The Accidental Highwayman

by Ben Tripp

  So I raised my hand and said, “I solemnly swear to do what you ask.”

  She peered at me with her one eye, and somehow although it was as dim as a dead fish’s, I had a feeling she was reading my very thoughts like a penny broadside. But she didn’t remark on it. The promise, it seemed, was sufficient.

  “Find ’ee the coach on the moonlit road,” said she, “and stop it ’ow ’ee will. Take not a farthing of treasure, no matter how much nor the accursed postilion offer to give ’ee, but set the lady free. Succeed, and yer reward shall be what I agreed wi’ yer master. Fail, and the next moon shines uparn yer tombstone.”

  “I ask no reward,” said I, nobly.

  “Yer’ll take it and likes it,” she said.

  Although I still didn’t believe the task could be genuine, some part of me was worried. I thought of my master’s behavior the past few weeks: The very thought of it had set him to pacing and fretting, beset by worries. What if there was a coach, drawn by cloven-footed horses? If it was a difficult job for Whistling Jack, the dauntless highwayman, the exploit would likely prove impossible for me.

  Still, I must make the attempt, for I had given my word. I could wait a few hours behind a tree somewhere, and if the coach didn’t come, I was free to go. If it did somehow turn up, bad luck for me.

  “Where’s this moonlit road?” I asked.

  “Beneath thy feet,” said the witch.

  There was no apparent motion or passage of time, yet in the next moment Midnight and I were standing in the middle of a deeply rutted dirt road, speckled with moonlight that splashed down through the trees. It had been daylight, and now it was night. Magda was gone, the hillside was gone, and before us was the far edge of the forest, with open country beyond. I heard a distant, echoing yodel—a farewell cry from Demon—and then there was silence.

  Something was clasped in my hand. I opened it, and found upon my palm Magda’s spat-out tooth. With a cry I flung it away. Then I mounted unsteadily, my mind stunned with shock, and Midnight took me down the road. He seemed to know where to go, which was useful, because I scarcely knew whether I even rode at all.

  Chapter 7

  THE OWL AT THE CROSSROAD

  MY THOUGHTS grew morbid upon the road. Any bush I passed might conceal that Captain Sterne, or those bandits, or these gibbering goblings. Or Magda herself might be lurking up a tree waiting to smite me with green fire. For the first time, I knew fear of the dark. Every shadow was a crouching monster, every branch a grasping claw, every twig a bayonet. I had scarcely the courage to ride down the lane—how could I gather the mettle to rob an enchanted coach of its passenger?

  I had more or less convinced myself to abandon the old witch’s task, and instead to flee the country as soon as I could find a change of clothes that didn’t mark me for a highwayman. Midnight’s chalk blaze I’d rubbed off earlier; it was surprising how much this little detail changed the appearance of the entire animal. I, however, still matched the description of a wanted man, even with the mask in my pocket instead of across my eyes.

  I let the horse walk slowly—he was more weary than I. We emerged from the forest into moonlight that seemed bright enough to read by after the darkness under the trees. The road was empty at that hour, and no sign of human habitation stood nearby. Ahead I spied a place where we could rest awhile.

  It was a derelict churchyard down a crooked lane, within sight of a crossroad marked by an enormous, gnarled oak tree. The church itself bore a short, square tower at one end, the top broken off as if struck by a giant hand, and the whole almost swallowed up with brambles. It might have seemed picturesque if I’d been in a better humor, and if it hadn’t been the witching hour.

  I found the old oaken door standing open, nearly rotted away. Midnight went inside readily enough, and within was rude shelter. Half of the roof remained to blot out the stars. We were entirely alone, unless one counted the hundreds of tombs jumbled together in the overgrown yard beside the church. In the darkness they reminded me of the slope-shouldered goblings.

  My intention had been to rest, but now I could not sleep. Magda’s curious warning rang in my ears. I’d live a month, if the curse lasted from moon to moon. But such things were all nonsense! She had been trying to frighten me. There could be no lady, no silver coach! I stood in the doorway of the church and looked out upon the crossroad. That is when a large owl alighted silently in the oak, and a cold hand of fear clapped itself around my heart—for I recognized the scene.

