by F. M. Parker
“Until then,” said the driver. He clucked to the horse and the buggy rolled away.
Thorne took Patrick by the arm, but the touch was light and meant only to guide him as they entered the livery. In the pitch darkness, Thorne brought a horse from a stall and mounted.
“Climb up behind me.” Thorne kicked his boot free from the stirrup closest to Patrick.
“Maybe I should just go on my way?”
“You can if you want, but you seem a brave fellow and I want to talk with you. Come with me for just a little while and then you can go on about your business. I’ll pay you a pound for your time.” Thorne extended his hand.
Patrick mulled the proposition for a moment. “Alright,” he said and caught hold of the offered hand, put his foot into the stirrup and was swung up onto the horse behind the saddle.
Thorne reined the horse out of the livery and walked it toward the river. They crossed on Paddington Bridge and onward across the north part of the city and into the country. Near midnight and with the moon showing a half golden face, Thorne guided the horse off the road and up a long lane lined with huge trees to a barn near a medium size farm house. They rode into the barn before dismounting. Here Thorne removed the saddle and bridle from the horse and gave the animal a ration of grain. Without a word he led the way to the house.
Patrick was surprised by the inside of the house. While the outside was an ordinary two-story frame farmhouse showing years of weathering and needing painting, the inside was furnished with what he judged to be expensive furniture, leather covered, overstuffed sofa and chairs, walnut table and chairs, and mahogany cupboards with china showing in the shelves.
I’m hungry,” Thorne said. “So let’s eat.”
They sat across from each other at the dining table and ate. Thorne had provided a wedge of rich, yellow cheese, a loaf of bread with thick, brown crust and a bottle of burgundy wine. They cut slices of bread and cheese and ate off porcelain plates and drank from crystal glasses. Patrick had never drunk wine before but he gave no sign of that. Indeed after the first bite of bread and cheese and a sip of wine to go with it, he decided that he liked the combination. He ate on with gusto until all the cheese was gone.
As Patrick sat back in his chair to relax a little after the food, Thorne reached under his coat and pulled out his right hand pistol. With his brow furrowed in thought, he examined the weapon. Then abruptly, he cocked it and aimed it directly into Patrick’s face.
“I think I’ll shoot you to keep your mouth shut about who I am,” he said in a hard voice.
Patrick’s nerves tightened and strummed as he stared into the open bore of the pistol. After a moment, he raised his eyes to meet the black eyes of the highwayman. What was behind the man’s threat? Why threaten him now? The answer came to Patrick. Thorne was testing him to see his reaction to the gun and being shot.
“Shoot and be damned,” Patrick said in the same hard tone Thorne had used. He took up his glass and drank the last drop of wine.
Thorne gave Patrick a threatening look. After a few seconds that seemed like a very long time to Patrick, Thorne lowered the hammer on the pistol and laid the weapon on the table.
“How did you know I wouldn’t shoot?”
“I heard somewhere that you don’t shoot a man after breaking bread with him.” He chucked a thumb at the mostly devoured loaf.
“I’ve heard the same thing.” Thorne laughed pleasantly.
“And I figured you were testing me.”
“Yeah, to see if you were a coward. A man who has no fear is less likely to fail in accomplishing what he sets out to do.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
“First tell me a little about yourself. What’s your name?”
“Patrick Scanlan. That’s the name I use. I don’t know my real name for I was left at an orphanage when a small boy.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen. Or thereabouts.”
“Have you ever stolen?”
“Yes.” Yes, he was a thief and alive because of it.
“How do you feel about that?”
“I regret stealing from people who work for a living. The luggage I stole from the Hellspont Hotel, doesn’t bother me because the man was an ornery ass.”
“You might do.”
“For what?”
“Edgar has just married and wants to be an honest man and have a business in the city. That would be the best thing for him. I believe that you could take his place.”
“To do what?”
