When I gave the coachman my ticket, he told me I might take my place. Only then did I discover that an immense fat man was already wedged deep within the basket, asleep and reeking of gin. I could no more shift him than I might have moved the carcass of a dead whale. The best I could do was wedge myself in a tight corner, for this bloated man was unwilling to share, and perhaps incapable of doing so, even the smallest space.
The horses having been changed, the passengers in place, on top, within the coach, and in the basket behind, there was a “Hallo” from the coachman, and off we went.
It is said that a person can walk three miles an hour and sustain such a pace while avoiding the ruts and holes in the roads. By way of contrast, such a coach as I was in could go four miles an hour, but that was when the road was smooth. English roads were almost never smooth. At best their dirt surfaces were broken, rutted, and gouged, level stretches being scarce as unicorns.
Thus the coach bounced and butted, shook and swayed, rattled and creaked, almost every inch of the way. There were moments when the coach, rolling into holes, seemed to drop off a cliff, landing at the bottom with a severe thump, enough to rearrange one’s every bone. At such times my bulging basket companion would fall against me and compress me, or so it felt, into a much smaller size than I already was. My good-natured smiles were useless. It took shoves, pinches, and such slight strength as I possessed to reclaim my small space.
Then there were those times when going uphill that all the men must disembark (never my drunken basket mate) to lighten the load, or to help push the coach along. The task was worse when we were stuck in mud. As for the cold . . .
The basket in which I sat exaggerated all these conditions. I nonetheless remained there with my hat pulled low, my oversized coat tight, hugging my knees, compressed into a corner by my massive basket mate. We traveled in this fashion, until I began to wish I had walked. Is there any inconvenience such as convenience gone badly?
It was late afternoon, and we were going through a patch of forest, when the coach suddenly stopped. All became still. Curious to know the reason, I hauled myself into a standing position so I could look forward over the top of the coach.
Some twenty yards ahead in the middle of the road, blocking the way, was a man astride a horse. He had a black cloak about his shoulders—hiding his garments—and a black mask over his eyes. He wore no hat. The mask in itself was a capital offence, which is to say, the law stated that by wearing one he could be hanged. What’s more, in his hands he brandished a pair of pistols and he was aiming them at the coach.
“Stand and deliver!” he commanded.
Even as I looked on, there was a flash of flame issuing from one of the highwayman’s pistols followed almost instantly by a loud bang! and a puff of smoke. The next moment there came a sharp cry, after which I saw a blunderbuss drop to the ground.
Whoever the man was, he was a superb shot.
“Tell all your passengers to come upon the road,” called the masked man as he cantered forward on his horse.
The coachman shouted, “Get out! All of you! If you value your life!”
Intimidated and terrified, and not considering resisting for a moment, I leaped out of the basket onto the road and held my hands high.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I Provide an Account of a Robbery.
The two men who had been on top of the coach dropped down in almost equal haste. They were followed by the wealthy man and his wife from inside the carriage. Finally, with much grunting and moaning, the large man who shared my basket actually bestirred himself and climbed out. The coachman—who was holding a bloody hand—got down as well, as did the postilion. All were very frightened.
“Line up side by side by the edge of the road,” was the next command from the highwayman. “Place all your money, jewelry, and watches at your feet.”
Very soon there was a small mound of money and watches heaped before each passenger. In front of the wealthy couple was a bag of I knew not what—perhaps jewelry—plus a large snuffbox. It looked to be gold.
The rider wheeled his horse around and deftly dismounted, his cape billowing so he looked like a raven fluttering down to earth. In one hand he held a pistol. In his other hand he had an open sack.
“Please be so kind as to put your goods into this bag,” he said, and proceeded along the row of unhappy passengers. I, with equal reluctance, took out my shillings and laid them at my feet.
We stood there, all in a row, myself included, eyes cast down, fearful of looking at the thief since it was common knowledge that highwaymen often killed witnesses who might identify them.
“And what is your name and position?” the highwayman asked the first man in line.
“John . . . Kolbert, gentleman,” said the man with haughty reluctance even as he put his possessions into the highwayman’s bag.
“Thank you, sir,” said the highwayman and passed on down the line, inquiring politely of each of the people he was robbing.
I was at the end of the line. As he held out his now almost full bag for my contribution, I dropped in my coins. I dared not look up at his masked face, but instead stared at his chest. In so doing I noticed his green jacket with buttons from neck to hem, as well as his fine cuff lace, all of which I recognized. The highwayman was none other than Captain Billy Hawkes.
Such was my surprise I looked up. The highwayman—Captain Hawkes—grinned. He did not bother to ask me who I was.
The next moment, he called out, “Except for this boy, you may all get back in the coach and proceed.”
You might think someone—passengers, coachman, or postilion—would protest this kidnapping of me, a boy, but they were only too happy to escape with their lives. Of course the notion “women and children first” is a rarity. Men first and children last, is what I have mostly observed.
