by Amy Wolf
“Come, Megs,” he said. “It is high time we retire.”
His words sent a chill through me which no wine could dispel. I, above all, knew of the accommodations upstairs, and was not surprised when Tanner led us to a goodly-sized chamber containing but one large bed.
“Fare you well,” he bid, then eyed us both. “I can provide a doxy or two if that’s the gentlemen’s wish.” He winked like a comic actor at the newly reopened Globe.
“It is not,” I said icily, being sure to deepen my voice. “We are weary and in need of rest.”
Jeffries sighed but nodded.
“My young friend speaks true.”
“Very well, cpt’n,” said Tanner, displaying his gap-toothed grin. “If ye change yer mind, ye knows where to find me.”
As he shut the door, I muttered, “Abed with your own doxy.”
Jeffries chuckled. “Well, that went better than expected. He has no idea who you are.”
“It took all my resolve not to shoot him straight through the head.”
“Down, Megs!” said Jeffries. “This hideout is perfection: good wine and a crooked owner. What more can a highwayman ask for?”
I sighed. “Yes, sir.”
He came over and ruffled my long dark hair.
“Do not despair, Megs. Your time will come. Though whether you keep the flame of hate lit is entirely up to you.”
I turned to look at him: what could he possibly mean? My hatred of Tanner would outlast even England’s for the dam’d Dutch!
Jeffries removed his cloak and began to unfasten his doublet’s laces. Though I tried to resist, I felt myself color.
“Come, come, dear Megs,” he laughed, “you needn’t blush before me. We are men of the road, are we not?”
I drew myself up to my full five-foot-five height.
“Indeed we are, sir,” I said.
“And sworn merry companions, with no need to stand on ceremony,” he said.
He proceeded to throw off his collar, breeches, stockings, and boots until he stood before the bed in only his long white shirt. Tiptoeing against the cold, he eased onto the feather mattress, making sure to slide to one side.
“As much as I love the Heath,” he said, “a real bed wins by at least a Newmarket nose.”
I knew this as the course where Charles I had once held races. Now that Cromwell was dead, perhaps this king would resume them.
“Don’t be shy, Megs,” Jeffries entreated, “climb in before you catch cold.”
He gestured to the wide berth on the other side of the bed. Still, I did not move. In truth, I had never slept with another, only rats and fleas on a foul bundle of straw.
“Perhaps I should sleep on the floor,” I said. “Or on that sturdy chair.”
“Nonsense!” Jeffries cried. “I have plans for you on the morrow, and they require you be well-rested.”
I wanted to move but could not.
“Am I not your captain?” asked Jeffries.
“Yes, sir.”
“And do you think . . . that even in light of your circumstances, I would ever harm you?”
His question hung in the air as I considered our long acquaintance.
“No, sir,” I said. “I know that you would not.”
“Then get in before I contradict you and give you a good thrashing!” The laughter in his voice told me he was not serious.
I steeled myself and shed as much of clothing as I thought proper: in truth, it wasn’t much. I still wore my doublet and breeches but made what I thought was a real concession by casting off my coat.
With trepidation, I crept in, then heard a low laugh from the captain.
“Lord, Megs, with your green doublet, I shall no doubt dream of As You Like It.”
Soon, Jeffries’s deep snores told me of his state even as I remained awake.
All the sounds of the inn, every one which I knew by heart: the walls groaning and settling as if to protest old age; the laughter of the drink-fueled party downstairs; Tanner’s heavy step on the stair as he jingled a handful of guineas—seemed to heighten as if I slept in a cave.
When I woke with the sun the next morning, I found Jeffries’s right arm draped across my shoulders, but I was not alarmed. Smiling, I knew that I now possessed something more precious than guineas: the press of true friendship.
Learning the Trade
After both of us had dressed (it did not take long for me), we went downstairs and sat at “the Captain’s” table. There, we breakfasted splendidly on pickled oysters and anchovies washed down by swallows of beer. I had never known such extravagance and frankly felt embarrassed in front of the serving girl. Poor Sally.
