Chapter 7
Long after the clearing had fallen dark and silent, and long after Lucy was slumbering peacefully in her bed, a coach rumbled down an empty lane.
The moon had nearly set, the lanterns casting a narrow band of light on the path ahead.
Unlike the slick vehicles from earlier that night, this was a bulky affair, built for steadiness rather than speed.
The special-dispatch courier ran only on request and came with security as demanded.
This evening the coach carried five men.
Jeremiah West held the reins in his weathered hands that had been shaped by a life on the road.
There was not a county in the British Isles he’d not driven through.
While the days of highwaymen were well in the past, he still recalled a few poor attempts from his younger years.
On evenings when drink and merriment caught up with him, he’d tell the tale of the young fool who stood in the middle of the road with pistol raised, and the wild surprise in his eyes when Jeremiah West ran him down without a moment’s pause.
Not a tale of bravery, but he was a practical man.
For some reason this memory stirred in his mind as he rode, and he gripped the reins a little tighter. The driver watches the road, he told himself. Let others fret about such risks.
Others like the twitchy youth sitting next to him, gripping the coach gun tightly as if it were the only thing keeping him on board.
Not the trigger though; Jeremiah would had chewed him out over that kind of carelessness.
Two guards stood at rear posts, their upright posture their only defence from sleep in the face of the dark night and steady rolling roads.
The fifth man was secure inside the coach, the passenger with his cargo.
Jeremiah did not ask. He’d carried enough passengers to recognise a lawyer and a strongbox. He’d made a guess at some inheritance, and once that had satisfied him, he put the idea from his mind.
When the bell rang, Jeremiah neither paused nor turned. ‘Boy,’ he said simply.
Eager to please, or perhaps just itching for a change of posture, the boy rose and looked back to the guards who had triggered the signal.
‘A coach, sir. Some way off. I can see white horses.’
Jeremiah ran over the map inside his head. There were plenty of lanes that joined and divided on the path. Nothing too odd there.
‘Went off a side lane, sir.’
Jeremiah nodded, though he doubted the boy could see the motion.
The boy sat down, resuming his tense pose. Nervous. But disciplined, Jeremiah noticed. Nothing worse than a chatty passenger.
The bell rang again. This time the boy took initiative and stood.
When no reply came, Jeremiah shouted for a report.
‘The coach, sir. It’s back. Closing in.’
‘How far?’
‘Two lengths.’
‘Two lengths?’ Jeremiah called out angrily.
Impossible. No coach could have gained such ground so quickly. There was no shortcut that might permit it.
‘Horses?’
‘Two, sir. Light, trimmed carriage, but—’
‘Driver? Messenger?’
The boy did not reply so Jeremiah repeated. ‘Who is the driver and is there a messenger?’
‘Yes, sir. Two … dressed in b-b-black,’ the boy stammered. ‘They’re getting closer.’
Jeremiah focused on his reins, anticipating what would come next. The warning shot rang out and he held tightly for any panic from his horses.
None came. They were experienced coach horses, well trodden on this route. They likely knew it even better than Jeremiah himself.
‘Still coming, sir,’ the boy noted.
Jeremiah nodded. It was a shame. The guards would follow protocol and shoot one of the horses next. But special-dispatch couriers were authorised not to take any risks.
Ahead of them a familiar copse of trees rose up in the last of the moonlight. Only another twenty minutes to the port from their location.
Whether it was sharp eyes or years of instinct, Jeremiah never had the chance to tell. He spoke the instant the thought crossed his mind.
‘Get down, boy!’
The boy ducked on command and a whistling noise sped over their heads. There was a scream and two dull thuds.
A rope between the trees. Such a damn simple trick, Jeremiah cursed. But it hadn’t been close enough to catch him or the coach. Just the two guards standing ready to fire, facing the other way.
Exactly as protocol required.
For the first time in many years, Jeremiah felt a chill run through him. Robbers who knew their path and their tactics. And twenty minutes from the nearest port.
Jeremiah cursed again and worked the reins. Speed was all he could offer now.
‘Gun at the ready, boy. Tap warning to the passenger.’
Inside the locked coach, their passenger had already heard the gunshots, already heard the scream from above. There was no doubt in his mind that the strongbox at his side was the target. He drew his pistol, checked its powder, ready for what might come next.
He heard loud cursing, felt a jolt as the coach lurched around a corner. A moment later he was thrown back onto the seat, fortunate that his pistol did not go off. A loud gunshot rang out from the front, then another. He heard a younger voice crying out, then a third shot.
For a moment there was only the sound of horses again and he relaxed slightly, hopeful the danger had been outrun. Then the sound of galloping hooves became a trot, and then finally complete silence as the coach came to a full stop.
The coach had only one door, bolted from the inside.
He gripped his pistol, steadied it, aimed at the door and waited.
It was shortly after five when the coach finally rode into port, twenty minutes behind schedule. The sentries yelled out wildly and remained in a panic until dressed down by their sergeant, a man of cool wits and little imagination. He questioned them tersely and looked over the coach.
Jeremiah’s idle thought had indeed been correct. The four horses had known their way to port with no driver. There was no sign of a struggle or anything being forced or damaged. Nor was there any sign of the five men that had left with it.
‘Send a messenger to London immediately,’ the sergeant ordered the men. ‘Tell them it’s happened again.’