  My master’s will contained a drawing of an owl in just such a tree! Despite my superstitious fears, or perhaps because of them, I advanced toward it. The great bird sat on an upper branch and regarded me with enormous, gleaming eyes. I was seized by the urge to throw rocks at it—the creature looked so smug. Its troubles were limited to the supply of field mice, while I was beset by disaster on all sides.

  But as I was contemplating the owl, there came a noise from the nearest hedge: Men were walking along the ditch, speaking in low voices to each other. I cursed myself for a fool, standing out there in the open as I was. The men would emerge onto the road before I could escape back to the concealment of the church. They would surely see me by the moonlight. I heard the distinct scrape of a sword being drawn from its sheath. It might be bandits or soldiers; whichever, it was nobody good for me.

  Heart leaping, I clambered up into the branches of the tree, the only place of concealment near to me. I climbed until my coat-tails didn’t hang down where anyone could see them, and crouched upon a thick limb, as still and silent as I could.

  “Did you hear that?” a voice said, perilous near. “In the tree.”

  The owl gave me a quizzical look, hooted softly, and then spread its wings and rowed away into the night sky.

  “’Tis but a rat catcher!” said a second voice.

  Two men emerged from the shadow of the hedge. They made a most extraordinary pair. One of them might possibly have been five feet tall, if he stood on an ant-hill; the other was a giant. He would not have fit through the door of the old church. But the man’s head was hardly larger than his own fist. Even by moonlight he didn’t look very clever. He need not be clever to operate a club, however, and he carried a tremendous wooden staff that I doubt I could have lifted off the ground.

  The shorter man wore hip-height boots—all boots were hip-height to him—a brace of pistols, and a very long coat that nearly brushed the ground, giving him the look of a child dressed up in his father’s clothes. But he was the indisputable leader of the pair.

  “D___ that owl,” he said, and added a few more maledictions. Then he turned his attention to the road. “The carriage of what we have got wind is to come down the forest road, there. We shall wait in amongst them bushes. You come out in front of the horses and I’ll come out behind the footman, but wait until the signal.”

  “What is the signal?” the giant asked in a booming cistern of a voice.

  “The same signal as always, you clot.”

  “Oh,” said the giant. There was a pause, during which crickets fiddled and a light breeze soughed across the fields. Then the giant continued. “The same as what?”

  The short man scrubbed his face with both hands, grinding back a palpable fury. “The problem with you,” he said, “is that you’re too small. Your brain is too small and you are too delicate for this kind of work. One must be of rippling brain and massive in size as I am, in order to rule the highway. There’s a reason they call me Giant Jim, and there’s a reason you’re only my gang.”

  Now I understood it. Giant Jim was among the thieves specifically named in the royal proclamation. By now, both of them stood directly beneath me; the large man was so large the point of his hat nearly brushed my boot-heels.

  “What if,” said the large man, after he’d spent some more time thinking, “you hide up in amongst this tree?”

  My blood ran cold—when he pointed into the tree his enormous hand nearly toppled me from my branch. Luckily, Giant Jim did not look up. Inst
ead he kicked the real giant’s shin.

  “How dare you! Mutiny, I call it! This little sapling couldn’t bear my tremendous weight. No, we conceals ourselves in those bushes, and springs out in the order described upon the signal aforenamed.”

  “The same signal as always.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which is what?”

  Giant Jim threw his cocked hat upon the ground—a brief trajectory—and danced upon it, hurling vile curses at his companion. Once the frenzy abated, he snarled, “I shout ‘get them’ and you get them.”

  It seemed as good a signal as any to me; but then, I wasn’t really a highwayman.

  The two bandits went to their positions down the road, a great relief to me. I could still smell the stink of the giant, which had filled the space inside the tree. Had I been detected, that mighty club would surely have killed me with a single blow. But now I was well and truly stuck. I could not descend from the tree without being observed, and although I might be able to outrun their legs, I couldn’t outrun a pistol-ball. So I carefully changed my position (my legs had fallen asleep), drew out the mask and tied it about my face to make me harder to spy in the tree, and prepared myself to wait it out. I hoped Midnight would remain quietly inside the church, the broken spire of which was not very distant.

