Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel

by A. J. B. Johnston

  Thomas twists around to have a better look, as does John Cleland at his side. Their heads nearly strike. Dick Turpin has lowered his black kerchief to take a deep breath. The man looks to be well past thirty, his face grizzled with several days of beard. Petey lowers his mouchoir as well. Thomas spies the face of a choir boy, except for when he smiles. Then something alters and Petey becomes a brute.

  Thomas and Cleland exchange a knowing look. They both know thieves don’t want their faces seen. Each averts his gaze before he’s caught.

  “Here, take this,” Thomas hears Dick say. The voice sounds slightly muffled, so Thomas risks a fresh glance. Sure enough, both highwaymen have pulled their mouchoirs back up.

  Dick hands his nephew a length of rope. “Hold it taut,” is the command. Dick cuts it with a long knife to make four lengths.

  “See what you can do with him.” He points at Thomas. “I’ll do the tall one myself.”

  “And the skirts?” Petey shrugs toward the coach.

  Thomas follows the shrug. Élisabeth and Fanny have come down out of the coach without being compelled and are standing on the ground. They look like soldiers at attention, except that they’re in long pale dresses and have their hands inside their muffs, held tight to their waists.

  “Not bad,” Thomas hears Dick mutter.

  “That they are.” Petey gives his uncle a shifty look. “Hickory dickory dock? What do you say?”

  Dick gives the boy’s shoulder a hard push. “No, you keep it in your pants.”

  “Could be quick.”

  “I bet,” says Dick, “but the answer is still no.” Then he bows to the women, who curtsey in return.

  Thomas rolls his eyes. He cannot believe how foolish the two women are being. First, they came out of the coach. Now they are presenting themselves to the highwaymen as if they are all in a salon. Tempting fate.

  He hears Dick snort a laugh. He can hear what the man says to Petey behind a cupped hand. “We’ll strip ’em to their shifts though. Those dresses’ll fetch some coins.”

  “So why not a bit of hickory dickory?”

  Dick shakes his head.

  “Shame,” says Petey. “Likes the blonde.”

  “Bet you do.” Dick tucks his pistol behind his belt. “First things first.” He bends down to begin tying Cleland’s hands.

  “You lookin’ at?” Petey shouts at Thomas as he puts his own pistol behind his belt. He gives Thomas’s socked feet a kick. “Turn round.”

  Élisabeth elbows Fanny. They share a glance, two sets of flickering eyes. Then with a sharp intake of conviction, Élisabeth tilts her head quickly forward to let Fanny know their moment has come. Fanny blinks, then nods.

  The highwaymen are on their knees, their backs turned to the women as they tie up Thomas Tyrell and John Cleland.

  Each woman casts her muff to the ground. Each lifts her feet as silently as she can and makes her swift advance.

  “Up the hands!” Élisabeth shouts. Her little pistol, known as a Queen Anne, makes hard contact with Petey’s back.

  “Yes!” Fanny yells beside Dick Turpin’s ear. Her Queen Anne lightly touches the man’s back. “Your hands up, I mean.”

  Élisabeth sees Thomas and Cleland lift their heads up off the ground. They are twisting round to see what’s going on. Their hands are partly tied but their feet are unbound.

  “Up, full height,” Élisabeth commands Petey. “Un mauvais tour and I’ll put a hole in you.” Élisabeth jabs Petey’s back with her Queen Anne.

  “That’s right,” Fanny says to the back of Dick Turpin’s head. “You do wrong, I shoot.”

  The two highwaymen slowly turn their heads. Each scowls to see that the two women really do have guns. “God’s arse,” Dick spits out. “Didn’t you check them for guns?”

  Petey shrugs. He shakes his head.

  “Stupid arse,” Dick sputters to himself.

  “We will shoot, we will,” Élisabeth says as calmly as she can. It occurs to her that this must be what it’s like to be a man, a soldier. The power is in your hand. She flashes a look Thomas’s way. He and Cleland are getting up off the ground, their mouths agape. Her chest swells. So it was a good idea after all.

  Thomas shakes his hands free from the unfinished knot. Cleland does the same.

  “Did you—?” Cleland whispers.

  “Not me. They must have—”

  “They must.”

  The two men trade shrugs and grins.

  “Well done, ladies,” Cleland nearly shouts.

