Rebeccah and the Highwayman

by Barbara Davies

  REBECCAH AND THE HIGHWAYMAN By Barbara Davies

  ***********************************************************

  Part 1

  A MEETING ON SHOOTER’S HILL

  Chapter 1

  “Turn around,” said the Ordinary of Newgate, shouting to make himself heard above the mob’s heckles and catcalls. Kate did so without reluctance - far better to look at those who had travelled miles to attend Tyburn’s Hanging Fair than the Triple Tree.

  Hawkers were selling snacks and gin, and pretty girls in white were distributing flowers and oranges from baskets. That group of keen-eyed men must be surgeons seeking specimens for dissection. As for that old woman doing a brisk trade in flimsy pamphlets…. Kate squinted and made out the title: ‘The Confessions of ‘Blue-Eyed Nick’, the female Highwayman.’ No doubt a luridly exaggerated account of her exploits. She curled her lip.

  “Here come your visitors.” The guards around the cart parted to let through a group of four. She blinked down at the familiar faces of her parents and brothers. “Say your farewells and be quick about it.” The Ordinary jumped down and went to talk to the hangman.

  “Kate.” Her father was gazing up at her, his expression sad. Beside him stood her mother, eyes bright with intelligence, the way they had been before grief and hardship fogged her wits.

  “Thank you both for coming,” managed Kate.

  “What, no word of welcome for me?” Her younger brother was still wearing the uniform he’d died in at Blenheim.

  “You are welcome indeed, Ralph.” The ragged wound in his temple made her wince. “Does it hurt?”

  He shook his head. “Not any more.”

  “And are you glad to see me too?” Eyes as blue as her own regarded her.

  “When am I ever not, Ned?”

  The ruggedly handsome face crinkled into a smile. “Bless you. Couldn’t miss a good hanging, could I? Especially when it’s my sister’s.”

  Yet it’s odd how I am the only one hanging today, thought Kate. For this cart is wide enough for eight.

  “We’ve come to say our farewells,” said her father, “haven’t we, Mother?” His wife nodded.

  “To give you a good send off,” said Ralph.

  “And provide a friendly face in the mob,” added Ned.

  Their kindness humbled Kate. “Thank you.” She paused then said gruffly, “I’m sorry for … everything.”

  Her father sighed. “Too late for that, I fear.”

  Ashamed, she ducked her head, and when she looked up again, it was to see the Ordinary coming towards her, shouting, “Hurry along now. The time for farewells is over.” He scrambled up onto the cart.

  Kate watched with blurred vision as her family were escorted to the edge of the crowd, and scanned the people standing either side of them. A familiar face stopped her in her tracks.

  Philip Wildey!

  “You may give your speech now,” said the Ordinary in her ear.

  Ignoring the prison chaplain, she glared at the handsome figure in the expensive clothes and brand new wig. He gave her a mocking smile, and doffed his hat. Rage bubbled up inside Kate and her hands balled into fists before she remembered - Wildey was dead. The shot from her own pistol had taken his life.

  “Your speech,” repeated the Ordinary, impatience seeping into his voice.

  She glanced at him. “I have none.”

  His cheeks flushed with annoyance. “You had plenty of time! To the nub of things then.” He jumped down and signalled.

  The hangman secured the other end of the halter looped round her neck to the massive beam above her. He hopped up onto the cart and came towards her, a blindfold in his left hand.

  “Take a last look,” he advised.

  She tried to fix her family’s faces in her mind. Her father and brothers’ eyes were glistening, and her mother was holding a handkerchief to her nose.

  “Goodbye,” mouthed Kate. Then the blindfold stole the view, leaving her feeling alone and vulnerable.

  “Get on with it. We haven’t got all day!” yelled someone in the crowd, triggering laughter. Nearby, the Ordinary had begun to pray loudly for ‘this wretched sinner’, and above her a crow cawed.

  The cart rocked, and she knew that the hangman had stepped out of it. She tried to still the trembling that had overtaken her. Then a whip cracked, and a horse whinnied, and a great yell went up from the crowd as the cart lurched forward.