“Sometimes to be my lookout. Sometimes to back me up with pistols. Especially when we stop the coaches and six. You would have more money than you ever dreamed about.”
Patrick was thrilled by the famous highwayman wanting him to be his partner. He was already a thief, so why not become a Two Pops and Galloper and one of those elite thieves. “I’ll join you. What should I call you?”
“Call me Thorne.”
“I hope you only take money from the rich.”
“Only the rich and you have my word on that. Now you’ll need a fast riding horse and I’ve got one for you. We’ll get you riding clothes and a pair of pistols. You must learn to ride better than the horse patrols that the sheriff has for that could one day save your life. And you must become a crack shot with a pistol.”
“I already have pistols. I found them in some luggage from the Hellspont Hotel. They’re at my apartment in town.”
“We’ll go get them tomorrow.
*
At first daylight, Patrick awakened and went outside to view the surrounding countryside that had been hidden in the night. An apple orchard of several acres was behind the house. With the autumn season far advanced, the fruit had been picked and most of the leaves of the trees had fallen. Beyond the orchard was a fair size woodlot. To the left and right of the orchard were fields of grain that had been recently harvested. A fenced pasture where two horses were grazing was behind the barn. One of the horses was the black animal he and Thorne had ridden during the night. The second was a long legged gray horse. On each side of the lane, were more fields of harvested grain. No neighbor’s house was within sight. Thorne liked his privacy.
“Good morning,” Thorne said as he came up beside Patrick.
“Nice place you have here.”
“I don’t own it. I have a long term lease on the land and play the role of gentleman farmer. That’s what I want people to think. I’ve contracted with a free black man to farm for shares. His name’s Jack Simon. He has no reason to come again until it’s time to plow and seed next spring. Let’s have a bite to eat and take my buggy into town to get your belongings. We have much to do to get you ready.”
*
Patrick packed his belongings into the duffel, and picking up the luggage stolen from the Hellspont Hotel, placed both by the door of the apartment. Though he would live at the farm with Thorne, he would keep the apartment in the ever diminishing chance that Alice would one day reappear.
He noted the chest of drawers where Alice kept her clothing. Wanting to recapture something of her, how beautiful she was, how sweet her lips were upon his, how gentle her hands were during love making, he went to the chest of drawers and began to go through her clothing and caressing the neatly folded garments. He took up the frayed nightgown she wore to sleep in at night. He recalled how quickly she would pull the garment up over her head and toss it aside and come into his arms when he touched her in that certain way.
He felt something solid beneath the clothing in the bottom drawer. Digging down to the object, he found it was a small square wicker basket with a lid. Inside were several men’s wallets and purses, a leather pouch holding several coins and a thin packet of bills tied with a length of the same ribbon she used to tie her hair. He removed a folded piece of paper tucked under the ribbon. At the top and written in Alice’s precise lettering were the words, For Patrick’s ship. Below were entries of sums of money, obviously the amounts taken from the wallets, and adding to nearly a hun
dred pounds. While Patrick worked at the shipping company, Alice had been lifting wallets for him because he had told her he wanted to own a trading ship. Patrick’s heart cramped with regret for telling her of his desire. He had put Alice in danger, and was responsible for her disappearance.
He put the money in his pocket for the apartment might be robbed. He wrote upon the paper – Alice, stay here for I will return. Patrick. He replaced the basket with its wallets in its original location and neatly folded her garments over it. His memories were painful and he hastily left the apartment with his luggage and went down to the street where Thorne waited with the buggy.
CHAPTER 15
“Fine weapons,” Thorne said as he finished examining Patrick’s two pistols. “You said these belonged to a man who was at the Hellspont Hotel?”
“That’s right,” Patrick replied.
“When did you take them?”
“About a year ago. Maybe a little longer.”
Thorne began to chuckle. The chuckle grew and he threw his head back and laughed uproariously.
“What’s so funny?”