Tanner soon took her place. Since his breath stank of onions, I fought to keep my seat.
“All is well, sir?” he asked me, standing with hands clasped before him.
“Quite,” I muttered.
“No complaints?” His grin told me he expected none.
I grunted in response. Oh, I have them, I thought, a full eighteen years’ worth. But I determined to keep silent and follow Jeffries’s advice: save my revenge for future.
Tanner scuttled away like a white-aproned crab.
“We shall change our lodgings tonight,” Jeffries told me.
“Pity,” I replied, as he ruffled my hat’s feathers.
I was never so glad to leave a place (well, perhaps once) as I followed Jeffries into the yard. There, we found our mounts in readiness, held by the same attendant as on the prior eve. He grinned over at me with a fierce expression, nearly making me shudder, but I quickly steeled my limbs. Hoisting myself into my saddle, I was even glad to trot off. Though I tried to mimic Jeffries, whose rear never rose from his saddle, mine spent most of the ride suspended in the free air . . .
And so I made an ungainly companion as Jeffries rode up a small rise fronted by scrabbly heath. This country stretched mostly flat to every horizon. Though it was in Middlesex and not one league from the Whale, I had seldom ventured here, for I knew the local legend: this spot, Hounslow Heath, was a nest of robbers and thieves.
“Come, Megs!” Jeffries shouted, as we entered a narrow valley hidden by slight hillocks. At once, I saw the remains of a campfire and figured that this was another of Jeffries’s hideouts—similar to the one where we’d spent the night before last.
“Dismount,” he ordered, and I did so—gladly. I was as ungainly as Lady Castlemaine had been graceful, and for some reason this brought a lump to my throat. Shaking off the emotion, I watched Jeffries unharness our horses so they could graze where they might.
“We will commence now,” said Jeffries, which caused me to inwardly grown. I did not know to what he referred, but suspected it involved training. “Yesterday you did well,” he said, “but you only held your pistol—now you must learn to use it.”
“I do not wish to shoot anyone!” I cried. “I would rather go before the assize.”
“Then you will be hanged,” he said matter-of-factly.
This made me lower my head, for I knew he spoke truth.
“By no means do I say to become another Prince Rupert,” he chuckled. “God, how that man loved his pistols!”
I started, for I knew of Rupert—everyone in England did. He was the old king’s nephew who had led the Cavalier army against hated Cromwell’s troops. Piqued by curiosity, I wanted to ask Jeffries if he had ever met the prince, but something in his expression caused me to close my lips.
“Now,” Jeffries went on, “as far as pistols go, I have cautioned restraint. But . . . if some puffed-up duke or earl fancies himself a marksman, we must respond in kind.”
“Oh,” I said.
I suppose I had been swayed by romantic tales of tobys, their main weapon being their wit, rather than a loaded gun.
“Pay attention!” Jeffries cried, noting my glazed visage. As he strode toward me, I saw that his dark, shoulder-hair length—his own, as opposed to a wig—made him that much more handsome. I could well imagine a doxy waiting
in every town.
“Megs!”
“Yes, sir,” I said, blinking to clear my mind. Back to business, bad though it might be.
Jeffries seized my pistol from my belt and held it up to my nose.
“This fine gun,” he said, “and I might mention it saw action at Edgewell—is a flintlock. D’you know what that means?”
I thought. “Not really, sir.”
“Dear Lord,” he said softly, backing away. “It is called a flintlock since flint strikes steel and creates a spark, which in turn ignites your gunpowder.”
I nodded, though these were just words to me.
“This is your cartridge,” said Jeffries, dangling a cone of paper before me. It smelled
decidedly acrid. “Inside lies the correct measure of powder, plus a lead ball. Now.”
Opening the pistol from the center, he poured in the cone’s contents, then snapped the weapon shut.
“Breech loading,” he said proudly. “Unusual, but effective.”
“Yes, sir.” I tried to sound knowledgeable.