  “En effet,” Thomas says quietly, adding a salute.

  Élisabeth and Fanny dart a glance, and flick nervous smiles, but both keep their attention and their tiny pistols pressed into the backs of the two highwaymen whose arms they have forced into the air.

  Thomas hurries to grab first Dick’s then Petey’s pistols from their belts. A gun in each hand, he inhales deeply to slow his thumping heart. He takes aim at the two men’s chests.

  “Bang and bang,” he says. He jerks his hands as if he has really fired the guns. He cannot help but smile.

  “You wait.” Petey’s upraised arms come down.

  “Up!” shouts Élisabeth. Petey winces, so Thomas figures she has jabbed his back. The boy’s arms climb up into the air.

  “That’s right, Petey,” Thomas says as quietly as he can. He wonders if anyone else can hear the pounding in his chest. “You are dead front and back.”

  “Curse yer blue arse.”

  “Shut it.” Dick gives his nephew a scornful look.

  “It seems our wheel has turned.” John Cleland comes to stand shoulder to shoulder with Thomas. “And yours as well.”

  “Lickspittle.” Petey lifts a saucy chin.

  “My, my, what a large word.” John Cleland thumbs his chin at Petey.

  “Leave off, John,” Thomas says. “Come.”

  He and Cleland sidestep in a circle round the highwaymen. They come to stand alongside Fanny and Élisabeth.

  “We’ll take over now, ladies,” Thomas says. He hands Cleland one of the two confiscated pistols.

  “Yes, Fanny,” says Cleland, “give me your gun and you go untie the coachman.”

  Élisabeth and Fanny glance at each other. Then come two tiny smiles, as if in a mirror. Each woman shakes her head.

  “Think not,” Élisabeth says. “How about you give her your pistol, John, and you go untie the coachman.”

  “That’s right.” Fanny waves her Queen Anne like it might be a fan. “We like our guns.”

  Dick Turpin makes a snorting sound. “So it’s the skirts with the balls?”

  “Pussy boys.” Petey smacks his lips.

  Cleland holds up a hand as if he were a bishop. “And yet,” he says, “who were the ones surprised by the women with their wee guns? Answer that.”

  “Stick up your arse,” says Dick.

  “Yeah,” says Petey. “Up the shit hole and twist. Youse fuck-holes.” Petey spits over his shoulder. The gob lands on the road just short of Cleland’s socked feet.

  “Ill-bred nit,” Cleland says.

  “Suffit. Enough.” Thomas rams the barrel of the pistol he still holds into Dick’s back. “Not another word. Compris?”

  “Does fuck off count?” Dick makes a face. “’Cause you sound fuckin’ French to me.”

  Petey grins. “Fuck yer arses, we says.”

  Dick Turpin makes a sucking sound. Petey speaks. “You’re a joke, blue pants.”

  Thomas’s eyes widen in disbelief. He and his friends hold the guns, yet it’s the outsmarted highwaymen spouting off. Thomas takes the muzzle of the pistol in his hand and grazes Dick Turpin’s face. He pretends he’s a barber-surgeon giving a shave. It makes Dick squint.

  “Excuse me.” Cleland taps Petey on the shoulder to get him to turn his way. Then he flips
the pistol Thomas gave him into the air, catching it by the barrel. In one movement he clunks the back of Petey’s head with the butt of the gun. It makes a loud thud.

  “Hey!”

  Cleland shrugs. “Maybe we should get out of here, before I do something I regret.” He hands the pistol back to Thomas and takes a half step back. Then he launches a kick at Petey’s arse.

  “But so far, so good. Nothing yet I regret.” Cleland widens his eyes at Thomas like he’s just told a joke.

  “De grâce, Élisabeth,” Thomas says, “would you please untie the coachman? So we can roll again.”

  “I shall,” replies Élisabeth, “since you ask so nicely. Here, Fanny, you take this.” And she hands over the pistol.

  “You more than surprised Cleland and me, Élisabeth … you and Fanny,” Thomas says. “I’m a little in awe.”

  “I like the sound of that.” Élisabeth gives him a wink before she turns away.

  ——

  “Do we take them to a judge?”

  Thomas cannot tell if Fanny’s voice is filled with hope or dread. Her focus is straight ahead, where she has the two pistols pointed at Dick Turpin’s back.

