The Highwayman

by F. M. Parker

They labored the long days away unloading and loading boxcars for Applegate. The heavy lifting toughened them, adding cord-like muscle to their young, healthy bodies. Patrick liked the steady work and enjoyed the feel of money in his pocket. He saved most of his wages. Ben spent much of his at the alehouses, especially the nights when fights were scheduled. Now and again Patrick went with Ben and they would sit at a table near the door and watch the fighters. Ben would study the fighters for a time, how they moved and feigned and used their fists. Then unable to endure being a mere spectator, would call out, “I’ll fight next.” With his barrel chest and corded muscles and his total lack of fear, he most often won.

  *

  On a cool, blustery day in April, Patrick went to the railroad station to find out when Ben and he would again be put to work loading boxcars. He found the railroad yard practically deserted. The yard foreman explained that a smallpox epidemic had struck Derbyshire and several other surrounding towns and few trains were running. He had no work for Ben and Patrick.

  Upon arriving back at the hardware store, he found Ben lathering his face from a blue mug in preparation to shave. He had recently begun this practice as his youthful beard had thickened and coarsened.

  “Where are you off to?” Patrick asked. “Don’t tell me you got a girl friend.”

  “I’ve been asked by a couple of blokes to join in with them on a little trip that’ll make a lot of quick, easy money.”

  “Easy money means it’s dangerous,” Patrick said in a doubtful voice. “Still if you want me to, I’ll go with you.”

  “They ask just for me cause I’m stronger than any of them. And they know I’m not afraid of trouble.” He started to shave with cautious strokes of the straight edged razor.

  “Who’re you going with?”

  “Best that you don’t know.”

  “Well at least tell me when you’ll be back.”

  “In two days. And with a fist full of money.” Ben saw Patrick’s reflection in the mirror and noting his concerned expression, halted the razor long enough to say, “I’ll be alright, so don’t you worry none.”

  “I won’t,” Patrick replied, with both of them knowing he lied.

  Ben finished shaving, cleaned his razor and slid it into its leather case. With no further words between them, Ben donned his best clothing, put his knife into a pocket, gave Patrick a nod from the door, and left the storeroom.

  *

  Patrick waited two days for Ben to return. His friend did not appear. He waited another day with growing uneasiness. Even though Patrick did not know where to search for Ben, he began to roam the streets day after day looking for him. A few times he stopped in at the tavern where Ben liked to drink and fight for money. Nobody had seen him. Patrick realized something had gone seriously wrong with Ben’s easy money job. He was too brave, too daring for his own safety.

  At the end of the second month, Patrick had to accept the fact that Ben was dead, or arrested and convicted of a crime and transported to Australia. With that conclusion, Patrick decided to leave Derbyshire. He went into the store and informed Mr. Glass that he was leaving and going to London.

  “I’m sorry to see you go,” said the store owner. “But I understand young men must journey to see great London with its hundreds of thousands of people. But be wary, young Patrick. It’s a city with people of great wealth, and where a hard working young man might also become wealthy. But it is also a city of extreme poverty and with all manner of thieves, cutthroats and charlatans.”

  “Yes, sir,” Patrick said and wondering what a charlatan was.

  Mr. Glass took several silver coins from the cash drawer and handed them to Patrick. “You’ve earned this. While you and Ben guarded the store, nothing has been stolen.”

  “Thank you, sir. You’re a fine gentleman.”

  “Patrick, we both know Ben isn’t going to return. So I suggest you take whatever you want of his belongings. I’m sure he’d want you to.”

  Patrick but nodded for he feared his voice would show his sorrow at losing his fine friend Ben.

  Mr. Glass took a new canvas duffel bag down from a shelf and handed it to Patrick. “Use this to carry your clothes in.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Patrick went to the storeroom and packed his second suit of clothing and other possessions. He checked around to see what he might take of Ben’s. The blue shaving mug with its brush and the razor caught his eye. That would be the very thing. He placed the items in the duffel. In two or three years, Patrick would be shaving. Each time he used the razor he would remember his good friend using it that last day they were together.

