The Iron Master (3 page)

‘Get out of the bloody road!’ yelled the other guard, unimpressed. ‘We’re the Macclesfield Dreadnought, we are!’

Mr Sorrowcole jammed his hat hard down over his eyes, which were pinpoints of battle. He arched over his team, vast and formidable, wheezing, ‘Hold on to your seat, Harry, and keep a-winding of that there horn. That old Dreadnought can’t take a fast turn, and we’re on the crown of the road. But we shall cut it very fine. Hooroar!’ and he laid his whip upon the galloping team. They were almost flying now, ears laid back, eyes starting, coats lathered.

‘You bloody fools!’ yelled the Macclesfield Dreadnought. ‘We’ll have you in t’ditch!’

‘Hooroarr’ cried Mr Sorrowcole raucously. ‘Hooroar, my beauties!’

The leather flourished and cracked.

‘Make way for the Mail!’ bawled Mr Walters.

His scarlet uniform endowed him with more than mortal courage. He wound his horn fit to wake the dead. While William roared, ‘Make way! Make way!’ through the funnel of his hands, and Parson Peplow prayed in the corner of the carriage.

Now the two teams were galloping almost neck and neck, and for a flashing moment William feared both gladiators might irrevocably crash. Just for a second he could have touched the leading horse of the stage-coach, then with inches to spare the little Mail was drawing away and the Dreadnought was heeling, wavering, swerving.

‘I said,’ Mr Sorrowcole growled, ‘as it couldn’t take a fast corner.’

There was a splintering of wood, a shattering of glass. The coachman hauled on his reins, the lathered team tossed up their heads and whinnied with terror. Too late, too late. With a final lurch, roll and crash, the Dreadnought sank into a ditch and halted: one wheel spinning silently.

Then William whipped off his hat and cried, ‘Hurrah! Well done, Mr Walters! Well driven, Mr Sorrowcole! Hurrah for King George and the Mail!’

The stranded pachyderm, its lamps gleaming like reproachful eyes, was already fading into the dark. Night closed about them once more. The Great North Road was their own again. As the Mail bowled along, and Mr Sorrowcole allowed the horses to move back into a steady canter, the guard wound his horn in victory. It was not a crow of delight, or the rude blare of the conqueror, rather was there something elegiac, something poignant in that music of the highway. A victory had been gained, in the name of the King. William drew up the window and sat down, breathless, muddy, and smiling.

He must have fallen asleep, for when he woke it was daylight; and the sound of cobbles under the wheels, and the winding horn, informed him and the drowsy clergyman that Ashbourne was reached. The guard was at their door in a trice, crying, ‘Five minutes, sirs, while we change the horses!’

In the courtyard of the inn two ostlers were waiting with a fresh team ready-harnessed, and they set to with a will. The rain had stopped, a wintry sunlight illumined the landscape, and smells of coffee, hot toast and fried chops stole from the kitchen of The Wagon and Horses. While a gentleman and his wife were ushered aboard the Mail, William and Parson Peplow relieved themselves behind a hedge.

‘I think I shall partake of a first breakfast,’ joked the clergyman, ‘and welcome a second one at Derby!’

‘I shall join you, sir,’ cried William, sniffing the fresh air and the smell of frying.

‘If only one could wash and shave,’ mourned the parson, ‘but there is no time. I shall not care to greet my sister with unshaven cheeks.’

‘I dare say I shall breakfast and shave in London tomorrow morning, before I greet my sister,’ said William, ‘for we shall arrive well before they wake.’

‘That is Charlotte, is it not?’ enquired Parson Peplow comfortably as they walked briskly back. ‘She is young, of course?’ Wistfully.

‘Nineteen at Lammastide, and expecting her first child shortly, sir.’

The mail-guard was propelling Mr Sorrowcole back on to the box.

‘I’ve got to
pass
water, haven’t I?’ the coachman grumbled. ‘I’m not a bleeding camel, am I?’

‘It ain’t what you lets out as bothers me,’ said the harassed guard, ‘it’s what you imbibes, Jacob. We’re two minutes late already. Put your mind to Derby, Jacob. Think of the ale at The Cat and Bells! You can wet your whistle there as much as you like, and I’ll not gainsay you.’