In any case, the passengers—minus me—being all on board, the coachman gave a loud call, the postilion spurred his horse, and the carriage rattled off.
So it was that I was left entirely alone with Captain Hawkes, with me wondering if he was going to treat me as a dangerous witness to his deed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A Short Chapter, Which Nonetheless Contains Some Important Ideas.
If you have followed my story—and I hope you have not skipped a single word because I have labored extremely hard on each and every one—you should have noted that every time I move forward, I am thwarted by an adult. I hasten to say I was not one of those young people who claimed that if I were only left alone by grown-ups, all would be well. No. I simply would have asked the older people who entered my life—those who, in fact, took charge of my life—that they might have consulted me as to what I might have preferred.
The outcomes might have been different.
On the other hand, I would not like you to think me passive. I beg you to recall that I was being continually threatened or had pistols leveled at me by older people. What would you have me do? Turn upon my tormentors and attack them? Consider: How long would I have survived?
No, I understood my position very well: It would take wits to free myself from these tormentors.
Nonetheless, there I was: the London stagecoach gone and me standing on the side of the road, alone with the highwayman, Captain Billy Hawkes.
I could no longer smile. Rather, I was equal parts disgust and despair.
“I was hoping you’d be on that coach,” said Captain Hawkes as he removed the mask from his face so there was absolutely no doubt as to who he was.
The best return I could summon up was a glum, “Please, sir, why?”
The captain offered up his most engaging smile. “When I saw you at that inn, alone and without funds, you struck me as brave. I took a liking to you. How did you get on the coach?”
“Mr. Sandys gave me money.”
“That speaks better of him than I thought. But I promise you, I can do much better.”
“Please, sir, I’d rather do better by myself
.”
He laughed. “You have no choice. Since you know who I am, I can’t hazard having you provide information against me. You’ll have to do as I tell you. But rest assured: I wish you no harm. Do as I say and things will go well. To begin, I need you to get up on my horse and ride with me.”
So it was that I became Captain Hawkes’s prisoner.
When we consider knaves and villains we want them to have cruel faces, uncivil tongues, as if good manners were true mirrors of good souls. I say, better to judge men and women by what they do than how they appear, for a smooth face may be but a mask for sin. There is nothing uglier than a rogue with an engaging smile. And, make no mistake, Captain Hawkes was a rogue. Yet he always spoke with soothing cheerfulness and a laughter-loving smile, the perfect portrait of a polite gentleman.
You must understand that from this time forward, I was never to be out of his control. Still, from the same moment the captain took charge of me I was resolved to regain my liberty. Everything I did was done out of my desire and design to regain my freedom.
Now I shall tell you how well I succeeded.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
In Which I Recount My Time with Captain Hawkes.
The captain got on his horse, his bag of stolen money and goods attached to his saddle. Then he reached down, grasped my hand and hauled me up, so that I sat before him. Quite deftly, he slipped the horse’s reins over me, thus making me truly captive, and we rode off. Such was our speed, and his control of me, I could not entertain thoughts of leaping free.
“Were you still intending to go to London?” he asked as we rode along.
“Yes, sir.”
“To find your father?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, extremely glad I had never mentioned Charity.
“And going to Mr. Wild as I suggested?”
Not wishing to say “no,” I hesitated before saying, “I have not truly considered it.”
“Well,” he said, “we must see him.”
“I don’t wish to,” I said.
“You will regardless.”
The horse galloped on.
I am not sure how far we went, but at some point—we were still in the forest—he turned off and followed a well-worn path among the trees and shrubs. We soon came into a clearing where three men were sitting around a small fire. Behind them were as many saddled horses, their reins fastened to trees.
As the captain and I entered the clearing, these men stood as if to show respect though I assumed that they, like Hawkes, were footpads or highwaymen. They were not dressed as finely as the captain. Instead, there was something rough and ragged about them, in posture as well as in clothing. Dirty, too. But all had pistols tucked into their belts. I understood by the deference they showed Hawkes that they were his gang and he their captain.
The first thing the captain did when we reached the clearing was fling down the bag that contained the money and goods he had taken from the stagecoach passengers. His men promptly took all of it up, and gleefully dumped the contents on the ground.
“You may divide it five ways,” Hawkes announced, grandly looking down at them from his horse. “One share for each of us, and one for Mr. Wild.”
He turned to me. “How much did you put in?” he asked.
“Ten shillings, sir.”
“And ten shillings for the boy,” he said.
“Who’s the chitty-faced cub?” called one of the men.
“What does he look like?” said the captain.
“A gentleman’s charity-boy,” said another.
“Exactly. Gentlemen, have you ever seen such a look of innocence? I warrant it: He shall make our fortunes.”
Without further explanation, he set me down on the ground, and then dismounted. The next moment he retrieved—I know not from where—a leather thong, tied it round my wrist, and fastened it to a small tree on the edge of the clearing.
