by David McDine
The aunt dabbed her brow with a lace handkerchief and the young Miss Wilkinson giggled, but Pettiworth was scepticall and patted the large leather bag on his lap. ‘Losing a wheel’s the least of my worries. There’s been too many good-for-nothings hanging around Portsmouth since this confounded mutiny started. I hear some ne’er-do-well tried to rob a passenger who arrived on this very coach just a couple of days ago …’
Anson thought it wiser not to mention that he had been the intended victim and let Pettiworth burble on.
‘I don’t mind telling you, sir, ladies, I’m only too glad to be getting out of Portsmouth. Just so long as I arrive in London with what’s in this bag still intact and all in one piece myself I’ll be happy.’
Anson thought the man ill-advised to harp on about his bag, and surely it would be better not to hint that whatever was in it had any value. But he chose not to comment and all four passengers lapsed into silence, looking out of the windows as the coach left Portsmouth via the Landport Gate and headed for London.
It was a hot and humid evening and at first uncomfortably close in the coach but it soon became more bearable as draughts from its gathering speed stirred the air.
Their journey continued without incident and with only occasional exchanges of conversation about their progress and the passing scene.
At one stage the younger Miss Wilkinson plucked up courage to ask if he had recently been to sea, and although confirming that he had, Anson was uncomfortable talking of life afloat to land-based creatures with whom he had no shared experience so he sought to deflect matters by addressing Pettiworth.
‘You work in a counting house I gather, sir?’
‘Work in it? I run it. You could say I’m the captain of it, sir!’
Anson pretended to be impressed. ‘Being a simpleton regarding financial matters myself, I have little or no idea of what’s done in a counting house, although I imagine it involves dealing with financial matters, tallying up money and whatnot …’
Pettiworth looked askance at such an elementary representation of his chosen profession and asked: ‘Are you familiar with Daniel Defoe, sir?’
‘I have read his book about Robinson Crusoe – quite a hero to those of us who go down to the sea in ships.’
‘Then you will be aware that the author has his castaway recalling that while his ink lasted he kept things what he called very exact, very impartially like debtor and creditor, weighing the comforts he enjoyed against the miseries he suffered, did he not?’
Anson could not recall that bit of the story but replied with a non-committal grunt.
‘So, that, sir, is what we counting house men do for companies and for individuals: balancing money rather than comforts and miseries, though come to think on it, there can be similarities—’
‘Really, sir? I am amazed!’
‘Oh yes, we are the very oil without which commerce could not function efficiently …’
Oily was a word that Anson thought he could well associate with his fellow-passenger.
‘Indeed, we are not only the keepers of the financial records but are purveyors of advice to the moneyed classes regarding the wisdom of investment opportunities—’
‘Allow me to observe, sir, Portsmouth is an odd place for a financial man to visit during a mutiny, is it not?’
‘Ah, but that’s the very point. With so many officers kicking their heels ashore wondering what on earth to do with all their prize money, it was a perfect time to come among them and advise them how to invest it. I’d be more than happy to oblige you, too, in that regard, sir, should you have money you wish to grow …’
Anson confessed: ‘I very much regret that the little I have squirreled away would hardly keep such a creature in nuts.’
Pettiworth nodded understandingly. He knew by reputation that many sailors were profligate with their money, so gave up the idea of recruiting this young officer as a client, and settled back into his corner, smiling smugly.
Anson also sat back, recalling hearing of the “South Sea Bubble” and about many investors including prize-rich naval men who had lost all when it collapsed, and he privately wondered if it had been men like Pettiworth who advised their clients on the wisdom of that investment.
4
An Eventful Journey
It was dark as they entered Liphook with a brief flourish of the post horn. The coach pulled up beside the Royal Anchor where there was to be a change of horses – and Gorgeous George was waiting to replace the shaven-headed coachman.
The coach door opened and Nat Bell appeared. ‘There’s just enough time to dismount and take a quick what they calls comfort break in the inn before we set orf again, ladies and gents. Looks like my replacement ’asn’t appeared. He must still be under the wevver, so I’ll be staying wiv the coach. Your baggage’ll be safe.’