  Kate would have gone with it, but for the noose around her neck….

  Kate woke with a gasp, and sat up. Her heart was threatening to pound its way out of her chest. She took in the familiar surroundings with a sense of relief, and wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of one hand,

  “Are you well?” asked the red-haired woman lying next to her.

  “A bad dream, that’s all.” Already the nightmare of Tyburn was fading. “Remind me not to have oysters for supper again.”

  Alice wrinkled her nose and grinned. “It wasn’t the oysters made you sleepy.”

  Kate laughed, leaned over, and pressed a kiss against a soft cheek. “No indeed,” she said. “And very agreeable it was too. Thank you.”

  Before she had caught the widowed landlady’s eye, Kate had rented a room on one of the lower floors of the 4-storey tenement building in Covent Garden. The room was cheap; it was also cramped and dark (Alice’s husband had bricked up one of the windows to save on tax). And as for ‘fully furnished’, it boasted only a couple of benches, a table that wobbled, and a straw mattress placed directly on the floorboards. Sharing Alice’s rooms on the top floor was a marked improvement, as was sharing her soft bed and even softer favours. And to cap it all, Kate still paid the same rent.

  Her satisfied chuckle made Alice raise an eyebrow, then she rolled out of bed and crossed to the sash window raised to allow cool air into the August-hot room. Dusk was falling at last.

  “Are you working tonight?” came Alice’s voice as Kate assessed the hour and the weather.

  She stretched then nodded. “It’s a fine dry night for it.” She returned to the bed, stooped and pulled out the chamberpot.

  While Kate relieved herself, Alice slipped into her robe and went through to the other room. She returned clutching some scraps of paper.

  “For you.” She put them on the table next to the basin. Kate grunted her thanks, finished wiping her armpits with a flannel, and dried her hands.

  While Alice used the chamberpot, Kate sorted through the notes her hired informants had slipped under Alice’s front door while she was otherwise engaged. Most of the almost illegible scrawls she discarded instantly. The one from Edmund Speke at the Bull Inn posthouse on the London to Dover road was promising except that she had left it too late. She tapped it with her fingernail and pursed her lips.

  “A likely prospect?” Alice covered the chamberpot with a cloth and shoved it back under the bed.

  Kate reached for the shirt she had draped over a chair back. “Would have been. According to Speke, a passenger on the Canterbury stage had two bags of gold with him.” She shrugged and finished buttoning then reached for her waistcoat, hose, and knee breeches. “Still, Shooter’s Hill is not a bad idea. Haven’t been there for a while.”

  Alice’s brows drew together. “You will be careful, won’t you? I’d hate to see that handsome neck of yours stretched.”

  “As would I,” agreed Kate with a smile.

  She tied her cravat and went hunting for her boots. One was under the bed where she had flung it earlier. With a grunt of effort she tugged them on. While she shrugged into her coat, slipped her baldric over her head and settled the sword at her hip, her landlady set about dressing.

  “Help me with these,” ordered A
lice, indicating her stays.

  Kate complied, then watched appreciatively as the older woman stepped into her stockings and petticoats and pulled on the green silk mantua Kate had bought her last week. It complemented her red hair, and Kate told her so. Alice dimpled and blew her a kiss.

  She glanced out the window once more. Night had fallen in earnest. She had better get going. Slinging her saddlebags over one shoulder, she grabbed the tricorne from its hook, and settled it on her head. Alice followed her through to the other room without speaking.

  As she reached for the front door knob, Kate was already preoccupied working out the route she must take if she were to avoid the night watchmen that patrolled the streets of London. The Charleys were frequently old and decrepit, but why take any chances?

  She was half way down the first flight of stairs when it occurred to her that she had forgotten something. Pausing, she peered back up to where Alice was standing silhouetted in the open doorway, watching her.

  “Later, my dear,” she called, raising a hand in farewell.

  “Take care,” came the soft reply.

  Clover flicked her ears forward, nudged Kate in the chest, and nickered a greeting.

