Rebeccah and the Highwayman

by Barbara Davies

  “Get on with it,” cried Wildey. “I’m almost there.”

  Kate took a deep breath. It’s now or never. Taking two quick steps past the discarded hat, wig, and coat on the floor, she leaned over, grabbed her victim’s ear and yanked back his head. Pressing her blade against his throat cut off his startled protest and made him freeze.

  “Why have you st -” Mary opened her eyes, saw the menacing masked figure, and gasped.

  “Scream and I’ll slit his throat,” growled Kate. “And what a mess that will make of your fine silk sheets.” The whore blinked up at her then closed her mouth.

  Kate moved back a step, forcing Wildey to disentangle himself from Mary and come with her. His breeches were round his ankles and he almost tripped. Kate steadied him, then glanced down. Not everything about him was stiff with fear.

  “Pull up your breeches. I have no wish to look at that all night.” His face flushed but he did as he was told. “Now put your hands behind your back.”

  She tied his wrists with a short piece of rope from her coat pocket, holding her knife between her teeth as she did so. Then she stuffed a kerchief in Wildey’s mouth and took a moment to admire the half-naked whore’s attributes.

  “Your turn.” She pulled out another length of rope, and an indignant Mary was soon bound and gagged.

  Kate turned back to Wildey. “Move.” She gestured with the knife towards the open sash window. He didn’t move, but a thump to his kidneys soon spurred him on his way and he cracked his head on the window frame as he climbed through. The rain was coming down in torrents now, and thunder rumbled overhead.

  Taking care to keep him out of the drenched bodyguard’s line of sight, she pushed her dazed prisoner towards the stand of trees where she had tethered her horse. Wildey twisted to glare at her, just as lightning streaked across the sky. Perhaps this was the first time he had got a good look at her. Whatever the reason, his eyes widened.

  “Yes, it’s me.” The kerchief hid her savage grin.

  He tripped and fell quite heavily. Fortunately, the ground was too soft to do him much damage. Kate dragged her now muddy captive to his feet and urged him on.

  The horse shied at the approaching figures, but a few words from Kate soon calmed it. She bound Wildey’s ankles, and heaved him over the horse’s withers, face down. It swished its tail in annoyance.

  “Sorry, boy.” She paused to get her breath back. “‘Tis just for a little while.” She rubbed the horse’s nose. “Then we’ll get you warm and dry, and some oats inside you. How does that sound?” Ears that had been laid flat back relaxed, and a nicker showed she was forgiven.

  “Mph … fmph.” Wildey squirmed in discomfort but Kate ignored him, untied the reins, and mounted up.

  Thunder and lightning provided a fitting accompaniment to the pounding of hooves as she rode. The lateness of the hour and the rough weather meant the road was deserted. Wildey grunted every time Kate’s knees jabbed into him or the bony withers threatened to drive the breath from his lungs.

  It was only a couple of miles to the clearing. She reined in and dismounted, pulling Wildey from the horse without ceremony. He hit the ground with a thump and a muffled cry, then rolled over onto his back, blinking rain from his eyes.

  Kate tramped over to the two storm lanterns she had left there earlier, pulled out her flint, and spent a moment lighting them. She straightened and turned to face her prisoner, uncovering her face so he could be in no doubt who she was. “This is where it ends.”

  Flickering light now illuminated the clearing. Wildey’s face went ashen when he saw the halter draped over a stout branch of the oak tree, and the tree stump she had placed directly under it. She pulled the sodden kerchief from his mouth.

  “You can’t!” were his first words.

  “Watch me.”

  He licked his lips. “We were friends once, Kate. And we can be again. Spare me and you can have anything you want. Name it and it’s yours.”

  She pretended to consider. “The lives of Dick Trebeck, Isaac Kerrils, John Grierson,” she counted the names off on her fingers, “Walter Lilley, Jim Barker, Ben Comyngs, Ed Lance, and Tate Nolan.”

  He gaped at her in dismay. “Who?”

  “The highwaymen you betrayed … Oh, but you can’t give me their lives, can you? So much for promises.” She grabbed him under the armpits and dragged him across the clearing.