  He hung the duffel over a shoulder and left the storeroom. He gave the key to Mr. Glass standing in front of the store. Neither spoke.

  Patrick went off with a strong step along the street leading east toward London lying four long days of travel ahead. In the country beyond Derbyshire, he came upon an oak tree growing beside the road. He selected a straight limb and cut it from the tree. As he walked along, he whittled the limb into a heavy walking stick. He just might encounter thieves along the way and the strong wood make a handy club to bash them over the head and keep them from taking what was his.

  CHAPTER 9

  “I don’t know about renting to you,” said the elderly woman with snow white hair. She was leaning on a cane and checking Patrick from his tussled hair down his dusty clothes to his boots.

  “Mam, I’ve walked all the way from Derbyshire in the past four days and slept along the road on the ground and in haystacks,” Patrick replied. “I’m really a handsome fellow when I’m cleaned up.” He gave her a broad smile. A “Fore Let” sign tacked to a sign in the front yard of the woman’s residence had caused him to stop and knock. Though he could not read, he knew what those particular words meant.

  “I’m Mrs. Bradshaw.” The woman said and smiled back at Patrick. She estimated his age at thirteen or fourteen. He stood straight and lean before her. His clear blue eyes were studying her with keen intelligence. The fine fuzz of a youthful beard showed. Yes, he would be a handsome man, one that could turn a woman’s head.

  “My name’s Patrick Scanlan.”

  “Come along with me, Patrick, and I’ll show you the room.” Planting her cane firmly on the stone walkway to maintain her footing, she led him along the side of the house to the rear and opened the door to the room.

  Patrick saw the room was tiny with barely enough space for the narrow cot, a washbasin on a stand, an ancient wardrobe, a candle in a glass holder, and a tiny coal burning stove in the corner. The bed clothing appeared freshly laundered; in fact, the entire room was neat and clean.

  “I’ll take it,” Patrick said and much pleased by the room. “How much does it cost for a week?”

  “Two shillings. Payable in advance.”

  “That seems fair.” Patrick dug into his pocket and placed the two silver coins in the thin, blue veined hand the woman extended to him.

  She gave Patrick the key to the room. “Always keep the door locked for there are thieves about, what with all the people out of work.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Bradshaw.”

  “There’s a wash tub for bathing and there’s plenty of water in the rain barrel. You take a bath before you climb into bed.” She pointed at the tub sitting on a stone surface and then at the rain barrel at the corner of the house. She smiled mischievously at him. “The trees and shrubs and the fence will hide your bare bottom from all but the most nosey people.”

  “I’ll surely do that.” He liked the old woman. She had clutched the shillings as if they had been very important to her. He was pleased he had been able to pay the rent for the room.

  “I’m glad to have a nice young man staying in the house.” She tottered off with the cane tapping in rhythm with each slow step to keep her upright.

  Patrick placed his duffel in the room and then hastened to fill the wash tub with water from the rain barrel. Gutters caught the runoff water from the roof and carried it to a
downspout and into the rain barrel. He stripped off his clothes and climbed into the water warmed by the sun. He bathed leisurely, the clean water a grand luxury upon his body.

  Finished with the bath, he washed his dirty clothing in the water and hung them to dry on the hedges close to the house. He hoped no Snow Gatherer would steal his garments. He entered the room and slid in under the clean sheet.

  *

  Patrick dressed in his best clothing and struck out with an eager step to find employment. He possessed sufficient money to last him a few days. Still he wanted to find a job as quickly as possible.

  He had no memories of London streets from when he had been at the orphanage and so everything was new. The buildings were larger than in Derbyshire. The streets were more crowded with people and there were many horse drawn wagons, and carts pulled by men or larger boys rolling by transporting a wide assortment of items. He passed scores of young beggars, both boys and girls in raggedy clothing. They pushed close to Patrick with pleading eyes and with palms held out. He weakened in his resolve to conserve his money and gave a little girl about four years old with a dirty face, torn dress and shoeless a copper penny. Twelve of them made a shilling.