He, along with the other men, went through the money and watches he had stolen on the road. I was given my shillings back. It included the one that the captain had marked with an X.
“The gold snuffbox goes to Mr. Wild,” Captain Hawkes announced, holding the item up to general admiration. No one objected.
The plunder shared, they all sat around the fire and Captain Hawkes talked about what he had done when he held up the coach: his manner, and the reaction of the passengers. His account brought laughter. He was one of those artful men, as I have suggested, who, even when talking of something offensive, can make you laugh. I will admit, even I laughed.
At one point a man asked, “Did you catch up with Sandys?”
“I did.”
“Give him Wild’s warning?”
“He has it.”
“What will he do?”
“He’ll have to come in.”
The man shook his head ruefully. “He should never have left us.”
Of course, I made no mention of Sandys’s hope to flee to America. But I did note one further thing: Captain Hawkes gave no account of why he had been in Melcombe Regis, or his meeting with Mr. Bartholomew.
That remained a puzzle to me.
A little later another of the men asked Captain Hawkes, “What do you intend to do with the boy?”
“There will be another stagecoach passing through tomorrow,” said the captain. “I have it on good intelligence that it will carry a good deal of money. The boy can be of use to us.”
You may be sure that caught my attention.
“Why do you need him?” asked another.
“I want him to be part of us,” said the captain and he turned to me. When he saw how I looked at him, wide-eyed, no doubt uncomfortable, he offered up his charming smile. Then he added to the others, “The more he is one of us, the less likely he will seek his independence.”
I could have no doubts, he was going to make me, whether I wished to be or not, one of his gang.
After the men had eaten, Captain Hawkes came over to me and squatted down on his heels. “You must forgive the rudeness of these men,” he said to me, as if he and I were particular high-class friends. “My work requires such associations. I promise you, my intent is to help you become a gentleman—like me.”
His three men paid little attention to me, but continually shared stories that almost always had to do with how full of courage they were, and how stupid their victims were. To hear them recount their exploits—and I had no choice—they were all wealthy men, though I rather doubted they were. Else, why were they hiding in a forest, ill-clothed, waiting for their next theft? The exception was Captain Hawkes.
At one point, led by the captain, they sang:
Hark! I hear the sound of coaches!
The hour of attack approaches,
To your arms, brave boys, and load.
See the ball I hold!
Let the alchemists toil like asses,
Our fire their fire surpasses,
And turns all our lead to gold!
It was only when the name of Mr. Wild was mentioned that they grew less jolly. When Captain Hawkes spoke of him, the others listened with care, their faces tinged with concern. My perception of Mr. Wild continued to grow large until I began to imagine him as a ferocious giant, who towered and controlled such men as these. “Tomorrow, after we deal with this coach,” Captain Hawkes announced, “Then I must make a delivery to Mr. Wild in London. When I go, you will need to stay hidden.”
“What about the boy?” someone asked.
“He’ll come with me.” The captain glanced at me, still tethered to a tree, and gave his generous smile.
That meant that I was going to London. Not believing I had cause to be pleased, I did not return the smile. Rather, I wondered what reason the captain had for wanting me to go.
I was fed uncommonly well on what I gather was poached venison. Poaching was another serious breaking of the law. From all I had seen of Captain Hawkes, he could, if brought to trial, have been condemned to being hanged many times over.
That night I
slept on the ground, part of the thieves’ encampment. I had never done so before and I found the hard ground unpleasant. Not only did I twist and turn in search of comfort, I kept trying to untie the leather cord that bound me. But my fingers were incapable of pulling the strands apart. So there was nothing for me to do but wait for the next day to discover how Captain Hawkes intended to make me, as he had said, “part of us.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
In Which I Learn My Fate.
I’m not sure what time I woke, save that it was to the sound of men moving about and talking, and that it was so cold my breath clouded before my face. It took some moments for me to realize that I remained tied to a tree. When the captain noticed I was awake, he ordered my release though you may be sure I was held close.
I again spied about for some ways to get free, but the thieves were always near. Captain Hawkes, in particular, kept his eye on me.
The fire was stirred up. They and I sat about, getting warm and eating. The restlessness the men exhibited—constantly stretching arms, legs, and necks, along with abrupt laughter—showed more uneasiness than the night before, like soldiers right before a skirmish. It made me that much more apprehensive.
The captain laid out his plans. “I expect the stagecoach to pass through sometime about noon,” he said. “We’ll stop it at that narrow point. You know, where the road bends. The trees are close in. We’ll be among them, two to each side. Stay masked. They are carrying a fair amount of money.”
How, I wondered, did he know that?
“It will be the boy who’ll stop the coach,” Hawkes went on to say. He glanced at me and smiled. Into my head came the proverb on the walls of the poorhouse schoolroom-chapel:
A violent man enticeth his neighbor, and leadeth him into the way that is not good.
“How’s he going to do that?” asked one of the men.