by Sara Fraser
‘Quiet a minute!’ He dug his elbow deep into the side of the guffawing Timpkins. ‘Listen, damn ye!’
From outside the horses could be heard moving restlessly and one gave a high-pitched whinny of alarm. The three dragoons got to their feet, careful to make no noise. The corporal and Timpkins each took up a carbine and the Irishman drew his sabre. They crept towards the door and at a signal from the corporal charged outside.
‘There he is!’ the Irishman shouted, and Jethro also jumped to his feet and ran to the door. He saw in the moonlight a scene which seemed frozen into stillness.
The fettered man had been mounting one of the horses and now he hung poised, his eyes like black holes in the moon-silvered shaven head. The soldiers’ mouths were open and their cries blended into one excited peal. The tableau shimmered then blurred into fluid motion. The fugitive flung his leg across the saddle, his heel gouging desperately at the horse’s sweat-streaked flank.
The Irish trooper leapt at him, his sabre whistling towards the man’s neck. Wright swayed under the crescent of steel and in the same instant brought his hands together and whirled the long fetter chain over his head. The heavy links wrapped themselves around the trooper’s sword arm and Wright jerked savagely, bringing the man stumbling towards the horse. The trooper collided with the beast and began to fall back, as he did so the chain slipped from his arm and the convict lifted his foot and pistoned the heel against the other’s jaw. The Irishman was spun round by the force of the blow, his eyes rolled up in his head and he tumbled senseless to the ground. The fettered man drove his mount in a wild snorting, rearing circle, forcing the remaining dragoons to jump to safety from the menace of the flailing hooves, then galloped away from the inn.
The corporal kept his head as the escaper rapidly widened the distance.
‘Shoot the horse, Timpkins!’ he ordered curtly.
Timpkins aimed the carbine and fired. The horse staggered, galloped a few yards more, then dropped, pitching its rider over its head. The man’s flying body cartwheeled and thumped into the dirt, causing the dust to spurt, then remained still. The corporal slapped Timpkins’ shoulder.
‘Good shot, lad. Now mount up and go and see if the bugger’s dead.’
The fallen horse and man were less than fifty yards from the inn and-Timpkins trotted his mount towards the prostrate heaps. As he did so, the fettered man stirred and forced himself up on to his hands and knees.
The corporal lifted his carbine. ‘I’ll make sure of the bugger this time,’ he grunted, and took careful aim.
The moonlight was so bright that the target was as clear as if it had been high noon. Bang! The gunbarrel flew up into the air and the lead ball keened harmlessly skywards. The corporal swung to confront Jethro, his face suffused with incredulous anger.
‘God rot your bloody eyes!’ he roared. ‘What in hell’s name did you do that for?’
Jethro faced him steadily. ‘I knocked the gun up to stop you murdering a helpless man,’ he answered, his own anger rising.
There was a shout from Timpkins, causing both men to look round. The fugitive had picked himself up and was making off into the scrubland, leaping the clumps of furze like a cat.
‘There’s your bloody helpless man for you,’ the corporal raged, and cupping his hands to his mouth he screamed, ‘Get after him, you damned fool!’
The trooper drew his sabre and spurred his horse over the scrub in pursuit; the corporal also drew his sabre and jabbed the point against Jethro’s stomach, forcing him back to the wall of the inn.
‘You and me will wait right here, my fine friend. You’ll hang for what you’ve done this night.’
He raised his voice and shouted for the landlady and her husband. When they came from the corner where they had been cowering ever since the first shot was fired, the corporal indicated the still unconscious Irishman.
‘Take him inside and see what you can do for the useless bugger,’ he snarled. His expression brooked no argument and the couple meekly obeyed his orders.
The fettered man and Timpkins were by this time out of both sight and hearing and the minutes lengthened. Jethro moved once and immediately the sabre point was twisted dangerously into his taut stomach muscles, ripping the skin so that he felt a white hot pain and a trickle of warm blood fall down his belly. The corporal began alternately to taunt and abuse him, and as the tirade went on and on, Jethro closed his eyes to block out the hate-filled face.