And, noting that Anson was still clutching the satchel, he said quietly: ‘If you’d like, sir, I’ll pop that bag of yours in the secure box under lock and key.’
Anson hesitated for a moment, but then nodded and handed it over. His official package would be safer there than in and around a busy coaching inn, and he reckoned he’d have no need of his pistol during a brief stop in a well-frequented place like this.
The other three passengers also availed themselves of the opportunity to dismount, but despite the guard’s assurance the businessman insisted on keeping his own leather bag with him, clutching it to his chest as if it were a precious child.
Anson was grateful for the opportunity to stretch his legs. He handed the Misses Wilkinson down from the coach and accompanied them into the inn. After making use of the facilities himself he waited for them to emerge from the ladies’ room and they walked back to the coach together followed by Pettiworth.
The younger Miss Wilkinson was chattering away ten to the dozen but stopped mid-sentence on hearing a strangulated cry behind them.
Anson turned and by the light of the lantern beside the entrance to the inn saw that two men were attacking the chubby businessman, who had been last to emerge and was now calling hysterically for help.
Shouting to the guard, who was busy exchanging mail bags with the local postmaster, Anson ran to Pettiworth’s aid – wishing that he had not left his pistol in the satchel.
As he approached, he saw one of the assailants cosh his fellow-passenger with some sort of club and grab his leather bag while the other, who had a pigtail and the look of a sailor, spun on Anson and pointed a long-barrelled pistol at his head.
The Misses Wilkinson screamed and Anson flinched at the sound of a shot. But it was not the robber. It was the guard Nat Bell who, from his seat on top of the coach, had loosed off one of his pistols above the attackers’ heads as a warning.
Bell shouted: ‘Drop that bag and your weapons you blackguards and stick yer ’ands in the air. I’ve a blunderbuss ’ere and I’ll not miss!’
The bag was dropped, but the man with the pistol raised his weapon, took deliberate aim and fired at the guard, who cried out as the ball penetrated his scarlet uniform coat. He swayed for a moment clutching his shoulder, and fell from the coach, landing heavily on the cobbles.
Horrified, Anson cursed himself for not slipping his pistol into his pocket, but remembered his sword, drew it and rushed at the attackers. For a moment they stood their ground, but with only a discharged pistol and a cosh to counter a determined-looking uniformed apparition charging at them waving a naked blade, they turned and fled into the darkness, empty-handed.
The shots and commotion brought a small crowd from the inn and the landlord sent a potboy hurrying for the constables and the local apothecary, there being no doctor living nearby.
The shocked Pettiworth, dazed from the cosh blow, burbled his thanks as he was helped to his feet and reunited with his precious leather bag, but Anson’s concern was for the guard. He ran back to the coach sheathing his sword, knelt beside Nat Bell and was immensely relieved to find that he was not only alive but very much conscious – an
d cursing: ‘That cheeky bastard’s made a ’ole in me best uniform coat!’
Anson helped him up and seated him with his back to a coach wheel. The apothecary appeared and together they gently helped the wounded man remove his coat and shirt.
The wound was near his shoulder and there was blood in his hair, too, from where he had banged his head when he fell on the cobbles.
The coachman and the other passengers gathered around. ‘Is he badly hurt?’ asked the young Miss Wilkinson anxiously, patting his bloodied head daintily with a lace handkerchief.
Bell himself reassured her. ‘Ain’t much, Miss, just winged, winded, and took a bit of a knock on me ’ead. I’d know all about it if that villain had struck bone or somefink vital.’
‘Thank goodness,’ she gushed. ‘Heaven knows what those villains would have done if Lieutenant Anson hadn’t charged at them so bravely!’
‘Like ’e said, Miss, worse things ’appen at sea. P’rhaps once Mister Sawbones ’ere ’as finished patching me up you gents would kindly ’elp me on wiv me jacket, chuck me back on the coach and we’ll get under way. It won’t do to lose too much time flappin’ about here …’
The apothecary clearly knew what he was doing, sent for a bowl of hot salted water from the inn and cleaned the wound.