  Now, mad things had been happening, so it was not a great surprise when I began to think I could hear voices in the tree with me. They were very small voices, as if two men were speaking from far away; but unless my ears deceived me, they were coming from somewhere inside the canopy of the tree, a few feet above me. I couldn’t quite make out what the voices were saying, but it sounded like an argument. It might have been a trick of the night air. Or insanity.

  Then a new sound came, of horse’s hooves and the creaking and rattling of a fine coach, and I forgot the voices. A terrible fear overcame me—here I was up in a tree, dressed as a highwayman, with pistols and sword and a commission to rob a coach and kidnap its passenger. What if this was the very coach? Or worse, a magistrate on his way home from a late game of cards?

  The terror was still with me when I saw a team of six horses emerge from the forest, and there behind it was the coach on the moonlit road. There could be no mistake: This was the one of which Magda had spoken, the very coach I was required by some magical treaty to do my worst upon. Its green sidelights swayed, revealing glimpses of pale metal trimmings and the outline of a tall, thin postilion driving at the front. The moonlight fell upon ornate carvings on wheels and cabin. The horses were silvery. I saw a heavy bull-whip in the hand of the postilion; he scourged the horses without mercy. Within a minute, the vehicle had come to the place where the two bandits were hidden. I thought I might faint.

  There was a cry of “Get them!” and Giant Jim leapt from his hiding place, pistols drawn. “I said ‘get them,’” he repeated. A moment later, the actual giant lumbered out of the bushes and stood squarely in front of the speeding carriage. He was nearly cut down, so close did they come. The horses reared and clawed, and I saw that they did indeed have cloven hooves, as those of goats. It also appeared they had sharp teeth, like wolves’ fangs, and they didn’t so much whinny as bark. The giant waved his club at them and they backed away from him, almost crushing Giant Jim.

  “Get down with you,” Giant Jim commanded, and waved his pistols at the footman and driver as they climbed down from the coach.

  “You’ll suffer for this,” the postilion said. He didn’t sound the least bit afraid, but rather like a man delayed by a broken martingale buckle.

  “Shut your gob, you miniature mannekin!” Giant Jim said. The postilion was at least two feet taller than him. I suspected the bandit was laboring under some kind of delusion.

  “We should cooperate with these gentleman, Mr. Bufo,” said the postilion.

  “Yes, Mr. Scratch,” the footman replied. He was a heavy, barrel-shaped fellow with a startlingly flat head beneath his too-small periwig. They took up positions at the doors on each side of the coach.

  I wondered if they were guarding its passenger from the bandits, or guarding against the passenger’s escape. I knew nothing of the circumstances of my own mission, of course, except that a kidnapping was required. I didn’t even know if the lady wanted to be kidnapped, or if she knew of the plan. But to be this close to the coach I was supposed to rob—my pulses throbbed enough to make me see spots. So far, everything Magda had said, no matter how peculiar, had come true.

  If these other bandits got the result I was supposed to achieve, would I be released from my duty? And if they got their hands on the lady, what evil might befall her? I began to understand why the old witch had not been enthusiastic about employing my master. Highwaymen were not to be trusted.

  Giant Jim swaggered up to Mr. Bufo. “You down there,” he said, looking up. “Take out the luggage.”

  The footman bowed, his wig clinging to the top of his head like a flatfish to a rock. Then he opened the coach door and handed out a carved wooden chest upon which silver mountings gleamed. I saw on the door of the coach a curious device, of serpents intertwined with insect’s wings, all wrought upon a silver crest.

  “What’s in the box?” Giant Jim demanded.

  “A fortune in silver and jewels,” Mr. Scratch replied.

  “Silver and jewels,” Mr. Bufo added. His voice was a croaking thing, wet and low.

  “Open it or I’ll crush you beneath my enormous boot,” Giant Jim said.