“Ready?” Jeffries placed the pistol in my hand and gestured toward a tree some thirty paces off. “Aim for the trunk,” he said.
I gulped, setting my feet in what I hoped was a shooting position. This whole matter of “aiming” was completely foreign to me. Still, I closed one eye, steadied my right hand with my left, cocked the pistol, and fired. The sudden flash and noise caused me to drop the gun in terror.
“Ha ha!” Jeffries laughed, holding his stomach. “That will surely impress! At least the birds will fly off!”
He gestured to three startled sparrows.
“Captain Jeffries,” I said, my ears still ringing, “I do not think . . . at this time . . . I am worthy of a gun. Perhaps I can be the highwayman who merely wields a blade?”
“That would have done before the war,” he said, bending to retrieve my gun. “These days, there are many ex-soldiers about who have shot their fair share of men.”
With extreme reluctance, I nodded.
“Very well, you load,” he said, handing me the hated firearm.
I fumbled with paper and powder until I had wasted at least five cartridges. I tried time and again to shred just a splinter from that tree, but it merely stood there mocking me. Indeed, as I went on, my aim seemed not to improve, but worsen!
Jeffries put a hand to his forehead.
“I do not like to give up, but . . . ” he muttered.
This set my cheeks aflame: just two days into my new career, and I was about to be dismissed!
“Please—” I began.
“Watch me.”
Jeffries withdrew one of his pistols, stepped back, and hit a twig from fifty paces . . . five times in a row.
I let out a low whistle.
“I would not wish to face you in a duel,” I said.
“Indeed, you would not,” he answered. “Now, try to steady your arm and keep it perfectly still. Do not flinch when you fire.”
He took a position behind me and I could feel his chest against my upper back. He pulled my shoulders straight.
“Ere squeezing the trigger, draw in your breath and hold it,” he said.
I did.
“Very well. Proceed.”
I aped his stance, both legs spread slightly apart, intent on holding my breath and keeping that barrel steady. A great flash-bang, and then a sliver of bark flew heedlessly from that tree.
“Better,” said Jeffries. “Again.”
And so it went on. From the nearby road, I heard coaches, riders, even a likely robbery, yet I willed my mind not to stray from its task. With each lead ball unloosed, my aim improved so that at first, I hit midway up the trunk; then to an adjoining branch, and finally, scraped a high limb which came arcing out of the sun. Though my arms now ached along with my new-horseman’s legs, I could not help but smile.
“Just so!” Jeffries cried. “You’ll make a highwayman yet!”
I puffed out my chest beneath my coat as I seized another cartridge and poured its contents into the breech. Yet before I could cock the gun, the infernal thing went off in my hand, burning through my glove and emitting a shower of sparks.
“Ahhh,” I groaned, hurling away the flintlock as I doubled over in pain.
“Megs, are you all right?”
Jeffries gently brought me upright, tearing off my glove and surveying my poor right hand. I could see an unnatural redness spread over my palm, accompanied by a terrible throbbing.
“Here.”
Jeffries reached under his cloak and drew out a small vial, from which he extracted an ointment. As he rubbed it over my palm, the relief was almost instant.
“What is that?” I asked, eyeing the potion.
“Crushed Alder leaves,” he said.
I grimaced.
“For all I care, it could be a crushed alderman.”
Jeffries smiled as he wrapped my hand with his handkerchief.
“You’ll recover soon, Megs, but know this to be a danger: an ember must have hid in your barrel. There is naught we can do on the road, for there is no time to clean between rounds. Like soldiers, we must take our chances.”
“I did not know this was a war,” I said.
My fanciful dreams of dancing on the Heath, getting off a good bon mot, and bowing to a chorus of laughter were quickly receding along with my pain.
“This is not a game,” said Jeffries, a pistol held in each hand. “We might be ‘knights of the road,’ but even knights in their armor were slain. Our aim is to rob the rich, and they and those that serve them might very well be armed. That is why when we shoot, we see not a traveler but an enemy on the field.”
