The Highwayman's Daughter

by Henriette Gyland

  Cora shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. He sounds wholly unfamiliar.’ But as soon as she said it, the image of a gentleman with a patch beside his mouth came to mind; Jack’s companion on the night of the robbery. But who was he and what did he want from her? She had robbed him, certainly, but was that enough to induce a man such as he to enter a notorious prison to visit a highwayman? And how had he made the connection between herself and Gentleman George?

  Cora stilled as dread rose in her chest. ‘What did you tell him, Uncle George?’ she asked, articulating her words with care.

  ‘Nothing!’ he said, drawing himself up in indignation. ‘Absolutely nothing. Although—’ He stopped, and his face drained of colour so suddenly that Cora feared he might collapse.

  ‘Although?’

  ‘I might have said something – inadvertently, mind – about your father’s cottage in the forest. I don’t exactly recall. I’d had a few, you see. He’d brought a bottle of fine brandy, and, well, with one thing after another …’ He trailed off, imploring her wide-eyed to forgive his indiscretion.

  Dread turned to abject horror and Cora glanced at Martha, who shook her head imperceptibly as if to say Ned would be safe for the time being. Her father had been right in urging them to flee immediately, and since they hadn’t left any trace of where they’d gone, it was very unlikely that anyone would suspect them of being but a mile away.

  Still, the sooner she and Ned were on their way, the better. There must be no delays. Today the authorities would be concerned with keeping order at the hanging; tomorrow was a different matter.

  She patted George’s hand. ‘It’s all right, Uncle George. My father and I left yesterday. You needn’t concern yourself. We’ll be fine.’

  Gentleman George nodded, then sent her a curiously detached smile. ‘Did you know that Jack Sheppard was held in this very cell before he was hanged?’ The effort of sitting up had given his skin a waxy sheen and his eyes shone feverishly.

  Naturally, Cora had heard of Sheppard, an infamous pickpocket and highwayman – what person hadn’t? But she worried about George’s sudden and seemingly random reference to the man; was he close to losing his mind? Perhaps the suppurating sores had brought on a real fever. Even if he was contemplating breaking out of prison, like the illustrious Sheppard had, she doubted he would make it in his condition.

  ‘No, I didn’t know that,’ she replied. ‘Is that what you’re planning to do?’

  Smiling sadly, George shook his head. ‘Nay, my girl, I have no such plans. What a man has done will catch up with him in the end. That’s the way of the world. I’d rather it was here, on God’s green Earth, than in the afterlife, if you get my meaning. It’s just that …’ He trailed off, and his shoulders sank.

  ‘What, Uncle George?’ Cora prodded gently.

  ‘I wonder if it’ll take a long time to die.’

  Cora’s stomach clenched with sudden horror. She had been so determined to help him go to the gallows with dignity that she’d forgotten hanging could be an agonisingly slow death, and that even the bravest person would struggle when dangling from a rope by his neck.

  ‘You’re a big man, Uncle George. I’m sure your passing will be quick.’ She swallowed hard, and then said, ‘But if it’ll help, I promise I’ll pull down on your legs when you … when you …’ Unable to finish the sentence, she looked away.

  ‘Bless you, Cora, but I’ve already paid the hangman handsomely to do that for me. As long your lovely face is the last thing I see, it’ll be enough. Then I’ll know what an angel looks like when I meet one.’

  ‘I can promise you that,’ she said and fought hard against her tears. It wouldn’t do to show weakness; for Uncle George’s sake she needed to be courageous. ‘Can you stand?’ she asked. ‘I have a present for you.’

  ‘Aye, I reckon I can.’ George gripped the arms of his chair and with what seemed like superhuman effort forced himself upright. ‘A drop of brandy would be darned welcome right now. For medicinal purposes, you understand. To ease the pain a little. I don’t suppose you have any on you?’

  In response to his imploring look Cora shook her head. She hadn’t thought of that, much to her chagrin; she knew that when a man drank to excess the way Uncle George had done, depriving him of liquor would do more harm than good.

  ‘I might be able to help you,’ Martha said and stepped forward. For the first time George seemed to realise that there was someone else in the cell with them. ‘Mind you, it’ll be gin – that’s all the likes of me can afford.’

