Rebeccah and the Highwayman

by Barbara Davies

  Rebeccah bent to examine the fallen rider, but the mare startled her by squealing and butting her hand away with its nose.

  “Hold, girl.” She held out a hand, palm up. “I’m not going to harm him.”

  Nostrils flared as the horse scented her, and large brown eyes regarded her from close quarters. After a moment, to Rebeccah’s relief, the mare nickered and backed a few paces.

  She bent and examined Blue-Eyed Nick’s left shoulder. The coat, waistcoat, and shirt beneath it were soaked with blood.

  “Is he dead?” asked Mary, who had recovered enough to join her mistress.

  “A swoon.” Rebeccah bit her lip. “So much blood!”

  “We must pack the wound.” The dumpy maid scanned their surroundings and pursed her lips. “I need moss.”

  Rebeccah gave her a doubtful look. “Out here, in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Ay, Madam. In fact we couldn’t have picked a better spot.”

  Mary’s mother had been a Cunning Woman, and she had learned country lore at her knee. The Duttons had quickly learned to entrust their health to their maid’s care before paying out good money to an apothecary or physician, whose treatments were often ineffective and sometimes fatal.

  But staunching Blue-Eyed Nick’s wound was one thing, leaving him swooning and vulnerable on the Heath quite another.

  “Help me get him into the carriage first.” ordered Rebeccah, grabbing the unconscious highwayman under the arms. Mary hesitated then took his feet.

  He was lighter than expected, but it still was hard work dragging him towards the carriage. The mare pawed the ground and followed them.

  “May we assist you, Madam?”

  The footman was limping towards them. Beside him staggered a dazed-looking coachman.

  “Robert!” squealed Mary, setting her burden down. “You’re alive.”

  The coachman grinned at her then winced and put a hand to the back of his head. “My head aches like Blazes. The whoreson clubbed me, Mary. ” He glanced at Rebeccah, “Begging your pardon, Madam.”

  “Granted.” Rebeccah frowned at the footman’s bloody thigh. “Should you be walking on that, Will?”

  “It looks worse than it is, Madam. The bleeding’s stopped though it stings a fair bit.” He jerked his head at the figure slumped at her feet. “He looks in a bad way, though. Never thought I’d be so glad to see him!”

  “Indeed, I believe he saved all our lives. And now it’s our turn to repay that debt,” said Rebeccah. “I’m taking him back to St. James’s Square.”

  “As you wish, Madam. Though won’t Mrs Dutton object?”

  “Only if she finds out.” Rebeccah flushed under the servants’ combined scrutiny. “She will be in bed with her megrim, so if we are careful, we should be able to carry him up to my room unobserved.”

  “Your room?” Mary looked shocked.

  Rebeccah rolled her eyes. “He’ll be too weak to make any attempt on my honour. Besides, where else can I put him so you may attend to his wound whenever you need to without raising suspicion?” She pre-empted Mary’s next question. “By the time Anne has returned, he will either be dead or well enough to make good his departure.” Pray God, it’s the latter.

  “Will you all give me your word not to betray his presence to anyone?” She held each of their gazes in turn.

  The three exchanged glances, then shrugged, and chorused, “Yes, Madam.”

  “Thank you,” Rebeccah’s shoulders sagged with relief.

  They manoeuvred the highwayman into the carriage. Then the two men went off to get the team of horses back into harness. Mary, meanwhile, grabbed a carriage lantern and went looking for some moss.

  Rebeccah gazed down at Blue-Eyed Nick, who was sprawled on his back on the seat, his knees drawn up so that his long legs would fit inside the carriage. A nicker from the doorway made her glance round.

  “He’s in good hands,” she told the mare. “Be patient. Mary will be back soon with some moss.” I’d better prepare him for her.

  She stripped off the highwayman’s mask and kerchief. He’ll be more comfortable without them… And besides, I want to see him. It was a handsome face, she decided, reaching out a hand. Smooth to the touch too, not like that brute’s bristly chin. Thoughts of what might have happened had this man not intervened made her heart race, and she took a few calming breaths before continuing.