Finally satisfied, he announced that the pistol ball had merely ploughed a small furrow leaving a nice clean flesh wound, bound Bell’s upper arm neatly and put it in a sling.
But, he said, as he washed the blood out of the wounded man’s hair, he must be rested. There was absolutely no question of him remaining on duty after having taken such a hard knock to the head, certainly not on top of a swaying coach that could easily throw him off in his dazed condition.
Pettiworth was complaining and gingerly feeling the lump on his own head where he had taken a blow from the cosh, but a quick glance satisfied the apothecary that his injury was far from mortal.
As the guard was being helped to his feet the two constables who had been combing the area returned. They reported there was no sign of the assailants and the landlord said he reckoned they were more than likely chancers passing through who had had the sense to make themselves scarce.
Anson agreed. ‘From what little I saw of them I reckon they could well be seamen. The one with the pistol almost certainly was.’
The older of the constables, noting Anson’s uniform, commented: ‘That’s very likely, sir. There’s been a few of ’em through here since that mutiny of yourn.’
For a split-second Anson was tempted to dispute the implication that he was solely responsible for the Spithead troubles, but dismissed the thought with a wry grin.
The immediate danger past, the ladies clucked around the wounded guard and the ashen-faced Pettiworth.
Anson conferred with the driver and asked the postmaster how long it would take to summon a replacement guard.
‘Well, sir, Nat Bell was due to be relieved here, but his replacement’s still sick so he was going to have to stay on duty all the way to London. But now—’
‘And there’s no-one else here who could take his place?’
The postmaster scratched his head. ‘I fear not, sir. Nearest one’s his oppo at Guildford. I could send for him, but that’ll take time, even supposing he can be found straight away.’
‘How much time?’
Too long, was the short answer and, remembering the documents he carried, Anson was not prepared to hang about.
Bell protested. ‘No need to send for a stand-in. Just ’elp me back up on the coach. I can do it.’
Anson asked the apothecary: ‘He’s really not up to it, is he?’
‘Certainly not, sir. He’s lost blood and taken a nasty blow to the head. I dread to think what might happen to him lurching about on top of a coach.’
‘There you are, Mister Bell! There’s no question of you continuing.’
‘So what do you propose?’ Pettiworth asked anxiously.
Anson smiled. ‘The solution is simple. Bell here can take my place in the coach and I’ll take over as guard myself, at least as far as Guildford. If a replacement guard is available there, that’s all to the good. If not, I’ll stand watch all the way.’
But both postmaster and driver were adamant that this was out of the question. Gorgeous George warned: ‘Only a Royal Mail employee can act as guard, sir. It’d be against all the rules and regulations for you to take over.’
The postmaster was even more insistent. ‘We’ll all be in a deal of trouble if we allow you to act as guard, sir. The Royal Mail is a stickler for rules and you could get the coachman, the guard here and myself dismissed if we go along with what you’re suggesting.’
Anson was all for arguing the toss, but remembering that the navy operated according to the Articles of War – and he supposed an organisation like the Royal Mail had its equivalent – he shrugged, accepting defeat. The last thing he wanted was to be the cause of good men like Bell being dismissed.
The guard had been listening intently. ‘Look, sir, gents. I got the answer. Lash me in me dickie seat and I’ll still be able to do the job. This orficer can sit up next to the driver. That way he can keep an eye on me and give me a ’and if I need it, like blowing the ’orn, jumping down with the brake shoe and that. He wouldn’t ’ave to touch the sacred blinkin’ mail bags.’
Anson agreed enthusiastically. ‘That’s right. In this case the guard will still be in charge. I’ll merely be assisting him and it’s probably only going to be as far as the next change-over at Guildford. No rule against that, is there?’
Pettiworth, anxious to be away lest his assailants returned, backed him up. ‘Quite right, sir. No rule against that! We’re with you.’ And the ladies clucked their approval. Anson was now their hero and as far as they were concerned they could not be in safer hands.
