The Turnpike: a discarded episode from my historical novel

When it was time for me to leave, Sir Anthony suggested that I travel home by the new turnpike road, and detailed a servant to guide me on my way. Alfred Redman was the youth’s name, and it suited him well, for his hair was indeed of a fiery shade. He rode a pony alongside my horse. We fell into conversation, which quickly showed that he was worldly-wise, never at a loss for words and entirely fearless in his manner. He would never have suited a master who expected silence and deference from servants, but as it was, his chaffing passed the time pleasantly.

  Before long he was able to tell me that we were approaching the start of the new turnpike. But before the tollbooth came into view, there came on the breeze a smell of burning and the noise of shouting and huzzah-ing from many throats. Alf quickly pulled my horse and his pony under the shadow of some trees as a man, covered in dirt and bleeding from a head wound, came running for his life down the road. He dived into the bushes and disappeared from sight, and not a moment too soon, for his pursuers now appeared round the corner. Instead of searching for him, they saw us, and advanced in our direction.   “What’s your name, and what are you doing here?” one of them asked.

      They were the most extraordinary bunch. Though they were obviously men, they were all dressed as women, apart from the boots protruding beneath the long skirts, and many had their faces blackened. They were armed with sticks, though two carried axes and one a blunderbuss of antiquated pattern, and were clearly in no mood to be trifled with. They could see from my clothing and my horse that I was a gentleman and they regarded me with considerable suspicion.

  I was wondering whether to answer them quietly and politely, giving them my name and explaining that I was a stranger in the district and desirous only of returning to my home near Brereton, or whether I should defy them, stress my status as a Member of Parliament and threaten them with the law. I could explain that I was in favour of turnpikes, and had voted for more than one Turnpike Bill during my brief time in the House. The roads north and west from Brereton, towards the Dee and the Mersey, were notoriously bad, and in winter impassable to wheeled vehicles of any kind, and I could argue that trade and commerce could never flourish until this was remedied. However, these men in women’s dress did not look susceptible to reasoned argument of this kind, and some of them fingered their weapons in a threatening manner.

  While I hesitated, young Alf took control of the situation.

   “Let me handle this, sir!” he whispered, and proceeded to embark on a most ridiculous farrago of lies and nonsense, explaining that I was the unfortunate brother of a tenant farmer, who chose to dress like a gentleman (he implied that I might be somewhat feeble-minded), but was quite harmless and hated all turnpikes and enclosures, and that his master had ordered him to show me the way home, fearing that I might get lost, and that if they asked politely I would not fail to pay them. He then whispered to me, “Just keep smiling, sir, and pay them the toll”.

   They held a brief consultation before the one with the blunderbuss, who appeared to be their leader, and a man of some intelligence and education, addressed me with the accompaniment of much ludicrous bowing and deference, which caused laughter from his followers “Then sir, my lord, you may proceed, for we have no quarrel with you. But first, let us show to you our determination to achieve justice for our cause!”

   Round the corner we came to the entry to the turnpike. The gate had been chopped to pieces and was now burning on a bonfire, and beside it the newly-built toll-keeper’s cottage had had all its windows smashed. A painted board, which carried the sums to be paid for using the turnpike, was also burning. I guessed that the man I had seen fleeing away had been the toll-keeper, who could have counted himself fortunate to have escaped with his life.

   “Now you have seen what we have done”, the spokesman told me, speaking in the manner of an inferior actor. “Know that we are Mother Goose’s Maidens, and that we fight for rights and justice for all Englishmen against tyranny. For how can it be just that that we should be charged tolls to travel upon this road, which our forefathers used for uncounted ages? So we have destroyed the tollgate, and the road is again free for all to use. And now, sir, my lord, you may go and tell the world what you have seen: but before you go, you might wish that we should drink your honour’s health?”

   Keeping my face fixed in a grin of idiocy, I gave him a few shillings. They then gave me a cheer, and I was allowed to pass on my way. I reflected that it was fortunate that my name had not been revealed.

   After we had left the turnpike, Redman left me to return to Sir Anthony’s house. But in parting, he informed me that, should I ever be in need of a servant who, he assured me, could turn his hand to any task with the utmost efficiency, then he, should he happen to be freed from the household of Sir Anthony Pardington, would be happy to place himself at my service.

   The rest of my journey home continued without incident. I would continue to support the building of more turnpikes, but reflected that I had not fully considered their effect on the local people.