  With difficulty, she eased Blue-Eyed Nick’s coat over his shoulders, followed by his waistcoat, then started unbuttoning his shirt. Beneath it, wrapped tightly around his chest several times, was a long narrow strip of coarse white cotton, now soaked with blood. She frowned and wondered if it were protection against the cold, though on a warm August night it seemed unlikely. With a shrug, she began to unwind it.

  From outside came a jingle of harnesses and murmur of voices. The carriage jerked forward a yard then came to rest. Then it dipped as Mary climbed aboard, her arms full of moss.

  “Found some.”

  The last of the cotton strip came free, and Rebeccah’s startled intake of breath attracted Mary’s attention.

  “Bless me, now I’ve seen everything!” murmured the maid, peering round Rebeccah at the shapely breasts now revealed. After a moment she chuckled. “Well, well.” She tried to ease past Rebeccah, who was frozen with shock. “Excuse me, Madam. But I’ll need to get closer if I’m to treat her.”

  Her.

  “I beg your pardon.” A still disconcerted Rebeccah stood back so that Mary could examine the wound, tut that the shot had not passed cleanly through but was still lodged inside, and begin to pack it with moss.

  The woman beneath Mary’s capable fingers shifted and moaned, and Rebeccah winced and turned away, just in time to see Will’s face in the doorway. Instinct made her block his view of the half-naked highwayman … I mean highwaywoman. She cleared her throat and hoped she didn’t look flushed.

  “How are you progressing?”

  “The horses are hitched and ready when you are, Madam.”

  “Good. There’s something else I need you to do.” She remembered his wound and bit her lip. “But only if you think you are well enough.”

  Will asked gamely, “What is it, Madam?”

  “Drape the bodies of the dead highwaymen over their horses’ saddles, and take them to Putney. … I’m afraid you’ll have to ride Blue-Eyed Nick’s mount.”

  He looked askance at the black mare, who gave him a distrustful glance in return. “As you wish, Madam.”

  “Tell the Beadle we were attacked … but make sure not to mention Blue-Eyed Nick.” Rebeccah pursed her lips and thought. “You and Robert killed the rogues while defending our lives and our honour. Your wound will reinforce your claim.”

  The footman nodded.

  “While you’re there, ask for directions to a reputable apothecary. Get him to treat your thigh and send the bill to me.”

  Will smiled. “Thank you, Madam.”

  “Then return home to St James’s Square. … You can stable Nick’s horse in the Mews with our coach horses. That’s all, I think.”

  “Very good, Madam.” Will limped off to gather the first of the bodies.

  A groan from behind followed by Mary’s protest made Rebeccah turn. The highwaywoman’s eyes were open, and she had pushed herself up on one elbow and twisted to face Rebeccah. Her skin was ashen, and there was a glaze to the pale eyes that Rebeccah didn’t like the look of.

  “Lie still,” ordered Mary. “Do you want to make the bleeding worse?”

  “Your footman won’t be able to … Clover.” The injured woman slumped back, her eyes closing.

  Mary and Rebeccah exchanged a puzzled glance, then Rebeccah had a flash of intuition. She leaned forward. “Is Clover your horse?”

  Eyelids cracked open then came a hoarse, “Yes.”

  “Are you saying my footman won’t be able to ride her?”

  “Unless … whistle.”

  “Pardon?”

  At the second attempt, the hi
ghwaywoman managed a whistle - two notes at an oddly discordant interval. Rebeccah mimicked it. From outside came a nicker, and the mare’s nose poked inside the carriage.

  Rebeccah clapped her hands. The ghost of a smile curved the highwaywoman’s lips then her eyelids fluttered closed, and a cross Mary pronounced her in a swoon once more.

  “I beg your pardon, Mary,” said a contrite Rebeccah. “But it was necessary if Will is to ride her horse.”

  Already, Will had got the highwaymen’s bodies slung over their saddles, and tied the three mounts together so they could be led. She called him over and told him about the whistle, then demonstrated. The footman’s dubious look changed to one of relief when, after using the whistle and calling her by name, he was able to mount Clover.

  As Will led the train of three horses and their macabre burdens off towards Putney, Rebeccah took a last look at her surroundings and decided she had done all she could. She shut the carriage door and banged her fist twice on the roof.

