The Mark of the Golden Dragon (37 page)

"And that was just the first round. Bruises and cuts were addressed, fresh Chicks were put up, and the battles resumed. 'Course us Chicks didn't wear nothin', being just kids and all, and why give the enemy Chick somethin' to grab on to other than your hair, which you couldn't do nothin' about? We could've cropped our hair, but even though us Chicks were gutter girls, we still had some pride about our appearance. And so the teams gained some renown. As we went down the bank to battle, it became common for the Chicks to stand on the shoulders of their Bulls and hurl taunts at their enemies, further garnering the cheers of the crowds that came down to watch us. It was actually a pretty fine time.

"Yes, we had many Battle Royales in the days after that—we fought the Shanks, the Cavs, the Rounders, and the Lords, and we came up winners most times, thanks mostly to Hughie. But some we lost, me ending up with my face in the mud. But money was waged and gradually odds were made and Hughie and I ended up among the favorites ... and then Pigger O'Toole himself entered the fray as a Bull, and then—"

"Hello. What's this?" says Allen suddenly, looking off over my recumbent form.

Startled, I sit up to see Dragoon Cavalry Sergeant Enoch Bailey, Richard's good right-hand man, come striding purposefully across the green.

Uh-oh...

He approaches, salutes, and says, "Pardon, Sor. Mum. A message from the General. Thought you ought to see it right away."

He hands Richard a note, who opens it and reads as I say, my voice full of trepidation, "So good to see you again, Sergeant Bailey."

"Mutual, Miss," says the stolid Bailey. I do not know how much he means that, considering the fact that I was instrumental in peppering his hide with a good dose of rock salt fired from one of my guns on the
Belle of the Golden West.
He steps away, respectfully out of hearing, to await further orders.

"Is it orders for Portugal, Richard? Is it...?" I ask, breathless.

He looks out over my head, deep in thought.

"No, Jacky, it is not that."

"Then, what news?"

He takes my hand and says, "The town fathers of London have deemed its local constabulary to be either corrupt or incompetent. I suspect they are both. Whatever the reason, I have been ordered to take my troop of Dragoons out onto the heath and not come back until I have captured the Black Highwayman."

Oh, no...

"I know, Princess, I know. I will try to take him alive ... and unhurt, if I can."

"When do you go?" I ask, trembling, the joy of the day gone.

"Today is Sunday. We ride out on Thursday."

"Thank you for telling me, Richard," I say, wrapping my arms about him, putting my face to his chest. "Now I think it best we go back and prepare for what it is we both have to do. Ravi, come!"

I have been lax in my duty to Jaimy. I know that. Because he has been inactive on the moor, I have relaxed and let my affection for Richard Allen guide my days and my actions. No more. We must set things in train ... and we must do it now...

"
Yes, Sir," I say, all respectful like, with a neat little curtsy. "My name is Mary Alsop, and I'm writing a piece on the Black Highwayman. I hope to write a book about it. I heard that you were most cruelly robbed, Sir, and if you would be so kind, Sir, can you describe your experience for me?
"

Earlier in the day I had gone back to the
Shipping News
office on Fleet Street. With the help of my friend who had been so helpful the last time I'd gone looking for information, we pulled out as many eyewitness accounts of the Black Highwayman as we could find. I wrote down the addresses of those who lived nearby, thanking my friend in my usual way, with a hefty tip. Hey, always make 'em glad to see you comin', I say. I went on my way to seek out these witnesses to hear what they had to say.