  All this time, my mind had been racing. When the footman opened the coach door, I strained my eyes to see inside the compartment, to no avail. How could I rescue the lady within? If she was in danger from the peculiar servants, she was in more danger from these criminals. But at this moment, with Mr. Bufo’s hand upon the lock of the chest, a new voice was added to the scene.

  “Levantar los manos!” it cried, and when nothing happened, “Raise your hands.”

  A man dressed in a bullfighter’s costume revealed himself. He had been hiding behind a fence across the way. He was a rather threadbare-looking fellow, very thin, with black mustaches that hung past his chin. In his hands was a blunderbuss or espingole, a gun capable of firing several balls at one shot. He kept the entire party covered as he advanced.

  “Place down las armas upon the ground,” he said. “Pronto.”

  “You wants us to raise our hands and lower our arms? It’s impossible,” Giant Jim said.

  “Your weep-ons of danger,” the stranger clarified. Giant Jim and his accomplice dropped theirs, and the postilion laid down his whip.

  “I yam Don Pinto, the Spanish Desperado,” the man said, grandly. “At your servants. You will to me give the chest of money, and I will away with it go.”

  “We were here first,” Giant Jim complained.

  The bandits started to argue among themselves. There seemed to be an understanding that gentlemen of the road in Britain didn’t interrupt each other’s conquests. The Spaniard disagreed, saying there was no such custom in his country.

  Mr. Scratch interrupted after a few exchanges, practically hopping with impatience. “We have a schedule to keep,” he hissed. “There lies the extent of our wealth; take it if you dare, and allow us to be gone, sirs, or I shall not be responsible for the consequences.”

  This speech stopped the bandits in mid-argument. “It is mine,” the Desperado said, and bade Mr. Bufo open the casket. Up came the lid.

  Within was a dazzling heap of bright silver coins and ornaments, the latter richly adorned with jewels that struck the eye: red, green, purple, and blue stones that seemed to treble the moonlight upon them, dancing with color. I cared nothing for that stuff, pretty as it was, but it so impressed the bandits that they quite forgot their quarrel, encircling the treasure. The moment their eyes were off him, Mr. Scratch raised a hunting horn to his lips and blew a single note, loud enough to stir the leaves of my tree.

  In a trice the Desperado brought his blunderbuss around, but the very next moment a strange cloud descended upo
n him, and he and the other bandits were screaming and flailing the air as if they’d stepped in a wasps’ nest. I saw flickering green lights encircling their heads, and then they were running for their lives pell-mell through the dark landscape.

  The servants wasted not another second, but threw the chest back inside the cabin and leapt to their positions on front and back of the coach. Mr. Scratch slashed at the weird horses with his whip, and they were rolling directly beneath my perch in the tree a few moments later.

  I hadn’t the faintest idea what had befallen the bandits, who continued to flee screaming across ditch and field, but what befell me next was clear enough. A wee voice directly beside my ear said, “Now’s your chance,” and I was so affrighted I fell off my branch and landed on the roof of the accursed coach.

  Chapter 8

  RESCUE, AFTER A FASHION

  LILY WOULD not have approved of my acrobatic skill. I fell through the branches in a great shower of leaves and landed facedown on the very cabin of the coach, knocking the wind out of my lungs, the hat off my head, and my teeth together. I hadn’t an instant to collect myself before a powerful fist closed around my ankle and Mr. Bufo was dragging me toward him.

  His eyes were set almost on the sides of his low skull, and when he opened his mouth his whole head seemed to hinge wide like a snuffbox. He looked more like one of Magda’s goblings than a man.

  “Another one,” he croaked.

  “Kill him,” said Mr. Scratch, not even looking back. For my part, I had not been idle; I was gripping the silver top-rail around the roof of the coach with one hand, and with the other trying to pry the footman’s fingers loose. Even in my alarm I could not help noticing the man had only three thick fingers and a thumb, and they were as fast around my leg as leg-irons. Then he shook me loose and threw me over his shoulder as if I were a handkerchief.