‘You fancy-spoken bugger, you! You’ll swing and be throttled in place o’ that gaol rat whose life you saved . . . And I’ve news for you, you whoreson, I’ll make it my business to see that you’re a long time adying, you bastard! And another thing, you ain’t saved his life at all, because if Timpkins don’t settle him, then I’ll save the hangman a job and slit the bugger’s throat meself. We’ll see if you can stand the sight of a bit o’ blood when Timpkins brings that—AGGGGHH!’
The rabid voice was abruptly choked off and the sabre clattered to the ground.
Jethro opened his eyes to see the corporal’s eyes bulging from his head and his tongue protruding from his gaping mouth, while his hands scrabbled uselessly at the iron chain buried in his throat. In seconds the dragoon’s body arched, limbs jerking frantically and went suddenly slack. His garrotter lowered him gently to loll across the fallen sabre.
The attacker grinned at Jethro’s stupefied expression and winked.
‘Turpin Wright is not the sort o’ man to leave a good friend to face trouble alone,’ he chuckled.
Before Jethro could recover himself sufficiently to answer, the sound of hooves was borne on the gentle wind, and far down the road they could see the small black silhouette of a fast-approaching rider.
‘Come on, cully, that’s the fool that was chasing me. I give him the slip as soon as I started running then come back here to see what there was to see. I ’eard this pig,’ Wright stirred the corporal’s inert body with a kick, ‘a-promising you all the torments of hell, so I thought I’d better get you out on it. Come now, let’s be away afore that trooper gets here.’
Jethro needed no urging, and the two men ran into the scrubland and were lost in its shadows before Timpkins reined in his lathered mount at the alehouse door.
Chapter Three
‘You damned fools!’ Captain William Seymour’s tall elegant body shook with the intensity of his anger as he faced the three soldiers standing rigidly to attention before him in his tent later that night. ‘You had Turpin Wright in your power and then by your own crass stupidity let him escape you.’
‘No, sir, begging your pardon,’ Corporal Ryder’s leather neck-stock had saved him from death by garrotting, but the croaking of his voice demonstrated the terrible pain and effort it cost him to force speech from his damaged throat. ‘It warn’t our fault sir, it were the other one who ’elped him to . . .’
‘Keep silent, blast you!’ Seymour’s arm rose and he whipped his hard hand backwards and forwards across the corporal’s face until the man broke ranks and cowered against the canvas tent-wall. The captain’s lean cruel features were drained of colour and the outer side of his left eye twitched erratically. ‘I’ll see to it that the three of you get the flesh dragged from your bodies by the lash, for this night’s work . . .’ His eyes were merciless as they switched from one to the other of the men, then his anger erupted uncontrollably and he drove his fists at the heads and chests of the two troopers, until they also fell back to crouch at the side of the corporal, their arms shielding their bleeding faces.
‘Get out of my sight!’ Seymour screamed. ‘Or by God above, I’ll kill the three of you.’
He launched himself at them with renewed fury, using his spurred riding boots to kick them from the tent. Once alone he remained standing until his anger had abated, then sat on his camp bed and tried to plan what action he could take to save himself from his superior’s wrath at the escape of Wright.
‘Captain Seymour, sir?’ a man called from outside.
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sp; Seymour rose and lifted the tent flap. A sergeant holding a flaming torch which spluttered and flared in the gusts of wind, stiffened and saluted.
‘Yes, sergeant, what is it?’
‘If you please, sir, Major Hickey wishes to see you immediately. He sent me to light you to his quarters.’
‘Very well.’ Seymour took his black riding cloak from the bed and fastened its folds across his shoulders, covering the splendour of his blue regimentals with their crimson facings and silver lace. Then he fitted his shako at a rakish angle on his blond hair and followed the sergeant through the lines of bell-tents.
There were four troops of the regiment quartered in this large field on the outskirts of Ludlow town, and as William Seymour’s Hessian boots crushed down the downtrodden grass, he mentally cursed yet again the orders which had brought him here two weeks previously to act as escort to convicts.
Major Henry Hickey, the second-in-command of the regiment, had made his headquarters in a tumbledown hut in one corner of the field. He was seated at his desk, his grey head bent studying the documents before him, when Seymour entered the room. He looked up and in the fitful gutterings of the two candles on his camp table his face showed deep-etched lines of worry.