Thorne stifled his laugh. “These initials TB engraved in the pistols stand for Tom Barrett. I heard he lost his weapons at the hotel. Threw a mad dog fit when somebody stole them, so the story goes.”
“Who is Tom Barrett?”
“A thief taker. One of the best. It’s a good thing that he didn’t catch you.”
“It seemed like the right thing to do since he insulted me.”
Thorne’s laugh died. He looked across the dining room table and stared intently into Patrick’s eyes as he shoved the pistols back into their holsters. “Are you certain that you want to ride with me? It could be damn dangerous.”
“I’m sure.” He wouldn’t tell Thorne that he had a reason besides making money for joining him.
“Then it’s time to start your training.” Thorne laid the pistols on the table. “Come with me for I’ve got something to show you outside.”
Thorne and Patrick left the house and crossed the yard. As they approached the pasture fence, the black horse followed by the gray, came trotting toward them. Thorne pointed at the gray horse. “He’s yours, saddle and all. He’s almost as fast as my black. You take care of him as if he was part of you. If you do, he won’t ever fail you while he lives. Now brush him down, pet him, feed him. When you ride him, force your will on him, show him that you’re his master. Nobody else should ever ride him.”
Thorne drove Patrick hard in the training. Every day in the coolness of early morning, they saddled their mounts and rode for two hours upon the country road, to toughen Patrick’s ass to the saddle according to Thorne, and to keep the horses in top condition he had added. The pace was always fast, beginning at a trot, followed by a gallop, and finishing with an all out pounding run. Lastly they walked the sweating horses down the lane to the road and back to the barn to allow them to cool off gradually.
Pistol practice began with low charges of gunpowder in the weapon to get Patrick familiar with handling them and not to flinch at the sound of the explosions. They used Spanish gunpowder for Thorne judged it better than English gunpowder. Gradually the amount of gunpowder loaded into the weapon was increased to a full charge. Targets were placed at varying distances, some at the very limit of the pistol’s range. They fired from horseback, standing, kneeling, sitting, and lying flat on the ground. Patrick was amazed with Thorne’s marksmanship. He tried to match it, but failed. Still as the days passed, he came ever closer to putting his bullets as close to the bull’s eye as did his mentor.
In the late afternoons inside the barn in the shade, Thorne taught Patrick how to fight with fists. This pleased Patrick greatly for he knew he was being trained by a master. Sometimes Patrick would feel his growing skill and strength and would press Thorne. At these times, Thorne would grin at him and slip past his guard and smack him with a solid blow to the jaw. Patrick always grinned back at Thorne, no matter how much the blow hurt.
Thorne never told Patrick when the training was finished. One day after nearly three weeks when they had finished boxing, he simply went into the house without a word. Patrick could see him sitting in a chair and staring out the doorway. He wanted to ask Thorne what was the matter. But the man’s face held a dark and brooding look and was closed to conversation.
Patrick walked out to the orchard as he sometimes did and leisurely wandered about and picking a handful of the small, knobby fruit that Jack Simon had not considered worth harvesting. Eating one, he went to the barn and fed the extra apples to the eager gray. When the black night killed all the shadows, he entered the house. Thorne appeared not to have moved, still sitting in the same chair and staring out into the dark yard.
Patrick would wait for the man to break the silence. He scratched a wooden match into flame and lit the lamp and began cleaning his weapons. Completing that task, he took down a book from a shelf of the well stocked library and read and watching Thorne without giving the appearance of doing so. The man remained in his brooding mood throughout the evening.
Finally Thorne stirred and for a time examined a map showing London, the surrounding area with its outlying villages, and the roads connecting everything together. He wrote something on the upper right border of the map and then sat with his pencil poised over it as if considering what to write next, or to modify what he had written. He forcibly struck lines though the writing.
“Patrick, come look at the map,” Thorne said.
Patrick went to the table and looked over Thorne’s shoulder.