  “Take us home, Robert,” she called. “As quick as you can.”

  ***

  The ground felt springy beneath Kate’s boot heels. She paused and frowned down at the turf. Why am I on foot? Turning full circle, she scanned the vaguely familiar surroundings for signs of Clover but found none.

  Movement drew her attention to a clump of trees beside the highway. A rider had emerged and was heading towards her. Kate stared at the grey gelding with the white blaze on its forehead in confusion. Newton?

  She lifted her gaze to the rider, a girl from her slender build. Shock coursed through her as she took in the pale eyes behind the mask, the black hair tied at the nape of the neck, the masked eyes and kerchief over mouth and nose.

  Her world realigned itself. How old was I then - fifteen, sixteen?

  Neither the girl nor the gelding had noticed Kate. She stepped back, but had the impression that if she hadn’t they’d simply have ridden right through her without ill effect. Swivelling on one heel, she started after them.

  A shabby coach and four, lacking a footman, had appeared. As it rumbled along the highway, the girl rode to intercept it. A feeling of deja vu, so strong it gave Kate goose-pimples, overtook her. No wonder this place looked familiar.

  Hounslow Heath. It’s happening all over again!

  “Stop.” She sprinted after her younger self. “Don’t go through with it. It’s a trap.” But the rider gave no sign of hearing her shout, and instead drew her pistol and cocked it. Even if her sixteen-year-old self had heard the warning, she would probably have ignored it. Right now, Kate knew, the blood was pumping through the girl’s veins, and she was in a state of wild excitement. This was the first coach she had robbed alone.

  They had planned the ambush together, Kate and her mentor, Philip Wildey. Then at the last moment he had sprung his surprise. It was time for Kate to show what she could do alone, he had said with a smile. She’d been eager to prove herself to him, hoping to use the proceeds to pay for the gelding and brace of pistols he had lent her.

  “Little fool!” Kate balled her fists as the girl fired a warning shot then drew her second pistol.

  The coach was slowing even before the bellowed “Stand and Deliver.” That and the lack of a footman should have tipped her off that something wasn’t right. But under the kerchief, the girl was smiling, congratulating herself on how smoothly everything was going. And all the time….

  The carriage door opened and out spilled four dragoons, muskets at the ready.

  Kate could remember her shock, dismay, and incomprehension at this turn of events, as though it were yesterday. It had stunned her so badly it robbed her of any chance of flight.

  By the time her younger self recovered her wits, the soldiers had dragged her from her horse and thrown her to the ground. Musket butts rose and fell, and boots kicked. Though it made her sick to her stomach, Kate forced herself to watch.

  When the beating stopped at last, the girl was like a rag doll. Two of the laughing soldiers tugged her to her feet, supporting her while another man, tall and handsome and from his dress not a dragoon, stepped down from the coach. He stopped directly in front of the girl and gave her a mocking smile.

  “Whoreson,” shouted Kate, but no one heard her.

  Wildey untied the blue silk kerchief that had been his present to the girl and was now bloodspattered, and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he blew her a kiss and turned his back. She spat at him and screamed and cursed until one of the soldiers backhanded her across the face.

  A dragoon handed Wildey the discharged pistols and Newton’s reins. He nodded, tucked the weapons in a saddle bag and mounted up. At a stroke the treacherous highwayman had earned himself the horse, its tack, the pistols, ?40 reward, and a pardon for his own crimes. She had found out later she wasn’t the first naive youngster he’d groomed then turned in.

  As he rode off, the soldiers bound the lolling girl and bundled her inside the coach. Kate watched it trundle away, massaging her left shoulder, which had begun to throb. Hounslow Heath had taught her a severe lesson she had been lucky to survive, she mused. The throbbing intensified.

  “It’s nestling against the bone,” said a woman’s voice. Kate looked round in startlement but could see no one. “Tsk! I can’t quite -“

  Pain lanced through her, and she stumbled and fell to her knees, clutching her shoulder and wondering what on earth was happening to her.

  “You’re hurting her!” came a second voice that she was sure she had heard before somewhere.