Before the postmaster or driver could come up with a contrary regulation, Anson had helped Bell up to his seat on the coach and set about securing him with leather straps.
‘You’d best tell me what the duties are, so I can give you a hand when needed.’
‘Well, sir, there’s the same stops as on the way down, only in reverse – backwards, like.’
Anson grinned. ‘Not literally, I trust! Anyway, with luck we’ll have the right wind behind us.’
Pettiworth, cheerful again now that they were about to get under way but still clutching his precious leather bag close to his chest, observed: ‘Best not forget that old saying, sir: when a man does not know what harbour he is making for, no wind is the right wind.’
Anson had been force-fed classics as a boy by his clergyman father. ‘Senecca said something of the sort, did he not?’
‘Well, yes, ’twere some old Roman, I believe.’
‘Good point well brought out, but fortunately for all of us it’ll be the driver who steers, not me. All I have to do is to hang on tightly to the rigging and make sure no more ne’er-do-wells try to come on board.’
Nat Bell, settled now in his dickie seat but still looking dazed and in some pain, pursed his lips and shook his head slowly. ‘There’s a sight more to it than that, sir. I’ll look after the mail side of fings but you can ’elp by keeping a good lookout for trouble and whenever you spot somefink in the road or when we come up to a tollgate you need to give ’em a blast on the ’orn to make ’em clear the way for us. We’re exempt from tolls, y’see. There’s no way I can raise the puff after that cheeky sod made a ’ole in me.’
Gorgeous George nodded enthusiastically. ‘That’s right, sir! Nothing is allowed to hold up His Majesty’s mails – no slow-coaches, farmers’ wagons, herds of sheep and suchlike. And some of them toll-keepers are right idle sods who’d sleep through a riot if you’d let ’em. They’ll need a warning.’
Anson protested: ‘If I’m to blow the horn I’ll need a lesson. I’ve got this far in life without playing a musical instrument of any kind whatsoever.’
‘No problem, sir. It ain’t a musical instrument as such –
more of a warning whatnot. Fetch it ’ere, Georgie boy, and I’ll show this orficer what’s what.’
The horn was duly fetched and Bell explained: ‘It ain’t no good just blowing into it. All you’ll get is a farting noise, begging your pardon ladies …’
The ladies, clearly unused to such words of Anglo-Saxon origin, reddened and climbed hurriedly back into the coach.
Bell pulled a wry grin and continued: ‘No, no, what I mean is if you just blew you’d only blow a, er, well, what I said... so what you ’ave to do is put it to your top lip, stick your tongue out a bit and kind of spit into it as if you’re blowing a raspberry.’
‘Right!’ said Anson, taking over the horn. He blew as directed, but all he produced was a feeble flatulent sound of the kind Bell had warned him about.
‘Oh no, sir, no,’ the guard winced. ‘Terrible! That won’t do at all. You wouldn’t wake a mouse with that, let alone warn a dozy tollgate keeper or alert the innkeepers and whatnot. What you ’ave to do is what-they-call quiver your top lip. Flutter it, like, and do the tongue out and spitting bit at the same time.’
Anson frowned, trying to coordinate his lip-quivering and raspberry-blowing, and had another go, but again only a flatulent sound emerged.
Bell grimaced. ‘No, no, sir! That won’t do neither. Look, what you got t’do is fill your lungs, like. You need lots of puff. Then pretend you’re spitting somefink like a bit of ‘baccy orf your tongue as you blow. Try that …’
Anson had never smoked but thought he might be able to replicate the tobacco-spitting phase, thinking that this was a bit like gunnery drill – swab, charge in, ram home, wads in, ram, ball and so forth. Except that this was a case of fill lungs, flutter lip and spit …
He breathed in deeply, put the horn to his upper lip, quivered it, exhaled sharply spitting out the imaginary speck of tobacco at the same time, and to his astonishment produced a clear, if muted, note.