  “I can get you a free pardon, Kate. I’m a man of some influence. I can -” He squawked as the noose settled round his neck.

  “Save your breath.” She tightened the loop of hempen rope. “It’s time to make your peace with God.”

  Kate didn’t bother hooding him, the way they did at Tyburn - it was more to spare the spectators’ feelings than the criminal’s, and she was determined not to flinch from the consequences of what she was about to do. She sliced through the bonds around his ankles, then reached for the free end of the halter. Then she paused, suddenly doubtful. It had been one thing planning this moment, but now that it was actually here …

  Once I do this there is no going back. She glanced at her victim; he was whimpering and the whites of his eyes were huge. But have I not already come too far to go back? For if I let him go now, he won’t rest until he sees me hang. She sighed. So be it. She spat on her palms, grabbed the rope, and began to haul.

  With a cry, Wildey scrambled up onto the stump, trying to keep the noose from tightening round his neck. When he was fully stretched on tiptoe, Kate tied the free end of the halter securely round the tree trunk.

  “For the love of God, spare me!” he choked out. “Have mercy.”

  Kate remembered the hell that was Newgate, and imagined the fear of the eight terrified young highwaymen who had died at Tyburn. Wildey had not been merciful to them.

  He must have read his fate in her face, for his shoulders sagged and he closed his eyes tightly and began to pray.

  She waited until he had finished, then said, “May God have mercy on your soul,” and kicked away the tree stump.

  The noose cut Wildey’s shriek short as he toppled. His eyes bulged and rolled up in his head, and his feet began to kick. There were no hangers-on to speed his passage to the next world, no one present except his nemesis. For a moment longer Kate let him strangle, then she pulled the loaded pistol from her coat pocket, cocked it, aimed, and fired.

  The streaks of lightning and crashes of thunder had been growing fainter and more infrequent as the storm moved away to the north, and for the first time that night, the wind dropped. A numb Kate listened to the pattering of rain on the leaves and the creak of the rope. For a while she simply stood watching the halter and its macabre burden swinging gently to and fro, then she staggered to the side of the clearing, grabbed a branch and leaned over, and was violently sick.

  “And you saw the accused shoot him dead?” pressed Turnley, his gaze intent.

  “Ay, your honour.” Mary Dan shifted on her crutches and glanced at Kate, her gaze vindictive. “Cold blooded it was. The woman’s a fiend incarnate.”

  “Thank you.” The Queen’s Justice turned to Kate. “You have heard this witness. Do you have anything to say in your defence?”

  “Other than that she is lying? No, your honour.” A murmur of disappointment rippled round the Session House. They had expected ‘Blue-Eyed Nick’ to give them more of a show. Too bad.

  People thought a highwayman’s life was all glamour and excitement. It had its moments, true - there were plenty of bored young women as eager to be bedded as robbed, and Kate had seen her share of rubies and pearls - but there was also as much fear and exhaustion as there was exhilaration. How many would envy the long nights spent in the cold and wet waiting for a coach that never arrived, the violent squabbles and brawls when partners fell out, the peril that came not just from the Law but from an unscrupulous rival?

  Once, the danger had made her feel alive, but lately … well, just lately, all the running and hiding had begun to pall. Perhaps she was simply getting to
o old. They said few highwayman lived past thirty, and it would be Kate’s thirtieth birthday in a few months. For a moment she wondered what her life might have been like had she completed her apprenticeship as a seamstress, then she dismissed it with a mental shrug. The point was moot, and anyway, she wouldn’t have met Rebeccah.

  While the judge dismissed the witness, summed up the case against Kate, and directed the jury to consider its verdict, Kate stared into space, remembering the precious days she had spent in St James’s Square recovering from her bullet wound under Rebeccah’s tender care. Then the motion of the jury foreman standing up and clearing his throat drew her back to her surroundings. She squared her shoulders and waited.

  “Have you reached a verdict?” enquired Judge Turnley.

  “We have, Milud.”

  “Let the court hear it then, and speak up.”

  “We find the accused, Catherine Milledge, otherwise known as ‘Blue-Eyed Nick’, guilty on all counts.”