Introductions once made inside the coach, and the man and his wife busy settling some private matter, Simon Peplow leaned forward confidentially.

‘I shall pray that your sister comes through her ordeal safely, and bears a healthy infant, Mr Howarth.’

‘I thank you, sir. We are all praying for that happy outcome.’

‘Her mother will be distressed, so far away from her daughter at such a time. Louisa and I were not blessed with children, but have had many at secondhand. Nephews, nieces and cousins. All were fruitful, save ourselves.’ And he was silent for a few moments, then brightened again. ‘Ah, Mr Howarth, I was about to ask a question when we encountered the Dreadnought. Poor souls, I do hope that none of them suffered injury, and were soon relieved! I was about to ask you whether you were six-and-twenty, which was my estimate of your age when we met at The Royal Oak. But, sir, you need not reply to that, for your youthful exuberance at the triumph of the Mail betrayed you. I struck off a few years instantly, sir. Am I correct?’

‘Sir, I am but recently one-and-twenty,’ said William, smiling. ‘I came home at the end of the summer, as journeyman and man, and celebrated both events royally. This splendid suit’ — indicating the tailored broadcloth — ‘was my mother’s gift, made up for me in Millbridge. This waistcoat she sewed with her own hands, and lined with silk from her wedding gown. And at Kit’s Hill, in the stables, is a stallion my father gave me and I wish I were riding him now, in my own stages, to London. But time was pressing, on both sides, and I yielded to my mother’s wishes and took the fastest mode of travelling.’

‘There I was wrong,’ mused Parson Peplow, ‘For I believed your journey — forgive an elderly man’s sentiments! — I believed it to be an affair of the heart.’

‘It is certainly a journey of strong affection and grave concern,’ said William, ‘For I am the family emissary. My sister married early this year, indeed she eloped, and we know nothing of her circumstances and little more of her husband. I seek to build a bridge between both sides, for my parents are inclined to be hasty in judging the fellow, whereas I shall love her well enough to attempt to love him, and so perhaps heal the hurt he has done.’

‘You are wise beyond your years, Mr Howarth. I pray you may succeed. And who cares for your forge while you are away?’

‘There lies another tale, sir,’ said William ruefully. ‘I came home, as I mentioned, intending to take a month’s holiday — for I have been away from Kit’s Hill for seven years — and then I should have begun work as a journeyman for the ironmaster, Caleb Scholes … ’

‘Indeed? An ironmaster! Well, well. Goodness me!’

‘ … but I found my friend and first master, Aaron Helm, gravely ill. He had let me work, nay play, at his forge in Flawnes Green when I was but a little fellow and I honoured and loved him exceedingly. What could I do but endeavour to set his business up again, while my mother ministered kindness and medicine? But, as she feared and prophesied, he is mortally ill and like to die at any time. He has neither wife nor child, and wishes to make me his inheritor. And I dread that he may leave this world without me there to comfort him at the last, and I travel with a heavy heart in consequence.’

‘My poor young friend. I grieve for you. I grieve for all of you.’ He pursed his lips reflectively. ‘But what of the ironmaster, Mr Howarth? Shall you not work for the ironmaster?’

‘No, sir,’ said William resolutely. ‘I have wrote and thanked him, and explained myself as well as I could. My mother has thrown up her hands, and cried that her children cast away their opportunities … ’

‘An understandable reaction, Mr Howarth!’

‘ … but I shall become the blacksmith of Flawnes Green.’

‘You place your friend’s wishes above your own ambition? That is most laudable, but not, in the world’s terms, prudent, my friend.’

‘I have transferred my ambition from Somer Court to Flawnes Green, sir.’

‘Somer Court being … ?’

‘The ironmaster’s residence, and a small domestic heaven upon earth, sir. Some day, God willing. I shall have a Somer Court of my own.’

‘Well, I hope you do, Mr Howarth, for you seem to be an excellent young man, and have made a considerable sacrifice for your friend!’

And he shook his head at the wildness of that gesture.