  “Almost there, Madam. Almost …”

  “Argh!” Kate curled around the white hot agony that was her shoulder, trying not to vomit. Her eyes watered, and it was hard to breathe.

  “Almost … Got it. … Would you look at that? Nasty -“

  Then blackness overtook her.

  It was the smell that hit Kate first - the stink of unwashed bodies, damp straw, and corruption. She waited for her pupils to adjust to the gloom - the barred window on the far side of the vast room let in hardly any daylight - her heart sinking as the familiar surroundings became clear.

  The Common Ward. She felt the beginnings of a headache. Maybe I imagined finding that nail, and all these years have been a dream.

  Certainly the faces were familiar. That gangling boy pissing into a chamber pot in one corner was Dick Lemon, and wasn’t that old man with a face like a walnut Ben Field?

  “… read it to her?”

  The question was barely audible above the talk, laughter, obscenities, sobbing, and lunatic howling. In time Kate would be able to tune out the clamour, but for now ….

  “Pardon?” She turned to look at the questioner, a middle-aged woman in a stained green dress, a fading letter T branded on her left cheek. Her mind supplied a name. Hannah Kneebone.

  “I said Lizzy Blake’s had a letter. Will you read it to her?”

  Memory returned. Life in Newgate, if you could call it that, was expensive. Blankets, candles, soap, cooked food, lighter fetters (or even none at all) - everything cost money. There was even a departure fee, if you were lucky enough to survive your stay. But little of the cash a prisoner arrived with escaped the Keeper’s ‘garnish’, so another source of income was vital. Since Kate was one of the few who could read and write ….

  “Has she a penny?” Hannah nodded. “Then I’ll read it to her.”

  Kate stood up and made her way across the room towards the big-bellied young woman in the shabby dress, shuffling as fast as her ankle fetters would let her, stepping over chamber pots, elbowing ribs and kicking shins, returning greetings and ignoring obscene suggestions as she went.

  One man glared before moving aside. She hadn’t endeared herself to the male prisoners here. When her gender had first been revealed, some had offered to do Kate the ‘favour’ they had done Lizzy Blake - until her baby was born, the girl would be safe from hanging. The offers were premature, to say the least. Kate had yet to be sentenced, and since it was her first offence, it was by no means cer
tain she would hang. Had the ‘neck verse’ not been restricted to males who could read, she might have opted for Benefit of Clergy. As it was, there was still the possibility the judge might sentence her to branding or transportation rather than the noose. But should it come to hanging, she would rather opt for a quick death than endure pregnancy and childbirth overshadowed by the gallows. Besides, what about the child? Was it fair to leave it motherless? Kate thought not, and said as much. It hadn’t stopped her harassers from leering and pawing her though. In the end she had given one a black eye and kneed another in the stones so hard he was pissing blood for a week. After that they had left her alone.

  Lizzy’s face lit up as Kate settled on the straw next to her and held out a hand. Penny deposited safely in her breeches pocket, Kate accepted the crumpled letter, and held a stub of candle close to the almost illegible scrawl.

  It was from Lizzy’s parents, full of reproaches and pious platitudes about atoning for her sins and making her peace with the Almighty. There was no mention of the baby. By the letter’s end her pretty face was ugly with crying, nose dripping, eyes red.

  Unfeeling brutes. Kate pulled out the penny. “Here.” She pressed it into Lizzy’s palm and folded her fingers round it.

  “But -” The girl’s gaze was confused.

  “Just take it before I change my mind.” Kate stood and made her way back. She felt drained and slightly nauseous, and ached all over.

  “Why’s Lizzy staring at you like that?” asked Hannah.

  Kate gave a weary shrug and sat down on the hard wooden shelf that was her bed. “My head aches like the Devil.” Her surroundings seemed to be wavering, like a heat haze rising off stone on a hot July day. She frowned.

  “You look a bit flushed,” commented Hannah.

  Kate grunted, swung her legs up and onto the bed, then stretched out and pulled the threadbare blanket over herself.

  The other woman reached over and pressed the back of her hand to Kate’s forehead then drew it back like a scalded cat. Wiping her hand on her dress, she edged away. The words ‘Gaol Fever’ hung unspoken in the air between them, but Kate was too tired to panic.