  A mix of groans and cheers went up, and the correspondent of the Post Man finished his scribbling, rose, and dashed from the court.

  “An admirable verdict. You and your fellow jurors have acquitted yourself honourably.” The foreman gave a complacent nod and sat down.

  Turnley glanced at the prisoner’s bench, saw that all had been tried, and gave a satisfied grunt. “Tomorrow I will pronounce sentence. In the meantime,” he brought down his gavel with acrack, “remove the prisoners from my court.”

  Kate blocked out the hell that was Newgate’s Condemned Hold by daydreaming. One of her favourites was to imagine herself out riding, the wind in her hair, sun warm on her back, and Clover’s hooves drumming across the turf.

  The sentencing two days ago had been perfunctory, its outcome entirely predictable - she was to hang. She had shuffled back from the Old Bailey to the accompaniment of shrieks, agonised groans, and the stink of burning flesh as the brazier at the side of the Session House was dragged out and the branding got under way. The Keeper had informed Kate that, as was usual, the Court Recorder would send a report of all capital sentences, including Kate’s, for review by Queen Anne and her cabinet. But it was but a formality. Kate knew she had not the remotest hope of obtaining a pardon, even a conditional one. The next hanging fair was on Monday, and she could expect to be an unwilling participant.

  In a way she was glad her time left was so short. She had merely to get through three more days without going mad from the stench and horror of her surroundings. And how better to do that than by thinking about riding, or Rebeccah’s smiling face.

  The young woman hadn’t been in the public gallery during the sentencing, nor had she been to visit Kate since. And who could blame her after hearing of Wildey’s murder?

  I hope she has washed her hands of me, thought Kate, even as she hoped no such thing.

  A door banged open. Curses and catcalls followed the progress of one of the turnkeys across the hold towards her. Kate squinted at him through the gloom.

  “On your feet, Milledge.” Simpkins kicked the sole of her illfitting shoe (her own boots had been taken from her when they put on the leg-irons).

  She stood, fetters clinking. “What now?”

  “Follow me and you’ll find out, will ye not?”

  Every eye in the place turned to watch the two of them. “She won’t let you fuck her, Simpkins,” yelled someone. “She plays the Game of Flats.” Coarse laughter met that remark. But the turnkey ignored it, and so did Kate.

  Outside, she waited while he locked the door behind them with a key from the huge bunch jangling at his belt. Then he turned and pointed down the corridor. She arched an eyebrow, but no explanation was forthcoming, so she began shuffling in that direction.

  They had walked only a few paces when he said, “Stop.”

  She found herself standing outside one of the private condemned cells. “I can’t afford this!”

  “Just as well it’s already paid for, then.” He selected another key from the bunch, inserted it, and opened the door with a screech.

  The cell was dirty, and cramped, its only furniture a chipped chamberpot, a rickety table on which lay a large padlock, and a chair. But what drew her eye was the small barred window, through which came welcome light and air. Cells with windows cost even more.

  “Get in.”

  She hesitated. If this was some kind of cruel trick, if Josselin had paid Simpkins to dangle the prospect of a private cell in front of her then withdraw it… “Who paid?”

  “I said get in.” Simpkins shoved her and she stumbled into the cell, then turned and gave him a baleful look. He pointed to the chair, and after a moment she sat. A staple was sunk into the floor at her feet, she saw then, and next minute he was bending down and padlocking her ankle fetters to it.

  “My instructions are to make sure you don’t escape again,” he explained, finishing and straightening with a groan.

  Kate gave the fetters a tug, aggravating ankles already rubbed raw. The staple was as solid as a rock.

  The turnkey folded his arms and observed her for a moment then chuckled. “I’ve got good news and bad news, Milledge. Which do you want first?” She shrugged. “The bad news is, we received the Dead Warrant this morning, and your name is on it.”

  No Queen’s pardon then. Hardly a surprise. “And the good news?”

  “This cell is yours until you go to get your neck stretched.” He walked towards the door.

  “But who paid for it, Simpkins?” He grinned and began to close the door. “Who the Devil paid for it?” The key turned with a screech.

  “You should see your face.” His laughter was muffled by the thickness of the door.