Mr Sorrowcole made such rapid progress that they arrived at Derby one minute before time. Again the ostlers were waiting with a fresh team, and set about their task straightaway, while the landlady of The Cat and Bells had the table laid and a hot breakfast before them in moments. The lady traveller then adjourned to find a chamber-pot, and the three men to a field. At a quarter to eleven o’clock precisely, the mail and parcels loaded and his timepiece checked, Mr Walters gave the order to start, and they were off again. Now William dozed fitfully. At the top of every steep hill the guard applied the iron shoebrake, and took it off again at the bottom. Fine carriages, rough wagons, and solitary horsemen, all gave way to the bustling Mail. They flew past turnpikes with an arrogant snarl of the horn. Occasionally, bogged down by mud, the passengers dismounted and helped to push the coach on to drier ground. Once or twice they got out and walked uphill, while Mr Sorrowcole urged on his patient team. But on the whole a rattling, jouncing speed was maintained.

At Leicester Parson Peplow shook hands with William, and gave him final encouragement and advice.

‘My dear young friend, I shall be praying for you and all your dear ones. You have made this journey most memorable and most pleasant for me. Permit me, sir, to offer a suggestion.
Festina
lente
my ardent young friend. Make haste slowly. I feel you will go far in life. Go not too far, be not too hasty. And God be with you, sir.’

Then, catching sight of a short stout lady with grey hair, who looked like Parson Peplow in skirts, he cried, ‘Dorothy, here I am!’ and was enveloped in a tearful embrace.

William dined briefly but well at The Three Tuns, and slept most of the afternoon as they rattled through Leicestershire. Another passenger had been taken on in Parson Peplow’s place, but he appeared to find so much in common with the married couple that William was left to his own thoughts. Evening was drawing in, bringing fresh gusts of wind and rain and a cruel coldness to the air, as they crossed Northamptonshire. At six o’clock he swallowed a mouthful of brandy to warm himself, and thought of the two men perched outside on the box. He could not find it in his heart to blame the coachman for an addiction to spirits.

As the weather worsened the roads became quagmires, and at one point were so badly flooded that they seemed forced to find an alternative route. Again, Mr Sorrowcole’s experience won the day. He drove his team through the rising waters and safely out to the other side. But these delays cost them their supper at Northampton. Frozen and famished, their appetites sharpened by the smell of hot beefsteak, the passengers had to content themselves with bread and cheese, and William shared what was left in his wicker basket.

The night stretched before them interminably. William drank from his flask, feeling that he would never be warm again. It was impossible to sleep properly, and every bone in his body had a separate ache. He almost welcomed interruptions on the hills: scrambling stiffly out to help Mr Walters, while the coachman sat bulky and imperturbable on his box, and the tired horses hung their heads. But in the last hours he must have dozed off, for he was slowly conscious of a change in sound and motion. He drew up his window-blind and looked out Houses pressed in upon them, street after street, set close together and higgledy-piggledy built, old and new, overhanging and set back, timber and brick. A rich medley of odours delighted and offended his nostrils: coffee, fried fish, burned toast, dung and soot and sour urine. They were driving into the heart of the metropolis.

William reached for his portable lantern and tinder-box, and with only a little difficulty struck a light. Then the other passengers roused themselves, and all began to smile and talk as though some miracle had been accomplished. They forgot their chagrin at leaving Northampton supperless, and their annoyance at the chivying of the mail-guard. William recounted that early victory over the Macclesfield Dreadnought, and everyone agreed that the mail-men were English to the backbone and worth their salt.

‘How much do you reckon we should tip the guard?’ one gentleman asked.

‘Well, the last time I hired a post-chaise,’ said the other, ‘I paid a shilling a stage and tipped the postboy each time. So this fellow should be worth as much, and the coachman should have his due.’

In the end they collected six shillings between them, with some amiable joking about the different number of stages they had travelled, and handed it over to William as spokesman.

‘Shall we be on time, sirs?’ asked the lady traveller, and each man obediently took out his watch and consulted it.

There were discrepancies. William’s watch, set by St Mark’s church in Millbridge, told him it was a half after four. The Ashbourne watch-owner insisted that it was ten minutes to five, according to the town sundial. Whereas the Leicester gentleman was convinced of six minutes past the same hour.