  “Cleland says we should not dally. We’ll take their pistols and horses and sell them in Bath. Whatever they fetch, we’ll divide five ways.”

  Fanny’s head tilts back. Thomas can see her eyebrows are raised. “The coachman,” he says. “Deserves a share, don’t you think?”

  Fanny nods.

  “Alors, bien fait, let’s go then.” Thomas jabs Petey’s back with the guns in his hands. “You and Uncle Dick. A bas. To the ground and arms stretched out.”

  As Dick and Petey lower themselves, Thomas glances to see what his companions are doing. Cleland is tying the robbers’ horses to the back of the coach. Élisabeth is speaking with the coachman, who is shaking the crimps out of his arms after having been tied up a quarter hour. He is getting ready to climb back up on top and get the coach rolling again.

  Fanny taps him on the arm, and gestures that she wants to back away toward the coach.

  Thomas nods, and steps over to place himself halfway between the two highwaymen spread-eagled on the ground. He too begins to inch backward toward the coach.

  Something rigid makes contact with Thomas’s back. He leaps sideways like a cat. “Quoi?” He raises both pistols to fire.

  It’s Élisabeth, with two firm fingers as the pretend barrel of a pretend gun.

  Thomas averts his eyes, away from her laughing face. He sees Cleland and Fanny, standing at the steps to the coach, hands across their mouths, trying to keep the mirth in.

  Thomas scowls, then remembers. He spins back toward the highwaymen. Each is now up on his knees and elbows.

  “A bloody finger!” Dick shouts. He makes a sucking sound.

  “Shit the cookie, blue pants,” Petey chimes in.

  “Shit a cookie?” Thomas shakes his head. He takes two steps toward Dick and Petey. He aims the pistols at their chests. “Pas un mot,” he warns.

  “Sorry,” Élisabeth whispers near his ear. “Désolée, mon cher.”

  Thomas glances her way. Though her voice is saying sorry, there is amusement in her eyes. He shows her his disappointment with a shake of his head.

  “Oh, it was funny. How you jumped.”

  Thomas exhales, not taking his gaze off the two highwaymen crouched ten feet in front of him.

  “Come on!” It’s John Cleland’s voice.

  “Let’s roll,” another man yells. Thomas steals a look. It’s the coachman. He is waving his whip. “We have to get to Bath.”

  Thomas comes back to Dick and Petey, now on the balls of their feet. They are creeping forward in a squatting position, but freeze when Thomas’s eyes meet theirs. He notices their hands are in fists and there are signs of strain on their faces. They are ready to leap.

  “Allez, Élisabeth,” Thomas says over his shoulder. “To the coach.” He takes aim at the faces of the highwaymen.

  “Whoa.” Dick shows two beseeching palms.

  “Those guns, they …” Petey says.

  “Careful now,” Dick pleads, “they could – explode on you.”

  “Not an inch.” Thomas sets his chin. He has never killed anyone, and he’d rather not start today. Though if he must, he must. Two quick squeezes are all it would take. What’s more, no one would think ill of him. Highwaymen have no friends, save ballad singers. Thomas might even get a reward.

  “Tyrell!”

  Thomas hears panic in John Cleland’s voice. Easy for him. He is safely inside the waiting coach. He does not have two lives in his hands.

  “De grâce, Thomas. Venez, et venez vite.”

  Élisabeth. Thomas is pleased to hear the worry in her voice. Yet he will not turn her way. He does not dare. He has to hold robbers at bay. Or shoot them both. That is his choice.

  He senses his gaze goes somewhere he does not control. It is a blur.

  A stirring sharpens his focus. The highwaymen are moving.

  “Your lives!” Thomas shouts. “In these barrels. Compris? You understand?”

  Dick and Petey nod that they do.

  “That’s right.” Thomas’s voice has calmed down. “It’s simple. You move, I shoot.”

  Their fists uncoil. The toes of their boots dig in.

  “I can put balls in you from any range,” Thomas lies. He’s not fired a pistol in his life. He lifts a foot to the rear. Then he lifts the other. “Stay and you live.”

  “Presqu’ici,” he hears Élisabeth say. “A few more steps. Bit to your left.”