"
Women on Grub Street? By God, it's an abomination!
"

Didn't get far with that bloke, no I didn't. He was a cheese merchant down on Earl Street. He looked me up and down and then tossed me out even though I was dressed all prim and proper. Wasn't worth my time to point out to the sod that many women were workin' the literary trade now. Grub Street was where most of 'em worked, male or female. Grub Street Hacks, they were called, and I'd be proud to be named as a member. If ever I were to work on land in England, I'd work there. Yes, I would. And I'd drag Amy Trevelyne over here, too. Can't get published in Puritan America? Well, try Grub Street, m'lass, and I am sure you would prosper. That little play I wrote back there on the Mississippi? Yes, the one I named "The Villain Pursues Fair Maiden" is now most often titled "The Villain Pursues Her." I hear that it has been performed many times and in many places, and that gratifies me, even though I ain't made a dime off that epic since coming off the Big Muddy, but so it goes. Hey, anyone, lad or lass, can lift a pen and make up stuff, and the money ain't bad sometimes, neither.
So good day and bad cess to you, Sir. I'm glad the Highwayman got your gold. May your cheese turn as sour as your disposition. Grrr...

By and large, I have better luck with the ladies...

"Yes, Missus," I say, with a curtsy and my eyes cast down. "My name is Mary Alsop, and I'm writing a piece on the Black Highwayman. I hope to turn it into a book later on. Can you describe your encounter for me, such that my readers might experience for themselves some of the dreadful feelings your own poor self must have gone through in that ordeal. Hmmm?"

Yes, I had much better luck with the women. They tended to be better witnesses, anyway, not being half drunk at the time of the robbery, as most of the men generally were. My best source was a Winifred Beasley, a seamstress, wife of a hackney driver, who had gone down to Plymouth to visit her aged mum and had been in the coach with her daughter one evening when it was stopped by the Black Highwayman.

"Oh, Miss, it was just so 'orrible! He comes roaring up on this great black horse, which I swears was breathin' fire out o' its nostrils!"

Her daughter, who sat excitedly by her side, had a slightly different opinion...

"Oh, he was ever so dashing, Miss!" she says, clasping her hands and looking off, her eyes shining at the memory. "His horse rearing up, his black cape swirling around him, a sword on his hip, and a pistol in his hand! 'Stand and deliver!' he shouted. 'Everyone out of the coach!'"

"Aye, and we did get out, you may be sure, Miss," continues Mrs. Beasley, looking a bit askance at her daughter.

"Now don't you go getting all romantical, Griselda," says the mother, disapprovingly. "After all, he is a robber and a brigand."

"Yes, but he was so gallant ... at least to us ladies. He told us we were not to be fearful because his business was not with us," says this Griselda. "But he did stand the men in a line in front of him and he looked in each face ... and in each of their purses. From the rich blokes, he stole their gold ... From the poor, nothing. Oh, what a noble outlaw!"

The mother gives the daughter a gentle swat. "You calm down, you!"

"Did you see the color of his eyes?" I ask of them both. Griselda shakes her head.

Mrs. Beasley looks at me curiously. "His eyes? Miss, when you are looking down the barrel of a gun, you most certainly do
not
notice the gun toter's eye color. Dear me, no, you do not!"

"Oh, it must have been horrible for you, Missus, just horrible," I simper, then thank them for their time. I stand and prepare to leave. "Aside from the black boots, trousers, and cape, is there any other thing you might remember about the Highwayman? Some small detail?"

The woman thinks for a moment and then adds, "The mask he wore that covered his lower face ... it was silk, and it had little gathers in the top where it went across his nose, you know, like this." She points to the tucks at the top of her bodice.

Hmmm ... Trust a seamstress to notice that.

She turned out to be the most reliable witness, but even she did not notice the color of his eyes, nor did her awestruck daughter.

Which is good,
I'm figuring.

The other witnesses I interviewed were no better at describing the Highwayman. Their accounts varied wildly. 'Course when you stand there in fear for your life, your mind can play tricks on you.

One thing the men were good at ... recounting exactly
where
the Highwayman stopped them. It was almost always at a sharp turn of the road near the crossing of Gallywall Road and Halfpenny Lane, where the coaches are forced, by the curve and the roughness of the road, to slow to a crawl. There are fens, pools of dark water, all about, and woods, the former being treacherous for horses, the latter making for good hiding places for highwaymen ... and maybe others.