  “Miss me, did you?” Kate brushed away the oats the mare had deposited on her waistcoat and patted her neck. From the sleek look of her, she had been recently curried.

  She glanced round and saw a stableboy in a dirty apron lurking close by, his attention split between Kate and his pitchfork.

  “Tom,” she called, digging her hand in her coat pocket and pulling out what felt like a crown. “Catch.”

  He dropped the pitchfork and snatched the spinning coin out of the air. A grin split his grubby face as he saw what it was worth.

  “That’s for taking such good care of my horse.”

  With a shy grin, he tucked the five shillings into his pocket, retrieved his pitchfork and resumed tossing straw into an empty stall.

  It was no wonder Clover was a favourite with the boy, thought Kate. She was a goodnatured beast though she had her moments of mischief. The other stalls were occupied either with temperamental thoroughbreds, whose owners had come up to town for the season, or nags wearing themselves out pulling Hackney carriages.

  “Let’s get you tacked up,” she told Clover, who nodded as if in agreement.

  Kate fetched the heavy saddle from its place in the corner of the stall and settled it on the mare’s back. As she tightened the girth, Clover tried to eat her cravat and then her cuff, and settled for lipping her ear.

  “Not enough exercise, that’s your problem,” chided Kate, wiping slobber from her ear with a grimace. “We’re going to remedy that.”

  She threw the saddlebags over Clover’s neck, took out the brace of pistols, checked they were loaded, and put them back. Then she climbed into the saddle and with a light touch on the reins and soft press of the knee, urged the mare into motion.

  As they passed Tom he raised a hand in farewell, and called, “Good luck.” Kate had never told him her occupation, but he had almost certainly guessed. His discretion was another reason why she paid him well. She returned his wave with a smile, then horse and rider emerged into the night air….

  It took Kate a while to reach the outskirts of the city because of her circumspect route. It was a relief finally to join the London to Dover road, deserted after dark, and to let Clover break into a gallop.

  As they sped through the night, dwellings became fewer, and cultivated fields changed to patches of heathland. Kate took off her hat, the better to feel the breeze in her hair, but redonned it when she reached Blackheath.

  In daylight, the soil and vegetation of the heath were darker that that of its surroundings, hence the name. But at night everything was black, except to the north where the waters of the Thames reflected the gibbous moon.

  Slowing Clover to a canter, then a trot, Kate urged the mare off the highway and towards a favourite copse near the base of Shooter’s Hill. There, she dismounted and let Clover crop leaves and a clump of grass.

  Kate pulled her mask and kerchief from her saddlebags and put them on, leaving the kerchief loose around her neck for now. She pulled out the brace of pistols and stuck them in the waistband of her breeches, then flipped open the lid of her pocketwatch and squinted. Almost ten o’clock.

  In her saddlebags were her clay pipe and a tobacco pouch filled with her favourite Mild Virginia. She found them and sat on a log, smoking contentedly, though the fragrant curl of sweet-scented smoke drew a nicker of protest from Clover. When the pipe was finished, she pondered whether to fill herself another one, but instead hummed folk songs and tried to identify the constellations.

  She was beginning to think that everyone was abed and that this was a wasted journey when the hooting of an owl and bark of a fox were followed by a faint rumbling. Ironbound wheels on the highway? Kate squinted dark-adapted eyes and stood up. Surely that was the glimmer of carriage lights?

  “Aha!”

  She pulled the kerchief up over her nose and mouth, retrieved Clover, and mounted up. As the vehicle drew nearer, it became clear that it was a private carriage - a coach and four with a footman clinging precariously to the back.

  “What do you say, Clover? Should Blue-Eyed Nick see what valuables they’re carrying?” The mare pawed the ground, and Kate laughed and patted her neck. “You’re as impatient as I am, aren’t you? Very well. Let’s go to work.”

  ***

  Rebeccah tried not to belch pickled onion. Having something to eat at the last stop had been a mistake. At the time her grumbling stomach, without sustenance since breakfast, had seemed pathetically grateful for the ploughman’s lunch and cup of small beer provided by the shabby coaching inn, but now ….