  The two highwaymen stand to their full height. Thomas feels a numbing tension in his trigger fingers. The pistols have come to feel like they’re embedded in his hands. He is holding steady. But what if he is squeezing more and more? At what point do the triggers go too far? He will say it was an accident.

  Dick and Petey begin to step forward at the same slow pace as Thomas is moving backward toward the coach.

  “One more,” Élisabeth says.

  With the small of his back Thomas makes contact with the coach.

  “Beside you. The steps,” says Élisabeth.

  “Quickly. Climb up,” Cleland’s voice implores.

  Thomas summons a deep breath. Dick and Petey have halted no more than a body length away. A leap is all they would need.

  Thomas feels movement in his scalp. It must be sweat, because his armpits and the small of his back are soaked. His eyes burn into Dick Turpin’s who he can see is not in the habit of backing down.

  “Reculez,” he says. He shakes the pistols to make them understand.

  That brings a scornful curl to Petey’s lips. Dick lifts his chin high. “This is England, not bloody France.”

  “Step back! Step back, I say.”

  Dick brings his hands together in front of him, a standing supplicant. Petey does the same. They look like pilgrims on their way to Rome or Rocamadour.

  “Would be a mistake, Frenchie,” Dick says, soft as butter. “You have to give us our property back. We’re Englishmen.”

  Dick’s hands shift from praying pilgrim to spread-open, showing the world he has nothing in his hands. Then he raises a foot to step forward.

  Thomas lowers one of his pistols to aim at that foot. Dick shrugs, and puts his boot back down. “We want what’s ours, nothing more. Our horses and pistols. Then you’re free to go, Frenchie, you and your friends.”

  Thomas forces a laugh. It comes out like the cry of a crow.

  “’Fraid so.” Dick’s head tips back. He places his hands on his hips, an impatient akimbo. “Law’s on our side, not yours. You being a foreigner and all. Solemn word.”

  “Word,” Petey shouts.

  It occurs to Thomas that the stupid are likely braver than the smart. It is probably Petey he should be t
he more wary of.

  Life really is simple. It is about predators and prey. Those who have power want to keep it. Those without – like these two highwaymen – they’ll wheedle, coax, cheat and steal to get what they have not. It feels good, for once, to be higher on the ladder than someone else. A ruler of sorts. Yet what a sorry kingdom: a rogue and a simpleton on a tree-lined country road.

  Thomas exhales. As ruler, he must decide. Squeeze the triggers and let the pistols do their work, or—

  “Tyrell, come on. We have to go.”

  Cleland’s voice makes Thomas twitch. His friend is right. Two bangs, two puffs of smoke. Then they’ll be on their way. Thomas extends both arms, the steel barrels moving closer to the highwaymen’s faces.

  The two thieves’ eyes go wide.

  “Petit mot, Thomas.”

  “Parle vite.” Thomas leans Élisabeth’s way.

  “You don’t need to do it,” she says in French. “Hand us the pistols, to me and John. We’ll keep aim while you climb in. Do you hear me, mon Thomas?”

  Thomas likes that she calls him her Thomas. No one, except maybe his mother, ever called him hers. Not even Hélène.

  Thomas looks Dick Turpin in the eyes. “Your lucky day,” he says.

  He lifts the pistol in his left hand up to where John Cleland’s hand waits. “Et voilà,” he says, placing the other pistol into Élisabeth’s outstretched hand. He hauls himself up the iron steps and into the coach. He wonders if his grin might split his cheeks.

  “Rolling! We’re rolling,” the driver shouts. The coach moves with a jerk, then another, until there comes a steady roll.

  II

  Talk

  En route – November 1734

  For a long delicious moment, no one inside the swaying coach says a thing. All are content, Élisabeth Cauvin observes, to do nothing more than press their backs against the leather seats and fill their chests with air.

  Élisabeth closes her eyes to thank her dead father for teaching her the need for ploys. He told her a female needed to use every advantage and trick she could to stay safe in the world. It is the best advice she has ever heard, and it has become her creed. The only sour note is that Thomas took such fright when with her fingers she jabbed his back. Did he think a third, previously invisible, highwayman had suddenly appeared? But then, what does she really know about the background of the man sitting beside her? Other than he is the most tender lover she has ever had – a velvet man. He loves her body as much as she does herself. For that, she gives Thomas Tyrell an appreciative glance and straightens the folds of her dress.