Rebeccah and the Highwayman

by Barbara Davies

  Seeing the highwaywoman accepting her fate so meekly sent a pang through Rebeccah. If it weren’t for me ….

  Once the tall figure was safely shackled, the tension in the room eased perceptibly.

  “Told you Blue-Eyed Nick’s reputation was overrated,” said Josselin, looking at his men with an air of triumph. “Let’s get her to Newgate, where she belongs. Bring her.”

  He turned and strode towards the door, then paused and looked back at Rebeccah. “Shall I tell your sister the good news, Madam, or will you?”

  For a moment she didn’t know what he was talking about. Then it clicked. Anne hired him to capture Kate. He has completed his task.

  She strove for dignity. “My sister is indisposed at present. I will tell her.”

  “As you wish.” He nodded and disappeared from the room.

  “Come on, you. Get moving,” said someone.

  “Oof!”

  It was Kate’s voice, and Rebeccah turned and saw a club had thumped into Kate’s kidneys, forcing her forward. “There’s no need for that!”

  The owner of the club sneered at Rebeccah, but he didn’t use it again. Kate smiled her thanks as she let herself be escorted from the bedchamber. Frozen by misery and helplessness, Rebeccah stood on the landing, watching them descend, then, she followed.

  Her mother and the servants were waiting in the hallway, white-faced but unharmed. A mute Mrs Dutton held out a hand to her daughter, and Rebeccah hurried to her side and clasped it. Together they followed the prisoner and her escort outside. A cheer went up from the watchers when they emerged into the square, where a cart now waited, its horse looking bored.

  “They’ve caught Blue-Eyed Nick,” yelled someone, and the news spread rapidly through the knots of onlookers gathered there.

  Kate halted by the cart, and glanced back to those waiting on the front step. Rebeccah raised a hand. Kate nodded, her gaze understanding.

  Josselin drew one of his men to one side and spoke to him. The man nodded then turned and strode towards Kate, grinning and smacking his club into his palm. Kate said something sharp and tried to back away from him, but the cart blocked her path. The man raised his club and brought it down.

  “No!” screamed Rebeccah, as Kate crumpled under the vicious blow to her head. Only her mother’s grip prevented her from running to Kate’s side.

  “You cannot help him now, Beccah,” said Mrs Dutton, her voice sharp. “Come away. Your sister needs you.”

  She watched Josselin’s men throw the limp highwaywoman into the cart, as though she were a sack of potatoes, then turned on her mother. “Why should I care what happens to Anne?” She was trembling with fury. “After what she’s done to Kate?”

  “‘Kate’?” Her mother looked at sea. Then she gave Rebeccah a little shake. “Tsk, Beccah. You are upset, so I will make allowances for your unkindness to your sister. I said only that we cannot help your friend now. If we put our heads together it should not be beyond us to find some way to help later. Now come inside. The neighbours are staring.”

  Later.

  Still trembling, Rebeccah allowed herself to be ushered indoors.

  ***

  Chapter 3

  The day was overcast, but after the gloom of Newgate the light was still dazzling. Kate halted to let her eyes adjust. A stave thwacked against her back.

  “Move along, Milledge,” ordered Simpkins. “Haven’t got all day.”

  “Should have let me out of these leg irons then.”

  Kate shuffled forward, taking an appreciative breath of fresh air as she did so, before noticing that most of those present in the Session House had nosegays pressed to their noses. The perception of fresh air was relative, it seemed. Or perhaps it was just that the prisoners stank. She grimaced down at the stained shirt and breeches she had been wearing since she was caught three days ago.

  As she took her seat on one of the prisoners’ benches, she glanced round the covered outdoor court. The Old Bailey had been half-empty yesterday, at her arraignment, when she had heard the charges against her and with tongue firmly in cheek pleaded ‘not guilty’. Today it was full. But trial proceedings always attracted a larger audience, especially when highwaymen were involved.

  “All rise for the Queen’s Justice,” cried a court official, and everyone got raggedly to their feet as a corpulent man in a full wig and black robes arrived and took his seat.

