The Accidental Highwayman (5 page)

I didn't dare shout anything lest I give away the trick—my voice was nothing like my master's—but I could still make noise. I drew the pistol from my belt and fired it wildly behind me. A volley of curses followed the report of the weapon, and then Midnight was galloping full tilt through a wood, and it was all I could to do avoid being swept out of the saddle by low branches. I kept my course directly away from the Manse, so that none would think “Whistling Jack” intended to return.

Twenty minutes later, I was back at the Manse by a roundabout route, with Midnight tied to a tree behind the carriage house in case the marauders had decided to pursue their original purpose. I crept onward to the kitchen door, then pulled open the small scullery window beside it. I'd unlatched it for just this occasion, the door being locked. I didn't dare open the door in case my master's enemies were already in the house—they would certainly hear the clank of the old, stiff lock.

I climbed through the window, and there the stealth ended. The window frame tipped my hat over my eyes, and then I tangled my legs in the sword. Thus encumbered, I fell headlong over the stone sink, smashed a stack of china plates, broke a couple of bottles, and upset a tin washtub that clanged like the bells of St. Ives Cathedral. Demon started making his shrieking sounds, somewhat like a hyena with its head caught in a jar. So much for caution. I limped into the kitchen.

My master was dead, it appeared, his underclothes stained with blood. Demon stood between his feet, small but determined, his short, tawny fur bristling and his face rumpled with agitation. The Master was entirely still, his eyes fixed heavenward, his face as white as sugar. But when I entered the room, those glassy eyes rolled in my direction.

“You'd make a fine cat burglar,” Master Rattle whispered. “But why are you dressed in my costume?”

“Sir, I think I lured them away,” said I, still breathless from my adventure. “It worked: They thought I was you. I heard them call your name, and they shot at me, sir. But Midnight took me off like a feather on a hurricane, and we left them handily behind.”

“You're a fool,” Master Rattle said, his voice as faint as falling snow. “It was a good idea of yours—they won't dare return tonight if they think me uninjured. After that it doesn't matter. But I told you not to take my part in any of this, and now you have. You've sealed your fate.”

“You're not done yet, sir,” said I, trying to sound encouraging. But my voice broke a little with grief. The shadow of death was unmistakably upon him.

“I think by now you know my secret,” Master Rattle continued, ignoring the encouraging words. “I'm Whistling Jack the highwayman. That's why I'm out all night on occasion. My income doesn't support a gambling habit and a drinking habit at the same time, so I've more than made up the deficit by robbing members of my own social class. I once stopped a coach belonging to my very own uncle, in fact.”

“I never knew, sir,” I said, as if my ignorance were some sort of error. My worst fears had come true. That scold Molly Figgs had been correct in her wicked conjectures, and I had served a criminal for two years and thought myself a gentleman's gentleman. But at the same time, I knew him to be a good fellow, and kind, and a friend when he might more easily have been a tyrant. He
was
a gentleman. How he made his income didn't change any of that. I was pulled both ways, and all the while my head whirled with sorrow and fear.

Demon was licking his master's hand now, and the sight of that little creature's devotion stung fresh tears to my eyes.

“You never suspected, that's why,” Master Rattle said. “You're far too generous for your own good. But there's no time. Already my sight fails me. Mr. Bristol—Kit, if I may—you'll find my last will and testament beside my hand. Take it. Turn Nell and the gray loose; they'll find homes soon enough.”

“I'll change out of these clothes, sir,” said I, “and fetch the king's men once—if—you're gone. There's an end of it. I'm guilty of nothing, so I'll remain. There's no need to flee into the night.”

“No, Kit,” my master said, and found the strength to grip my wrist. He sat up a little, so urgent was his concern. His eyes blazed. “There's a fellow about named Captain Sterne who will hang any man found with me. But he's the least of your worries. Through your efforts on my behalf tonight, you are now bound to the very task I so feared—the thing that made me such poor company these last few months.”

He drew a long breath. It sounded like hard work. “You must bring Demon and Midnight to the deepest part of Kingsmire Forest, and there you'll find an old witch. She'll reveal your folly to you. Give to her my beloved bull-pup for safekeeping. Midnight is yours.”

Then my master turned his head to look upon the dog, and said, “Demon … farewell.”

“An old
witch
?” I blurted. “Oh sir, this is all too much for me. Let's get you a surgeon, and—”

But James Rattle, alias Whistling Jack, was dead.

At that moment there came a great noise at the front door of splintering wood and breaking glass. I snatched up the fold of paper at my dead master's hand, shoved it into the breast of the redingote, and rushed out the kitchen door. At the threshold I whistled sharply, and Demon, with a last, beseeching look at our master's mortal remains, bounded after me.

 

Chapter 5

ESCAPE TO KINGSMIRE

D
AWN WAS
coming and the sky begun to grow light when I judged us safe from immediate pursuit.

The flight from the Manse had been terrifying. I'd no sooner stuffed the little dog into a saddlebag and urged Midnight back onto the road when redcoats—the king's soldiers—came tumbling out of the kitchen door behind me. It hadn't been the bandits, after all. There were more soldiers running on foot around the corner of the house. Had I not been expecting Milliner Mulligan and his accomplices, I wouldn't have fled in the first place. But now that I'd been seen racing away from the house, it was no good claiming innocence. They wouldn't listen. In calling Demon, I'd even whistled in imitation of my master—the very sound they'd expect from a brigand named Whistling Jack. In any case, I was dressed as the highwayman and riding his horse—they might even think I had murdered Master Rattle!

I thought myself well away from them when I heard a clatter of hooves, and to my dismay saw Captain Sterne in close pursuit. Midnight was tired, but that is when he showed his true strength. His stride was sure, even in the darkness—and he reached into his heart with every pace and found more speed. The brown charged after us, propelled by Sterne's curses.