  Kate ground her teeth. “Hellfire and damnation, Simpkins!” she shouted. “What harm can it do to tell me?”

  The silence lasted so long that she thought he had gone. Then she heard, “A Mistress Dutton paid for your cell, Milledge. I hope you are suitably grateful.”

  Her heart leaped. “Rebeccah Dutton?”

  There was a brief pause. “It says ‘Anne’ here.”

  She blinked. “Are you sure?” But this time there was no reply, and she knew the turnkey had gone.

  ***

  “Turnkey Wryneck will escort you to see the prisoner, Mistress Dutton.” The Keeper gestured at the bewhiskered little man with the bunch of keys at his belt who had just entered his office.

  “Thank you,” said Rebeccah.

  “No, Madam, thank you.” The Keeper grinned, jingled the money she had given him, then slumped back into his chair. Selecting a legal-looking document from the untidy pile on his desk, he began to read. Rebeccah glanced at the turnkey, who folded his arms and scowled.

  “You’ll get your share later, Wryneck,” said the Keeper, without looking up. The turnkey grunted, unfolded his arms and beckoned to Rebeccah. After a moment, she followed him, hurrying to keep up.

  Wryneck turned left outside the Keeper’s Office, heading away from the entry gate and into the candle-lit bowels of Newgate. Cockroaches scuttled across the floor, and without breaking his stride, the turnkey crushed one under his heel. The soft crunch made Rebeccah wince, and she lifted her skirts a few inches and tried not to step on anything that moved.

  They descended a flight of stairs, then set off along a corridor. Progress was slow. Every few yards, it seemed, yet another locked door or gate barred their way, and Rebeccah had to wait while Wryneck unlocked it then again while he relocked it behind them. The reek of unwashed bodies and piss intensified the deeper into the prison they went, and breathing through her mouth became preferable. It was harder, though, to block out the noises coming from behind the locked doors on either side, the shouting and cursing, the high keening sobs.

  “You ain’t Milledge’s first visitor this morning,” said Wryneck, glancing back at her.

  “Oh?”

  “Highwaymen are always popular.”

  They descended yet another stairs and turned right. In the distance she could hear someone
laughing - the unnerving, high pitched laughter of the insane.

  “The Ordinary was with her for an hour,” continued Wryneck. “Getting her life story for one of his pamphlets. Then half an hour ago there was a woman. Crying, she was, even before she went in.” He glanced at Rebeccah again.

  She kept her expression neutral. “Indeed.”

  Disappointed at her lack of reaction, the turnkey faced forward once more.

  They turned left at the next junction, then right. By now Rebeccah was hopelessly lost.

  Coming towards them along the corridor were two figures. In the gloom it was impossible to make out much more than that one was a man, the other a woman. But as the latter drew nearer and passed a guttering candle, Rebeccah caught a glimpse of red hair. There was something very familiar about -

  With a cry the woman launched herself at her. “It’s all your fault,” railed Kate’s landlady, hands flailing. “Everything was fine before she met you.” She caught hold of Rebeccah’s hair and pain stabbed through Rebeccah’s scalp.

  “Let go of me!” She tried to prise open the vice-like grip.

  “Oi, stop that!” Wryneck’s attempt to help earned him an elbow in the eye for his pains. “Give me a hand, Simpkins,” he yelled at the turnkey who had been accompanying Alice Cole.

  Simpkins helped his smaller colleague pull the red-haired woman off Rebeccah, but not before he had received a kick in the shins. By now, faces were pressed to the grilles all along the corridor. Rebeccah tried to ignore the muffled shouts of encouragement, hoots, and obscene suggestions coming thick and fast from the excited inmates and retain her dignity. She reordered her hair as best she could and smoothed her dress.

  Alice meanwhile was continuing to struggle in the turnkeys’ grip. Only Simpkins’ slap and threat to lock her in a cell brought her to her senses. She subsided, panting and looking baleful.

  “Get that baggage out of here before I do something rash,” growled Wryneck, rubbing his bruised eye.

  Simpkins gripped Alice - none too gently from her exclamation - and limped off down the corridor with her. One by one the faces behind the grilles vanished.