  “That’s Judge Turnley,” muttered John Figg, who was sitting two along from Kate. “He don’t like snafflers.” The coin-clipper glanced at her. “‘Specially the female variety.”

  “Quiet!” Simpkins shot Figg an annoyed glance.

  Kate shrugged and, when everyone else sat, resumed her seat. The charges against her were so serious that it would make little difference who the judge was.

  Turnley began to speak. While he droned self-importantly on about the solemn duties and responsibilities of citizens in general and jurors in particular, Kate let her gaze drift round the Session House, over the twelve jurymen, yawning and picking their noses, the correspondent of the Post Man, whose pencil was at present motionless, and the gloating figure of Samuel Josselin. She curled her lip at the thieftaker, whose smile broadened.

  The spectator’s gallery was packed. She scanned the crowded rows, stopping with a jerk. Rebeccah!

  The young gentlewoman was sitting in the second row, next to her mother, her fair head bowed. There was no sign of the young man who had escorted her in St James’s Park. What kind of a suitor is he, not to lend her his support in such circumstances? As if she could sense Kate’s regard, Rebeccah raised her head and their gazes locked. Green eyes widened and Kate wondered if Rebeccah’s heart was pounding as hard as hers, and if her own lips had curved into a smile.

  She felt honoured and humbled that Rebeccah had come to see the trial. A felon like Kate did not deserve such consideration. But whether the young woman’s presence in the Session House this morning was a good thing or a bad was debatable. The charges of highway robbery laid against Kate could surely come as no surprise to Rebeccah, but one other charge would: murder. Josselin had done his homework, Devil take him!

  Afraid it might tarnish your image as her knight in shining armour? taunted an inner voice. That she will see you as you really are?

  I’m not that person any more. She must know that, mustn’t she?

  Must she? How well do you two really know each other? Kate studied her clasped hands. It doesn’t matter which version of you killed him anyway, continued her taunter. They’re bothgoing to hang.

  She shifted on the hard bench and the woman sitting next to her grumbled.

  Anyway wouldn’t it be better for Rebeccah if she despised you? She wouldn’t have to grieve for you, then. You’re just being selfish.

  The truth of that stung. But perhaps Rebeccah would find comfort for her grief in the arms of her suitor…

  Movement brought her back to her surroundings. Rebeccah had cupped a palm to the top of her head, and was frowning in query. Kate mirrored the action, fingering the egg-sized lump. The swelling was reduced but it was still a little tender; thankfully the blinding headaches had gone. She removed her hand and gave a reassuring smile. Rebeccah’s frown eased.

  “Bedded ‘er yet?”

  The low-voice drew Kate’s attention to the woman sitting next to her. “What?”

  “‘Er.” Deb Wordwand nodded at Rebeccah.

  “Mind your own business.”

  There had been little else to do in the Hold except gossip. Word that ‘Blue-Eyed Nick’ preferred women had spread quickly and been met with indifference, disgust, or, as in Deb’s case, prurience.

  Deb chuckled. “That means you ain’t.” She scratched her broken nose. “They say you never regret the things you ‘ave done, only those you ain’t.”

  “I don’t give a fart what they say.”

  “Quiet!” hissed the turnkey.

  At least I’m only facing hanging, thought Kate. Until Deb’s drunken husband
took to beating her black and blue, she had been quite pretty. In the end she’d had enough of his abuse. But stabbing him to death would probably get her burned at the stake, though at least these days the executioner throttled you first with a cord.

  The Queen’s Justice wound up his preamble, adjusted his wig, and said, “Call the first prisoner, please.”

  An usher glanced at a slip of paper, cleared his throat, and shouted, “The court calls Judith Ferren to the dock.”

  At the turnkey’s urging, a middle-aged woman in a shabby brown dress rose from the prisoners’ bench, shuffled over to the dock and stood there, head bowed.

  Kate already knew the charges against most of her fellow prisoners and listened with one ear while keeping her eyes on Rebeccah.