“I'll have you, Jack!” he cried. “You robbed my fiancée's coach a month ago!”

That sounded rather bad. Having no response, I tucked low against Midnight's neck and we sailed through the night, gaining ground with every stride. But the captain had one more thing to tell me. When I heard it I knew we were deadly enemies and he would never give up the pursuit:

“And she fell,” he screamed at my fleeing back, “in love with
you
!”

At the very outermost edge of the estate there was a crossroad. Could I but reach it, I might escape the captain by several routes which Midnight knew so well he could outrun an arrow upon them. Midnight galloped, the captain's horse fell ever behind, and then through the dark hedges I saw the glimmer of pale gravel where the several roads met.

Just as I bore down upon the crossing, a knot of men sprang into our path from behind a broken cart, starlight glinting off the weapons in their hands. Those voices again—it was Sailor Tom, Milliner Mulligan, and the rest of their crew.

Demon, whose furrowed head was poking out of the saddlebag, let loose his uncanny cry. Midnight reared up and threw his hooves about, and a moment later the captain had covered much of the distance between us.

“I'll spare you the gallows,” he roared. “You'll die here, tonight!”

I tried to head Midnight around despite the encircling ruffians—we might be able to get past Sterne's whirling sword, if we went off the road. But there wasn't room to maneuver.

It seemed I was a dead man. I thought to draw my sword as Sterne spurred his mount directly at me, but got the handle caught in the redingote, and it hardly showed an inch of blade.

Then there was a blinding hoop of green fire in the air, as if a blazing firework had been swung around us on a cord. My eyes were fair dazzled, but it went worse for my attackers—they behaved as if someone had flung gunpowder in their eyes. The captain himself was nearly unhorsed. Sparks flew in all directions.

[   
Fleeing Through the Night
   ]

“I'll have your liver,” the captain cried, “though the devil himself sets me afire!”

It appeared that was precisely what had occurred, so in terror I goaded Midnight up the verge above the road and clapped heels to his sides. We were well over the top when the green fire suddenly went out.

We rushed across fields of grass and cabbages, flowers and barley. The morning sun would soon meet the sky. I could hear pandemonium behind me: the soldiers pursuing on foot had caught up to their captain, and the bandits were putting up a fight. Ahead of me was a dark band that rose up into broken stone hills: Kingsmire Forest.
*

“Just a little further, Midnight,” I implored the horse. Whatever the ring of green light was, it had saved our skins. I had no time to ponder the meaning of it, nor to dwell upon the cause of the phenomenon—I was now Whistling Jack, highwayman, whether I liked it or not, and I had a mortal foe in Captain Sterne. He was nowhere to be seen when I looked over my shoulder. Between the blinding light, colliding with a nest of genuine bandits, and the ensuing
fracasso,
he was probably too busy to worry about me for the time being. Still I urged Midnight to keep up a brisk pace, only slowing when we reached the deepest darkness that lurked beneath the trees. As dawn broke, we were already far into the woods, and the rays of the sun penetrated the gloomy mist in slender threads, like fine gold chain.

I walked Midnight for some time after daybreak, and when we came to a hill of massive broken stones with a white waterfall spilling down among its slabs, I bade us stop for a rest. We all drank deeply from the icy pool at the foot of the spate. Then Demon dutifully marked every stone for yards around.

I collapsed wearily against the bole of a massive tree, aching from head to toe. Midnight nibbled moss off the rocks. I expected the horse didn't feel much better. I felt like a fool in daylight with the highwayman's costume on, but I had nothing else to wear. Even without the long coat it was obvious whom I resembled, and without hat or coat I'd be arrested for stealing the horse: Men in shirtsleeves didn't ride. My entire situation was impossible: I was frightened, angry, heartsick, and shocked, all at the same time.

At length, hearing no evidence of pursuit, I decided to take stock of my equipment. Midnight bore, besides the usual riding tack, a beef-roll bag at the front of his saddle, and the two slim saddlebags behind. Without the dog, the saddlebags were empty. Inside the beef-roll was a coil of strong silken cord, a tiny pistol that would fit in the palm of my hand, a penknife, an apple, and a length of sausage.

I immediately gave the apple to Midnight and devoured most of the sausage myself. Tears came to my eyes when I recalled buying the meat just last week, because it was Master Rattle's favorite accompaniment to sherry—and sometimes that was the only way I could get him to eat. He'd liked the stuff enough to take it with him on the highway. This touched my heart.

I fed the remaining sausage to the bulldog. The pup swallowed it whole with his jack-o'lantern mouth, and then directed his paddle-like ears at me, hoping for more. I realized we had eaten our last, unless I could accustom myself to begging or stealing. Then I remembered: Of course, I wasn't wearing my own empty coat. There might be a little money in this one. I rummaged in the pockets of the redingote and swiftly turned out my master's will, a tin of snuff, doeskin gloves, a brace of matched pistols, and a delicate paper rose. The rose mystified me.

Then I discovered why the coat weighed so much. Within a secret pocket was a heavy packet of gold sovereigns, more than two years' worth of income to me. I wondered if it had been stolen the previous night.

I opened my master's last will and testament, thinking it might contain some clue to his final dilemma. But it looked like no will I'd ever heard of: There was not a single word written upon the sheet. Instead, a rough map of the region had been drawn there, with half a dozen little sketches to illustrate points of interest upon it. There was an owl in a tree, and a bull with a crown, and various other subjects. It looked as much like the scribbles of a child playing at pirate maps as anything else. My poor master must have lost his wits and taken to doodling. I was disappointed, although I knew not why. I expected no benefit from the will—and indeed could not lay any claim to it if there was any, now that I was a fugitive.