  She pressed her handkerchief to her lips and stifled a groan. It didn’t help that she had a headache, and that Anne would keep prattling on about nothing in particular. Right now she was boasting of the admirers she had attracted while in Chatham, and speculating how jealous her two London suitors would be. Which led on to how much they must have missed Anne, and what they would be willing to do to prove themselves worthy of her hand.

  Rebeccah ground her teeth. Since it was plain to anyone with the least ounce of sense that her sister cared neither for Rupert Filmer nor Frederick Ingrum (in fact she doubted if her sistercould care for anyone except herself) she wished Anne would just toss a coin and get the decision over with. It wasn’t as if either man were after her for her sweet nature, after all. Once Anne married, her husband would own her and all she brought with her - in this case their father’s lucrative business and much of his fortune.

  I will never marry except for love, resolved Rebeccah. As if that is likely! She gave an inward sigh. You know very well most men ignore you when they learn how small your portion is. A familiar stab of resentment flared, and she clamped down on it. Papa said it was for the best, she reminded herself. In order to keep his business in one piece…. Ah, but was it best for Mama, Anne, and I?

  The carriage jolted and lurched, and Rebeccah shifted in her seat. Carriages were fine for short trips around London, but the terrible state of the highways made long journeys an ordeal. Rebeccah’s maid threw her a sympathetic smile. Anne was too busy talking to notice her sister’s discomfort, and their mother was staring out at the stars - it was a remarkably clear night and she had drawn back the curtain.

  Mary had been the obvious choice to accompany them to Chatham. Though she was dumpy and rather plain looking, she was competent and reliable (though she did have a distressing tendency to speak her mind) and had been with the Dutton family the longest of all three maids. The choice of footman had been less straightforward. Rebeccah would have preferred Will to come with them, but they had a lot of luggage and his back had been plaguing him. So when Anne suggested the recently hired Titus, who was younger and stronger (and also, as Anne was fond of pointing out, more handsome), and their mother had voiced no objection, Rebeccah had reluctantly agreed.

  T
itus hadn’t done anything to make Rebeccah dislike him. Indeed, he had done everything required of him and more while at Chatham. But though his sheep-eyed adoration of her sister might endear him to Anne, it made Rebeccah uneasy. At least he wasn’t travelling inside the carriage with them. Armed with the flintlock pistol provided by his employers, he was keeping a sharp eye out for highwaymen and footpads.

  That thought made her raise the curtain beside her and peer out into the darkness. They were crossing Blackheath she saw with some trepidation. Robert, the coachman, always carried a blunderbuss with him, but still …

  “Not long now, Beccah,” said her mother with a smile. “It was nice to stay with your Uncle Andrew and see your cousins, but it is nicer still to be going back to one’s own home, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Had it not been for the carriage’s rear wheel, which a rock had splintered beyond mending, they should have been home three hours ago. But it had taken the coachman longer to locate and fit a replacement than he had bargained on. When Rebeccah realised they would not be home until well after dark she suggested stopping at a coaching inn for the night. But inns were not the most hygienic or comfortable of places, and both her mother and sister had voted for travelling on.

  She let the curtain fall, and willed the horses to go faster. To her astonishment, they did. “I beg your pardon!” The increased swaying and rocking motion had thrown her against her sister, who crossly shoved her aside.

  “What’s Robert playing at?” huffed Anne, straightening her dress.

  It was hard to tell above the clattering of the carriage wheels and the clipclopping of the horses’ hooves, but Rebeccah could have sworn she heard a shot. Her heart began to pound. Distant shouts were followed by the sound of a horse whinnying. The coach began to slow, then, from close by, came a loud bang.

  Robert’s blunderbuss?

  So suddenly it almost threw Rebeccah to the floor, the carriage stopped. From outside came the sound of cursing and scuffling.

  “Robbers!” Mary’s eyes were as round as saucers. “They’ll cut our throats.”