I bit my lower lip. As always, he was right. When I’d first asked to join him, I knew my life would be filled with adventure—and might therefore be short. Now, as I looked at Jeffries, I could not fathom out how he had lasted this long. Most high tobymen met their end at an age less than half of Jeffries’s. In fact, not much greater than my own.
“One more thing,” said Jeffries.
Sighing, I bent to retrieve my gun.
“In stature, you are rather small,” he said, “so when you approach your quarry, be sure to swing your arms wide and square your shoulders.”
I nodded, affecting what I thought was a suitably tall swagger.
“Good,” said the captain. “Also, use your voice to instill fear. DROP YOUR WEAPON!” he shouted.
Mine flew from my hand as if in a second explosion.
“Now you say it,” he ordered.
“Drop your weapon!” I yelled, like a mouse issuing a squeak.
“Lower your register,” said Jeffries. His voice took on basso tones. “Like
thisss . . .”
“Drop your weapon!” I shouted, now sounding like a larger animal. A pointer, perhaps.
“Better,” he nodded. “Work on that every day.”
I clutched my throat. “Yes, sir.”
“We sleep in Epping Forest tomorrow,” Jeffries said, handing me back my pistol. “Let us slay a king’s deer and so increase the bounty on our heads!”
My eyes widened, and not just at the thought of bounty.
“But that is more than sixteen leagues!” I cried.
“So long as no highwaymen strike, we should arrive before breakfast.”
Journey to Epping
Still, with each of those leagues, I found myself growing more despondent. As we loped along, making good time while heading northeast, my thighs felt heavy as lead while Jeffries’s borrowed clothes seemed to become even larger. How I longed to stop and rest! I had barely been out of Middlesex—and London—the whole of my life! Yet the captain refused to slow, not in the many villages we passed, nor even at the stone farmhouses enclosed by sheep and crops. My breath began coming in gasps, as did my poor horse’s, but I had come to realize that when Jeffries made up his mind, he was more hard-headed than Cromwell!
Just when I felt I would drop as we left the county
of Essex with its Tudor shops and cathedrals, we came to a place of greenery that truly lightened my heart. Jeffries slowed his lathered mount to a walk and made for a small path which wound between the trees. I could hear the sweet call of birds as we arrived at last by the entrance to a small cave. Finally, Jeffries dismounted, as did I, my legs shaking as they left their stirrups. I helped Jeffries unburden the horses, then watched as he urged them forward to graze upon the tall grass.
“Water,” I croaked. Damn the highwayman’s habit of always traveling light!
Jeffries chuckled, then leaned into the cave to retrieve a large pewter jug. He crashed off through the beeches and birch, giving me time to rest. With gratitude, I sunk onto the still dewy grass and smelled the scents of the woodland: bark, spring flowers, even the fertile soil. What a change this was for me, used to London and its environs! Here, one could just relax and sink into Nature: appreciate her gifts without rushing to and fro. I felt as content as the horses, green hanging from their mouths, as I basked in the cold morning sun which fought to shed its rays between green clumps of trees.
“Look alive, Megs!” Jeffries cried, stomping gentle as a bull through the Epping undergrowth.
Thankfully, he had returned with the jug full of fresh water. I spilled some into my mouth, marveling at its cleanness. At that moment, the normally spurned drink was as precious to me as the finest French wines.
“Much obliged, captain,” I said.
He grunted in response while he proceeded to pick up branches. After amassing a fair number, he removed from his coat the implements he had used before: a small quartz stone and fire striker. Under his practiced hand, the dry wood had no chance, and we soon had a cheerful blaze which guarded against the cold.
After drinking my fill, I leaned on my elbows, staring up at him, my lips forming a question I had wanted to ask for hours.
“Captain, why are we come?”
“Best not to linger,” he said. “Not in any one spot. Promotes our continued existence.”
“I see.”
“I shall now search for game,” he said. “Give thanks to good King Charles for staying away from these parts!”