  Human waste cast out from the buildings during the night and piles of animal droppings littered the street and he stepped carefully so as not to soil his shoes. The rancid odor of the filth saturated the air and swarms of flies droned about it. A street cleaner was sweeping the waste into the shallow ditch in the center of the street where it would be carried away when one of the frequent rains drenched the city.

  He spotted a pack of skulking boys searching for something to steal. He expected there would me many thieves of every sort in London. The old woman had warned him of such. He caught sight of a policeman in his black uniform and carrying a night-stick. Dogs and secretive cats prowled seemingly unnoticed among the people. A hearse painted black and drawn by black horses with the driver dressed in funeral black rolled along the street. Some two dozen mourners, men, women and children followed silently behind.

  *

  “Why are there so many men standing around loafing?” Patrick asked an older man leaning against the side of the railroad stationhouse. The time was late afternoon and Patrick had traveled across the city and asked for a job at half a hundred business. Not one had offered employment, not even of a temporary nature. He had then asked directions to the railroad station and hastened there with hopes of finally finding work. What he discovered were scores of men lounging about while a few labored at loading or unloading boxcars parked on a railroad siding.

  “Since the smallpox last year, business is damn poor and there’re fifty men wanting every job,” replied the man. He looked Patrick up and down. “A boy like you won’t find work when there’re full grown men begging for it.”

  “A fellow has to eat no matter his size,” Patrick replied.

  “Yes, he does. But a business man will give a job to a family man first.”

  “I can understand why he would do that,” Patrick said.

  He felt depressed as he left the railroad area and headed back into town. After a short walk he came upon a wide cobblestone street swept clean and the homes large and the businesses busy with customers. Well dressed people came and went along the street, some walking and others in horse drawn buggies. A block distant a large three story brick building with four large columns in front proclaimed itself the Hellspont Hotel.

  In front of the Hellspont, he paused long enough to run his fingers through his hair and straightened his clothes and then entered the hotel through the wide double doors. He halted, struck by the immense size and luxury of the hotel lobby. Several men and a few women sat about on overstuffed chairs and divans talking or reading newspapers. One old fellow was slumped down in a chair sleeping with his legs outstretched on the thick wool carpet. A man wearing a gray wool suit was seated a few steps inside the entrance. A large piece of leather luggage sat at his feet. His face held a sour expression as he watched the street in front of the hotel.

  Patrick noted a middle aged man behind a breast high desk across the lobby. His head was turned down as he wrote with a pencil on a ledger spread open before him. Patrick judged him to be the manager of the hotel and would speak to him about a job. He straightened, lifted his chin and strode across the lobby with a firm, assured step as if he belonged in this up-town place.

  As he drew within a few paces of the desk, someone come up from behind and shouldered him aside. Patrick caught his balance and whirled with his fist clenched ready to strike out at the person. It was the man who had been sitting near the entrance. He hurried on toward the clerk at the desk.

  Patrick’s anger seethed at the insult of being shoved aside as if he had no rights, no better than a beggar. This was a repeat of the time at the orphanage when he had been called half a human and had fought. The remembrance of that emotion was bitter. He couldn’t allow the man to get away with the insult and followed after him.

  The man reached the clerk. His hand shot out and grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and dragged him half way up on the desk. He stabbed the clerk in the chest with a stiff finger. “Listen you lazy bastard, I told you half an hour ago that I needed a carriage to take me to the docks to catch a ship. Where is it?”

  “Please let go of me,” said the frightened clerk. “I told you both of the hotel carriages are away taking people to the railroad station and the docks. I’ve sent a boy out on the street to find you a carriage for rent. He should be back soon.”