  Martha reached inside a deep pocket in her dress and produced a small silver hip flask. Cora raised her eyes questioningly, but the older woman shrugged. ‘Belonged to my dear departed, that one, though Lud knows what poor soul ’e robbed to acquire it. Never could bring meself to part with it, not even when there weren’t enough to eat.’

  Gentleman George took the proffered bottle and drank the contents greedily, like a babe at the breast. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said, although his prison pallor didn’t improve. ‘Clears the cobwebs. Now, where were we?’

  ‘I brought this for you,’ Cora said. She handed him the soap and pail of water and produced one of Ned’s shirts from under her petticoats.

  ‘And this.’

  She handed the waistcoat to George. Admiring the exquisite embroidery, he remained silent, but when he finally spoke, there was a catch in his voice.

  ‘Thank you, Cora Mardell. Thank you for restoring a man’s dignity. You don’t just look like an angel, you are one, bless you.’

  At ten o’clock, shortly after Cora and Martha had said goodbye to Gentleman George, the ox-carts conveying the condemned prisoners left Newgate Prison. Six men were to be hung, two to each ox-cart, and each of them travelled the route with a noose about the neck and their elbows pinned back. Only Gentleman George was handcuffed, being considered a particular security risk, although he sat in the first row in the cart, a place of honour reserved for highwaymen and those who robbed the mail.

  Cora and Martha followed the carts, together with countless other people, some of them relatives and acquaintances of the condemned, others merely spectators. With each step taking them closer to Tyburn, Cora felt an agonising ache in her chest.

  The procession stopped at St Sepulchre’s, where the condemned men heard the bellman’s final proclamation and received a floral wreath. Then they journeyed along Holborn, St Giles and Oxford Road, stopping at various alehouses, where the prisoners were offered wine.

  London was always en fête on hanging day, and the huge crowds lining the route bombarded the popular prisoners with flowers and nosegays, but hurled mud, stones, excrement and dead cats and dogs at those whose crimes they disapproved of. Cora was relieved to see that her father’s old friend received only flowers.

  All too soon they had travelled the three miles to the Tyburn Tree, and Cora’s insides revolted in earnest. This was the end; after today she would never see George again, never hear his raucous laughter or look upon his friendly face. Squeezing her eyes shut and clenching her fists to get a grip on herself, she felt Martha’s hand on her arm.

  ‘It’ll soon be over, dear. Then we can say a prayer and hope for a safe passing.’

  Unable to speak, Cora merely nodded.

  By the gallows outside Tyburn village a carnival atmosphere existed. There were all manner of street vendors hawking their wares: food, drink, trinkets. Entertainers, doomsday preachers, pick-pockets and beggars mingled with the spectators, and the noise from the crowd, the shrillness of the cries and the howls, was a feverish jangling sound. Cora witnessed no emotion suitable to the occasion. No sorrow or seriousness, only ribaldry, debauchery and drunkenness.

  Hanging days were public holidays, and the enterprising villagers had wasted no time in erecting spectator stands around the hanging tree and extracting an extortionate fee for a seat. On a rare occasion the spectators stands collapsed, killing and maiming hundreds of people, but today they looked quite sturdy.
<
br />   Cora squeezed through the crowds to get as close to George as she could. She had promised him that she would be the last person he would see, and she intended to keep that promise even if it meant attracting stares and sneering comments about pushing in and not keeping her place.

  Finally she managed to get close to George’s ox-cart.

  ‘There you are!’ he said and his face lit up. ‘I couldn’t see you. Thought I’d lost you.’

  ‘I said I’d be here, and so I am.’ Cora lifted her veil so he could see her face.

  ‘My dear. This is no place for you.’

  ‘It’s exactly the place for me,’ she replied firmly despite her unsettled stomach, ‘and this is where I’m staying.’

  The Ordinary was reading a prayer, and despite the noise from the crowd his voice carried loud and clear on the summer breeze.

  ‘I am the resurrection and the life,’ he recited. ‘He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.’

  Cora wasn’t listening; her eyes were on the hangman, who was fastening the nooses to the Triple Tree: three wooden posts set out in a triangle, with crossbars running between them. All the prisoners would be hanged at the same time, and the hangman was moving steadily closer to George. Cora’s chest ached so hard she could only gasp.