‘Thank you for coming so promptly, Will,’ he said quietly. ‘Be kind enough to close the door. I have that to say which I do not enjoy saying, and do not want others to hear.’ Seymour did as he was bid, then stood stiffly in front of the desk, his face impassive.
The other man sighed gustily. ‘I fear that this affair may cost you your commission, Will,’ he said sadly. ‘These men, the escaped convict and his accomplice, have made a laughing stock of both you and the regiment. I shudder to think of what the colonel’s reaction will be, when he hears of this day’s happenings. He will demand that you be court-martialled.’ The side of Seymour’s eye began to twitch erratically.
‘Be damned to the colonel!’ he spat out. ‘He’s nothing but an old woman. And be damned to you also, Hickey, for not turning out every man we have here to hunt those bastards down!’
The other’s expression was shocked. ‘That is unjust of you, Will,’ he protested. ‘I turned out a full troop . . . You know full well that I have had the “route” come today. We must march north tomorrow. I could not order the men out.’
Seymour bent and placed his two hands on the desk top.
‘Then let me have a small party, and detach me to hunt the pair of them down . . . By God, Major Hickey! You owe me that much,’ he urged, adding silently, ‘you weak, snivelling turd!’
The older man seemed undecided, his fingers twisting and turning around his quill pen.
‘You were my father’s oldest and dearest friend,’ Seymour pressed him. When he purchased this captaincy for me before his death, he begged me to regard you as my second father. He said to me that since he had once saved you from disgrace, you would always remember him kindly, and act so towards me, his only son.’
The major nibbled his lips and, in a flare of petulance, he burst out, ‘Indeed I have always served you with kindness, Will! You seem to forget that when you applied to join this regiment you had already been made to resign from the army once for ill-treating the men under your command. It was only my insistence that finally decided the colonel to accept you, and then he did so with reluctance because you had also gained a well-deserved reputation as a duellist.’
The tiny muscle at the side of Seymour’s eye began to throb once more as he struggled to control the almost overwhelming lust to tear and batter the man before him. He straightened his body and kept his hands tight-clenched to his side. When he spoke, his voice was thick with rage.
‘I was but a boy then, Major Hickey. But I believe in discipline and the only way to discipline the scum that come to the army is by instilling fear into their very souls. By showing no mercy to those who would challenge the lawful commands of their betters. As for the other, the duelling . . . Well, I tell you, Major Hickey, that if the Devil himself were to offend my honour, then I would call him out.’
The major felt fear course through his body, and realized that if he was not careful, he might well be facing Seymour with a pistol in his hand at dawn. Hastily he tried to mollify the man. ‘No, no, Will. Do not misunderstand me. I think that you are right in what you say . . . Indeed it is a most noble trait in a man that he should be ready at all times to defend his honour. Why, I myself have on occasion . . .’
‘We are wasting valuable time, sir!’ Seymour contemptuously cut short the protestations. ‘While we talk the convict and his friend are escaping from us. Let me take some men and go after them. Give me just a little time.’ Seymour’s mind had been working and now he saw a possible way out of his predicament. ‘There, I’ll strike a bargain with you. Give me a month only. If I have not caught them by a month from today, I’ll save you from the Colonel’s rage by sending in my papers and leaving the regiment. That way we shall both avoid a court martial for failing in our duty. For make no mistake, in the code of military justice you, as my commanding officer will be held equally responsible with me for what has happened.’
Major Hickey snatched at this chance to wriggle out of a dangerous situation.
‘Very well, Will. It’s a bargain. But mind! I can only spare you a handful of men.’
Seymour grinned savagely. ‘Three will be sufficient, Major, I have the very ones. I’ll warrant they’ll be like true hounds of hell in the chase. Success in it is the only thing that can save them from the lash . . . and from me.’ He left the major’s quarters and, deep in thought, made his way back to his tent. When he reached it, his soldier servant was inside cleaning accoutrements.
‘Leave that now,’ Seymour ordered. ‘Who is the sergeant of the main guard?’
‘Sarn’t Wilkes, sir,’ the man told him.