  The court heard that the accused specialised in the ‘question lay’. Dressed as a milliner, she would call on persons of quality on the pretext of having brought ‘something for the lady of the house’ - gloves and fans were the usual bait for Judith’s trap. Then while the maid went to fetch her mistress, she robbed the unwatched parlour and made her getaway. Her final haul, from a house in Soho Square, had been plate worth ?50.

  It was a straightforward case. The witnesses were educated, reliable, and to the point, and the jury came to its verdict quickly: Guilty. Judith Ferren’s shoulders sagged, and the turnkey had to help her back to the bench. Sentence would be passed on her tomorrow, when the Queen’s Justice would pronounce his judgement on them all in ascending order of severity.

  One by one the prisoners rose and took their places in the dock, heard the indictments against them and the testimony of witnesses both for and against, and if inclined, argued in their own defence. The jury deliberated quickly, sometimes taking mere minutes to reach a decision, then their foreman rose to give their verdict, his words sometimes drawing groans from the spectators, sometimes jeers and catcalls. Throughout, the correspondent of the Post Man licked his pencil stub and scribbled, his eyes brightening at every juicy titbit.

  Walter Ashwell was found not guilty of embezzling - since it was obvious to everyone that he had, he must have bribed the jury. The rest of the prisoners weren’t so fortunate. James Leaver was found ‘Guilty’ of attempted sodomy; if he was pilloried in Cheapside, he could expect near fatal injuries. Also guilty was John Figg; Phebe Woolley - the T branded on her cheek meant she could expect to hang this time; wart-afflicted Isaac Minshul, who was a surprisingly big man for a burglar; foul-mouthed footpad Jemmy Powell; blacksmith Dick Barnes, who had accidentally killed his young apprentice; and sixteen year old Ned Lando, whose theft of three shillings would see him flogged at the cart’s tail. As expected, Deb Wordwand was found guilty of petty treason.

  Then it was Kate’s turn.

  “I call Catherine Milledge,” called the usher, “otherwise known as the ‘Blue-Eyed Nick’ to the dock.”

  Here we go.

  A buzz went round the Session House at the highwayman’s name and the correspondent of the Post Man straightened in his seat, pencil poised. Kate stood up and shuffled her way over to the dock, leg-irons clanking. Aware that every eye was on her, including a pair of fine green eyes in the spectator’s gallery, she squared her shoulders and held her head high.

  “Before I read the list of indictments against the accused, ” said the corpulent Queen’s Justice, his expression grim, “let me state that, while the more ignorant among us may hold the view that highwaymen are romantic and dashing figures, I do not. They are no better than the other thieves that infest our cities and highways. Such ruffians are not ‘gentlemen of the road’ but leeches on society and deserving only of our deepest contempt. Like vermin, they must be exterminated.”

  His gaze swept round the court before returning to Kate. “As for this particular highwayman, ‘Blue-Eyed Nick’,” his lip curled, “why, the accused is not even a man, but a woman disguised as one! … What kind of a example does this set impressionable womenfolk?” Kate returned his glare with one of her own.

  “According to records, the accused escaped justice once before,” continued Turnley, addressing the jury. “She must not escape a second time.” The foreman nodded and the correspondent’s pencil scribbled.

  “The indictments against you, Catherine Milledge,” the judge turned back to Kate, “are many and serious. Twelve counts of highway robbery - more still could be laid at your door, I’m certain - and one of coldblooded murder.” The spectators gasped, and Kate fought an overwhelming urge to look at Rebeccah. Had her expression changed to one of horror and disgust?

  “Call the first witness.”

  A succession of those whose coaches she had robbed, and a few she hadn’t, took the witness stand - the Duttons had sent no one to testify against her, she saw with relief. For identification purposes, Kate was handed an eye mask and kerchief and told to put them on. Muttering, she did so. In each case, identification was almost instantaneous.

  “Yes, that is the person who robbed me of my diamond and amber necklace,” agreed the final witness, an old woman in a black-and-gold mantua, pointing at Kate. “I’d recognise those eyes anywhere.”

  The fat judge nodded. “Thank you. You may step down.” As the woman left the stand, the spectators took the opportunity to mutter, cough, and fidget.