  ‘Uncle George …’

  ‘You’d think today was your hanging, not mine.’ Chuckling, he beckoned her closer and Cora clambered up on the cart. ‘I pray you won’t share the same fate as me. But just to be on the safe side, I’ll put in a good word for you with Him upstairs, shall I?’

  Smiling through tears, Cora hugged him. It was so like George to jest in the last moments of his life.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ he said as the hangman fastened the rope above him. ‘Pray that I go to the right place and not to eternal Hell and damnation.’

  ‘You won’t,’ she whispered. ‘You’re a good man. I’ll always remember you.’

  Testing that the noose was sound, the hangman glanced at Cora. ‘You’d best get yourself down, little lady, lest you get tangled with the cart.’ Of George he asked, not unkindly, ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’ George’s eyes bore into Cora’s. ‘Goodbye, my dear.’

  After that it seemed as if time had somehow slowed down. The ox-carts were driven away, and the six men suddenly dangled from their necks. Instinct took over, and each of them kicked out and bucked against their restraints, groaning and gagging. Even George, who had been so stoic only a moment before, looked to be panicking.

  Surrounded by the jeering crowds Cora watched the horrifying spectacle, unable to do anything, wishing it would stop. But she knew it could take a person as long as fifteen minutes to die. She had become separated from Martha, and without the older woman’s reassuring presence she stumbled towards George’s jerking body, not knowing if she had it in her to do what must be done.

  The hangman pre-empted her. ‘’Ere, let me.’ He stopped her with a strong arm, hoisted himself up George’s body and kneeled on the dangling man’s shoulders while holding on to the rope. With a gruesome, final rattle in his throat, George was gone, and Cora covered her face with her hands.

  How long she stood there, shaking with grief and terror, she couldn’t tell, but her misery was interrupted by a coarse voice.

  ‘That’s her! The Mardell girl. Get her!’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cora swung around and saw three burly men bearing down on her.

  ‘Get her!’ one of them shouted again.

  Wasting no time, Cora hoisted up her skirts and pushed through the throng. The three men dived into the crowd and did the same, but it was easier for one person to push through than for three, and this gave her a head start. She was under no illusion that she could outrun them and it seemed her only chance was to outwit them. If only she could reach Tyburn village, there would be plenty of places for her to hide.

  When she was clear of the other spectators, she ran as fast as she could. She had no idea who these men were, but they clearly knew who she was. But why were they after her? Because of Uncle George’s fabled treasure? Just as well she’d thought to arm herself. She felt for her pistol in the pocket of her dress. Her heart was beating so fast, she thought it might leave her ribcage altogether, and she felt nausea rise in her throat.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she checked to see if the men had caught up with her, and when she spied nothing, she dived into an alleyway. As she did so, her veil caught on a nail and was ripped off. She bolted down the alley, searching for a way out. There had to be a door, or a gate. Or at least a window she could climb through. Nothing.

  With frantic hands she searched the brickwork in case she’d overlooked something, a hole or a gap to squeeze through, but the walls were solid and unyielding. At the end of the alley stood an old beer barrel. Hoisting up her skirts, Cora climbed onto the barrel and try to pull herself up on to the roof of one of the houses, but the roof tiles were slippery with moss, and she fell back down.

  She heard a scuffing noise behind her and turned slowly, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. She was trapped, and the only way out was blocked by the three men. One of them, a bow-legged, swarthy man, was holding the black veil in his hand.

  ‘No way out, li’l lady,’ he said, as they advanced slowly, menacingly. ‘You’ll have to talk to us.’

  ‘What do you want?’ She pulled her pistol out of her pocket and tossed her head in challenge. The men stopped, uncertain. Then one of them produced a knife. Grinning from ear to ear and showing off a set of blackened teeth, he tossed it from one hand to the other and caught it deftly. ‘Ho, the lady’s armed. What d’you say, lads – reckon she’ll fire?’

  ‘I will,’ said Cora. She pointed the pistol at each of the men in turn, willing her hand not to tremble. She’d never fired on another person before.