“Learn the roads in this area.” He circled a section of the map with his pencil. “And how to get from there back to the farm.” He drew a tiny dot barely visible upon another road some ten miles south of the first. “Take the map with you tomorrow.” Thorne rose to his feet and strode from the room.
Patrick took Thorne’s seat and drew the map to him. He saw several jottings on the borders of the map. He remembered the location of Thorne’s last writing. It read:
We are not forever on earth, only a little time here
Should we be made of jade, we would shatter
Should we be made of gold, we would break
We are not forever on earth, only a little time here.
Patrick didn’t like the black thoughts that must have been behind such words. He looked for other writings and found a few smudged ones where he could still make out the words.
The theme of all the writings was about a short life of little meaning and that bothered Patrick. Did Thorne have a premonition of coming death? If something happened to him, how would that affect Patrick? There was no way to fathom the man and so Patrick shoved aside his concerns and set about studying the pattern of roads depicted upon the map. The first thing that struck him was the many and randomly placed small X’s marked on the roads. He took that to be the places Thorne had stage a robbery. If that was true, the man had been very busy.
*
“Some men think they’ll be safe traveling to London in the very early morning,” Thorne said to Patrick as they dismounted in the woods where the gray light of the false dawn barely penetrated. “They must think all highwaymen are lazy. Today we’ll surprise somebody.”
They tied their horses to trees and walked back to the edge of the woods near the road. Thorne checked his pistols and lay down on the newly fallen leaves.
“What are you going to do with your share?” Thorne asked.
“Save as much as I can and buy shares in a trading ship. One day, I’d like to own a ship. A whole fleet of ships.”
“It’s good to know what you want for then you’ll have a purpose in life.”
“I hope I make it.” Patrick would like to know what Thorne desired.
“I hope you do too.” Thorne settled himself on the leaves and said nothing more.
Patrick studied his comrade’s face in the pale light. Thorne showed no sign that the coming robbery bothered him in the least, or was it fatalism as indicated by his writ
ings. As for Patrick, the approaching danger had him tightly wound. However he mustn’t show it. He checked his pistols to insure the firing caps were snug on the nipples and the lead balls firmly tamped down upon the powder. Still feeling apprehensive about the coming robbery, he lay down and pulled his coat tightly around him to fend off the cool autumn morning. Thorne had provided him with what he called the correct outfit for a highwayman, a gentleman’s riding clothing including jackboots, brimmed hat and large neckerchief. During a robbery, the hat was to be drawn down low and the neckerchief pulled up high to leave only his eyes showing.
Patrick fell to considering this new life he was beginning. He had willingly chosen to continue being a thief. Now he was a thief with pistols and must not allow the increase in danger to overwhelm him. The best way would be not to think about shooting somebody, or being shot. He looked up at the limbs of the tree overhead where each bare limb made its own dark shadow against the brightening sky. He opened his ears to the wind soughing through the woods on its endless wandering across the land. He focused on the pattern of limbs and the sound of the wind. Still now and again thoughts of pulling his pistols and aiming them at someone broke his concentration and had to be suppressed.
The sound of horses’ hoofs striking upon the dirt road broke through the noise of the wind and Patrick rose to his feet. Thorne climbed erect beside him. They stood shoulder to shoulder listening.
“That could be a horse patrol,” Thorne said. “That’d ruin my reputation if we were to try to rob those fellows. How many horses are there?”
Patrick cupped his hands about his ears to increase their ability to gather sound. After a few seconds he said, “More than one. I’d say two.”
“I agree. So that leaves out a horse patrol for they always travel in fours. How do you feel about this?”
“Alright.” To Patrick’s surprise, now that the time for the robbery had arrived, he felt his apprehension diminish by half.
“Good. Now keep you pistols pointing into their faces and make them believe you’ll shoot. But remember we only shoot somebody to save our lives. And don’t use my name, and I won’t use yours.”