  “Soon won’t do. My ship sails in an hour and it’s a long ride to the docks.”

  Patrick stopped and brought his anger under control. He couldn’t whip the full grown man who appeared quite strong. Was there another way to take his revenge for the insult? He turned and looked at the man’s luggage left unprotected by the chair near the door. A wicked grin stretched Patrick’s lips. Why not take his luggage for pay back? He scanned the occupants in the lobby. They were all still engrossed in their conversations or reading, except for the man nearest the desk whose attention was locked on the man berating the clerk.

  Patrick moved toward the entrance. As he passed the piece of luggage, he bent and picked it up, and continued on out the double doors. He was surprised by the heaviness of the luggage.

  He went right and lengthened his stride. With his ear cocked behind for a cry of “Thief”, he hastened to the corner and turned around it and out of sight of the hotel entrance. At the middle of the block, he crossed the street and entered an alley, and onward at a fast pace. Upon reaching the next street, he slowed his steps and moved with the flow of pedestrians. He began to smile as he pictured the expression on the man’s face when he discovered his luggage was missing. The smile faded, Patrick had acquired the characteristic of a thief and that wasn’t something to smile about. Damn his conscience. A thief shouldn’t have one.

  He took notice of his direction of travel and discovered he had unconsciously headed in the direction of the sanctuary of his room. He walked on, veering off occasionally on cross streets for a couple of blocks to confuse any possible pursuers as to his true destination.

  Patrick held his pace as he climbed upward with the heavy luggage toward the higher and western part of the city where his room was located. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he felt it trickling down the center of his back under his shirt. The man must have packed lead in his luggage. Patrick laughed at the thought. He would soon know what it contained.

  In the deep dusk of falling night, he reached Mrs. Bradshaw’s home and went quietly along the stone path to the rear. He halted at the corner and checked the back yard, and hoping the old lady wasn’t there. He didn’t want to have to explain why he was arriving in the dark with a huge piece of luggage. Night sounds came to him, the rustling of the leaves of the trees and hedge, and the movement of a bird, or at least he thought it was a bird under the eave of the house above his head. Everything was as he wanted it to be. He stepped to the door of his
room, unlocked it and entered.

  He struck a match, found the candle and lit it. He turned to the luggage that he had dropped on the cot. For a long minute, he stared at the piece with its fine grain leather and the two broad straps encircling it. What would he find inside? Whatever it was, the man had deemed it important enough to carry with him on an ocean voyage.

  Why wait longer to find out? He knelt on the floor beside the luggage and unbuckled the straps and flipped open the top.

  To his immense surprise, he saw two cap and ball pistols in worn leather holsters on a much used wide leather belt. From the condition of the leather, he knew the guns had been carried for a very long time. For what purpose? Who was the man who needed a gun, two guns? He slid both single shot pistols from the holsters and held them out in the candlelight and examined them. The bluing on the black iron barrels was worn off along the sides. The walnut grips were smooth from much use, and they were cool to his touch. The initials TB were engraved into the grips. He rubbed his fingers over the trigger guard, and then inside on the trigger, and then on the hammer. He hefted the pistols up and down to judge their weight and feel. He aimed the guns one after the other at the door knob. A sensation of familiarity came to Patrick, as if he had held pistols before. How very strange.

  Patrick felt the sense of power that a pair of pistols in a man’s hands would give him. What would the man who had shouldered him out of the way feel if Patrick was to point one of his own pistols into his face? Patrick chuckled at the thought.

  He put the pistols back into their holsters and laid them aside. He took a wooden box out of the luggage and opened it. Within were a canvas bag containing a handful of lead balls, a flask of gunpowder, a box of firing caps, and a small can of oil and a short rod and cloth cleaning patches. Next a suit coat, trousers, three white shirts, socks and a pair of riding boots were removed. Under the clothes was a folded newspaper. What was in the news that a man would carry it on an ocean voyage? Patrick wished he could read.