  ‘We only want to talk to you about Gen’leman George’s treasure,’ Blacktooth said.

  ‘I don’t know anything about that.’ Cora took a step backwards as they advanced on her again. What was the matter with them? I’m pointing a pistol at them, for Heaven’s sake!

  ‘Aye, and William Pitt’s the king o’ England,’ Blacktooth said and spat a slimy string of tobacco juice on the ground. ‘We think you do.’

  Cora shuddered with revulsion. ‘I don’t know where you get your information, but you’re wrong. There is no treasure, and if you come any closer, I’ll shoot.’

  The men exchanged a quick look; then Bow-Legs laughed and pulled open his shirt, baring his chest. ‘Go on, then. Let’s see what yer made of.’

  Cora swallowed. This time her hand trembled visibly

  ‘No treasure?’ Bow-Legs smiled, but his eyes remained firmly on her pistol hand. ‘’Ear that, Jimbo? Reckon the lass is telling the truth?’

  Jim shook his head. He was a little younger than the other two, with greasy red hair and pimples on his cheeks. ‘I reckon not. George told me so hisself not long ago, and I reckon ’e’d know whether ’e had treasure or no.’

  ‘That was just the drink talking,’ said Cora. Panic mounted as she took another few steps backwards. ‘He liked his drink, and he liked telling stories.’

  ‘Don’t get clever with me, li’l lady,’ snarled Bow-Legs. ‘If Jim ’ere heard tell of treasure, I’ll take ’is word for it any day over the word of some harlot.’

  ‘Even if there was treasure, why would he tell me?’ asked Cora.

  ‘Because you’re Ned Mardell’s girl, and everyone knows ’e doted on you. We saw you kissing him and all. Lost him to the gallows? Poor lass, eh, but I reckon the three of us can make up for that.’

  Suddenly, fast as a snake Bow-Legs knocked the pistol out of her hand and pinned her against the wall, his foul breath so hot on her face she had to cover her nose with her hand. She knew very well what he had in mind, and the thought of the likes of him touching her was nauseating.

  ‘No, please, I beg you! George told me nothing. You must be
lieve me.’ And even if he had, she would never betray his trust to these men.

  ‘Well, maybe you do, maybe you don’t, but we’re gonna have a whole lot of fun finding out, aren’t we, fellas?’

  Jim and Blacktooth grinned.

  ‘And it starts right now,’ said Bow-Legs. Twisting the black veil in his hand, he flung it over her neck like a makeshift noose and pulled her close, as if to kiss her.

  Gagging, Cora acted on instinct and kneed him in the groin. He dropped to the ground like a felled tree, groaning. Before the others had time to react, Cora elbowed Blacktooth in the eye. Howling, he clutched his face, and Cora kicked him on the shin, then swung to face Jim.

  Jim was faster. He caught her by the wrist, twisted her arm up behind her, and slammed her head against the brick wall of the alleyway.

  Cora screamed with shock and pain. Then everything went black.

  Jack galloped through Tyburn village, his horse’s hooves kicking up a cloud of dust behind him. Frantically he looked for any sign of Cora, but saw no one except a boy loitering by a horse trough.

  ‘You there! Did you see a lady in a yellow dress come this way?’

  The boy pointed to an ale house across the street. ‘Yes, m’lord. She went down that way. Chased by three men, she were. Didn’t look too friendly.’

  He surged forward with only one thought. Cora was in danger. He’d come to the hanging hoping that she might be there, showing support for another member of her highwayman fraternity. But no sooner as he’d spotted her in the crowd, she’d turned on her heels and run, followed by three burly men.

  Jack spurred his horse in the direction the boy was pointing, and unsheathed his rapier. His blood ran cold when he saw Cora lying on the ground in a heap of yellow silk with her black curls spilling out over the dirt. Three men were standing over her; they must have been debating amongst themselves what to do next and didn’t notice him at first.

  Raising his rapier, Jack spurred his horse forward and bore down on them. At the sound of the horse’s hooves, they turned and Jack saw their eyes widen as they recoiled. Unkempt and unwashed, these men were mere ruffians, and whilst it was easy enough attacking a woman, an armed man on a horse was quite a different matter.