‘Good! Go to him and tell him that Captain Seymour wishes the convict, Jackie Smith, to be brought to his tent for questioning.’
The man saluted and left the tent.
Seymour sat on his camp bed and waited. ‘Like all good generals,’ he thought, ‘I must make sure that I have a line of retreat open to me in case of need.’
*
Dawn was greying the night sky before Jethro Stanton and Turpin Wright dared to halt for a rest. Jethro sank to his knees and rested on his hands, his head and body parallel to the ground while he drew in great gasps of frosty air. His companion remained standing, his head and shoulders moving constantly as he peered about him.
‘Phew!’ Jethro lifted his head. ‘You drive a hard, pace, master.’
Turpin Wright grinned down at him, showing brown snags of broken teeth. ‘Theer’s naught to make the feet feel lighter than remembering the stink o’ the hangman’s armpits when he puts that bloody rope around your neck, my friend.’
Jethro nodded. ‘I believe you. There were times last night I thought you were flying above the ground.’ He pushed himself erect and clambered to his feet. ‘Where are we, do you think?’
Wright scratched his shaven head, causing his fetters to clank softly.
‘Well, it’s hard to know exactly, but I reckon we’m on the south-west side o’ the Long Mynd, about seven mile from Craven Arms crossroad.’
‘That means we’ve been travelling towards Ludlow,’ Jethro pointed out anxiously. ‘There’s nigh on a regiment of cavalry there. I saw them when I passed through. We should have headed the other way and widened the distance, not shortened it.’
‘Hold hard, friend,’ Wright chuckled. ‘That’s the mistake the other fools made, who broke away wi’ me. I’m willin’ to lay you odds that they’se all bin took be now . . . No, the best thing is allus to head wheer they’ll not expect you. Straight towards um. We ’em safe enough ’ere and once I get rid o’ these,’ he shook the chain joining his wrists, ‘then we’ll show ’um a clean pair o’ heels, all right.’
‘Oh no!’ Jethro lifted his hand in a gesture of negation. ‘Not we! Only you.’
Turpin Wright�
�s bright blue eyes twinkled happily. ‘Think agen, Jethro Stanton. Think agen.’
The young man’s jaw dropped in sheer surprise.
‘Ahr!’ Turpin Wright nodded and chuckled. ‘That shook you, me aknowing your name like that, didn’t it, Jethro? And I knows a lot more besides.’ He laid his forefinger upon the side of his twisted nose. ‘I never forgets a face, nor a name. I knew you the minute I clapped me peepers on you larst night at the alehouse.’
Giving Jethro no time to recover from his shock, he went on, ‘Now, the way I sees it, Jethro, the sodgers ’ull be arter you as strong as they’m arter me, and if you was to leave me now . . . Now I needs your help to get these bloody bracelets off . . . Well, if they was to take me, they’d force me to give your name to ’um, ’udden’t they? They’d not let me rest easy until I did, ’ud they?’
For a moment, quick anger rose to Jethro’s head, but something about the other man’s twinkling eyes and infectious chuckle disarmed him, and in spite of himself he laughed.
‘You’re a bloody rogue, Turpin Wright,’ he said, then admitted, ‘But I take your point, the soldiers are also after me now . . . It seems we are to be fellow travellers for a while longer, so we’d best shake hands on it and be friends. But tell me, how is it you know me?’
‘I’ll gladly take your hand, young ’un,’ Wright said, and followed words by action. ‘But as for the other, well, it’s a long story and there’s no time to tell it now. Have you money?’
‘A few pence only,’ Jethro told him. ‘I had some more stowed in my blanket-roll back at the alehouse. No doubt the lobsters have drunk it away by now.’
‘Don’t fret about it, I’m the man to find more,’ Wright said. ‘If our luck holds we’ll ha’ plenty and to spare shortly. Come, let’s get on, we’ve a lot o’ ground to cover.’
‘Which way do we go?’ Jethro questioned. Wright winked at him. ‘Towards the land o’ sheep, rain, and pregnant women, wild Wales. But the next stop is a place called Bishops Castle. I know a blacksmith there, who’s got a close mouth and a greedy heart. Just to make it hard for ’um, we’ll circle and come up to the Castle from the south.’