  “Now to the final charge laid against the accused: that on the night of October 18th, in the year of our Lord 1694, she did murder Mr Philip Wildey.” The Queen’s Justice glanced at the usher. “Call the witness, if you please.”

  The usher checked his list of names. “Call Mary Dan,” he yelled. Moments passed then a middle-aged woman on crutches emerged from the crowd.

  Kate had not seen the whore since that night, twelve years ago, and time had not been kind. Mary Dan had been quite a beauty; now her ravaged face and crippled gait indicated, to Kate at least, that she was suffering from syphilis. Mary’s cheap dress reinforced the impression that she had fallen on hard times.

  “In your own words, Mistress Dan,” said Turnley, “what was your relationship to Philip Wildey.”

  “We were to be married, your honour.”

  The baldness of that lie made Kate blink. Wildey liked nothing more than a good fuck, as his many flashy women would testify - nothing could have been further from his mind than marriage. But maybe Mary had truly believed she would be the exception. Kate shifted her weight and folded her arms.

  “Then your loss was great indeed,” said Turnley. “Allow me to convey my sympathies. … Now, can you remember what happened on the night of his murder?”

  This should be interesting, thought Kate. For, to her certain knowledge, Mary had not been present when she killed Wildey.

  “Alas, your honour, my memory of that night is clear and will always remain so,” said Mary. “Would that it were otherwise. For I saw that … that animal,” she shot Kate a hate-filled glance, “torture him then kill him stone dead.”

  Has Josselin paid the whore to perjure herself?

  “Mistress Dan.” The Queen’s justice pursed his lips. “Consider your response to my next question carefully. Could it have been self-defence? Was Mr Wildey trying to kill the accused at the time?”

  “No, your honour. Philip’s hands were bound and he was unable to defend himself. Yet still she tortured him and shot him through the heart.”

  A ripple of disapproval spread round the Session House. Kate ignored it. Mary’s facts were essentially correct. I knew I should have buried the body.

  “And you saw it, you say?” Turnley’s eyes bored into the witness. “You saw the accused murder Philip Wildey?”

  Mary Dan held his gaze and lied through her teeth. “With my own eyes, your honour. I swear it on my life.”

  Flickering candlelight cast shadows on the bedchamber curtains. Kate grimaced. From the thrusting, bobbing shapes, her quarry was already hard at it.

  It had taken the seventeen-year-old Kate months to trace Philip Wildey’s whereabouts, months during which nightmares of Newgate brought her awake,
gasping, on far too many nights and the desire to get even made her guts churn. The churning intensified when she learned that she was far from the first to fall prey to Wildey’s smooth-tongued charm, to accept his loan of a horse and brace of pistols and be lured into a trap. Because of him eight young highwaymen - that she knew of; there were probably more - had been taken by dragoons and met their deaths on Tyburn Tree. And Kate had nearly been the ninth.

  She had finally succeeded in tracking him down though. These days Wildey went nowhere without his bodyguard - perhaps he sensed that he had made one too many enemies. But on Tuesday nights, he liked to spend between 10 and 11 of the clock at Mary Dan’s cottage. While Wildey was fucking his pretty whore, his moustachioed, overmuscled thug of a bodyguard, who carried his two pistols permanently cocked, had to wait on the front porch. It was the perfect opportunity and Kate intended to take full advantage of it.

  Gusts of wind were tearing leaves from branches and threatening to whip off Kate’s hat. It had begun to rain too. She settled her hat more firmly. Far from putting her off, the stormy Autumn weather suited her mood. Tonight she would pay Wildey back. And not a moment too soon.

  She pulled a knife from her coat pocket and snicked open the catch of Mary’s bedchamber window, which fortunately was on the ground floor. As she eased open the sash, the sound of pants, grunts, and a rhythmic creaking became audible.

  “You’re so large,” came a woman’s voice, husky with simulated passion. “I’ve never had a man as large as you.”

  Kate rolled her eyes - how could any cully believe such ridiculous flattery? - and eased herself over the windowsill, placing her booted feet with care so that the couple writhing on the bed remained unaware of her presence. The creaks grew faster.

  “Oh, oh, you’re such a stud!”