear the reader exclaim.

  “By the mother that bore me,” said Titus, as they went along in this slapping style — Titus, by-the-by, rode a big, Roman-nosed, powerful horse, well adapted to his weight, but which required a plentiful exercise both of leg and arm to call forth all his action, and keep his rider alongside his companions— “by the mother that bore me,” said he, almost thumping the wind out of his flea-bitten Bucephalus with his calves, after the Irish fashion, “if the fellow isn’t lighting his pipe! I saw the sparks fly on each side of him, and there he goes like a smoky chimney on a frosty morning! See, he turns his impudent phiz, with the pipe in his mou
th! Are we to stand that, Mr. Coates?”

  “Wait awhile, sir — wait awhile,” said Coates; “we’ll smoke him by-and-by.”

  Pæans have been sung in honor of the Peons of the Pampas by the Headlong Sir Francis; but what the gallant major extols so loudly in the South American horsemen, viz., the lighting of a cigar when in mid career, was accomplished with equal ease by our English highwayman a hundred years ago, nor was it esteemed by him any extravagant feat either. Flint, steel, and tinder were bestowed within Dick’s ample pouch, the short pipe was at hand, and within a few seconds there was a stream of vapor exhaling from his lips, like the smoke from a steamboat shooting down the river, and tracking his still rapid course through the air.

  “I’ll let ’em see what I think of ‘em!” said Dick, coolly, as he turned his head.

  It was now gray twilight. The mists of coming night were weaving a thin curtain over the rich surrounding landscape. All the sounds and hum of that delicious hour were heard, broken only by the regular clatter of the horses’ hoofs. Tired of shouting, the chasers now kept on their way in deep silence; each man held his breath, and plunged his spurs, rowel deep, into his horse; but the animals were already at the top of their speed, and incapable of greater exertion. Paterson, who was a hard rider, and perhaps a thought better mounted, kept the lead. The rest followed as they might.

  Had it been undisturbed by the rush of the cavalcade, the scene would have been still and soothing. Overhead a cloud of rooks were winging their garrulous flight to the ancestral avenue of an ancient mansion to the right; the bat was on the wing; the distant lowing of a herd of kine saluted the ear at intervals; the blithe whistle of the rustic herdsman, and the merry chime of waggon bells, rang pleasantly from afar. But these cheerful sounds, which make the still twilight hour delightful, were lost in the tramp of the horsemen, now three abreast. The hind fled to the hedge for shelter, and the waggoner pricked up his ears, and fancied he heard the distant rumbling of an earthquake.