Which might be good. We shall see, for this afternoon I shall go there to scout it out.

On my way back to the
Nancy B,
I spy a sign outside a rather shabby shop—it shows three balls arranged in a triangle, proclaiming it a pawnshop, a place for people who need a quick bit of money. They put up personal articles as security for loans. If they pay back the loan on time, they get back their stuff; if not, the shopkeeper puts it up for sale.

I duck in and buy a handful of jewelry—nothing really worthy, just some cheap, glittery stuff ... but it will serve.

"Joannie. Put on some decent clothes. I want you to go up to the Horse Guards' barracks and deliver this note to Captain Richard Allen. Thanks, Joannie. Here's cab fare. Now, scoot."

She darts out and I turn to Higgins.

"Things are afoot, Higgins, and we must be quick. Here is a list of things we will need, and now I shall tell you of my plan..."

Richard Allen arrives by horseback in the early afternoon with a great clatter of hooves and rattle of spurs. He dismounts and hands off the reins to Ravi, who has bounded down the gangway to meet him.

"Richard," I call from my quarterdeck. "Please come up and attend me. Things are comin' to a head and we must be quick. I have something to show you. And then I will tell you of my plan."

"I'd rather hoped you were finally inviting me to your bower, Princess," answers the very forward but nonetheless very beautiful cavalry hound upon gaining my quarterdeck and looking toward my cabin door with a certain male longing. "Pity, that..."

"Not yet, you dog," I say taking him by the sleeve and guiding him toward my main hatchway. "Follow me."

Geez ... There's serious work to be done and he thinks of that. Men, I swear...

We descend into the gloom of the lower decks. As we go, our eyes become more accustomed to the dim light, and at the bottom of the lower ladder we come upon...

"My God!" exclaims Allen, upon seeing Flashby chained to the wall. "You've got the rascal!" He explodes into delighted laughter. "Oh, you have been busy, Jacky!"

Flashby is
not
laughing. I have had him gagged once more to prevent his making a disturbance upon seeing Richard Allen again. So now he can only rattle his chains and moan, his eyes rolling about, both furious and fearful at seeing his old adversary looming joyfully above him.

"So why have you presented him in such a state to me?" demands Allen. "You want him dead and do not quite have the stomach for it, so you want me to do it? No, that can't be it ... I seem to remember the Dread Pirate Faber quite cheerfully putting a bullet in that Spanish officer on the deck of the
San Cristobal
last spring."

"That was in self-defense and you know it. No matter what they say about me," I protest, "I have never killed anybody in cold blood."

"Hmmm ... I'm sure that is cold comfort to those you have dispatched to the netherworld in ... warm blood, as it were," replies Lord Allen.

"Well, they had it comin'."

"I'm sure they did, my gentle Princess," he says, leaning down to peer directly into Flashby's eyes. "And, except in battle, I have not killed anyone, either. But in this case I might make an exception. I believe putting a hole in this particular piece of meat would not overtax the Allen conscience. What say you to that, Flashbutt? Hmmm...?"

Flashby recoils and moans, but nothing intelligible gets by the gag.

"You will now tell me, my delicate little muffin, just how you came by this ... um ... piece of goods."

So I settle down with my back leaning against the bulkhead and Richard sitting beside me as I recount the tale of the Taking of Harry Flashby. My good Ravi comes down with mugs of mulled wine to soothe the Faber throat as I tell the tale, replete with songs and humorous descriptions—
and there he was, hanging upside down outside his window and able to watch as I rifled through his drawers and seized all his money and papers before we lowered him down...

Lord Richard Plantagenet Allen, Earl of Northcumberland, pounds the deck with his fist in glee at the telling of it.

When he recovers, he wipes tears from his eyes and says, "Oh, that was choice, that was really choice." And then he asks, "Why did you not tell me you had the cur, my deceptive little seagoing nymph?"