(It is early in the spring of 1763, and Charles Huntingdon has returned to his country home after an unsuccessful visit to Bath)
I found little joy at the Priory when I returned home, for fever was raging in Bereton: many people were lying sick and a some had died. Our village of Bearsclough had so far been spared the disease, but we lived in fear and kept ourselves to ourselves as best we could. From Stanegate there was no news. While we waited for better times there was work to be done on the farms, spring was almost upon us.
One
day I was seated in my library, studying my account-books and sketching plans
for a hothouse which I contemplated building in the kitchen garden, when I
heard shouting outside. To my astonishment Sir James Wilbrahim forced his way
in, brushing aside the restraining hands of a servant. It was the first time he
had set foot in the Priory since the disastrous dinner-party. He was in a
paroxysm of rage.
“Where is she, you villain? Where have you
hidden her?” he bellowed. Mrs Highsmith, who had been sorting through some
papers, uttered a shriek of fear and fled from the room. I rose to my feet and
enquired, with as much calmness as I could muster, what the devil he was
talking about.
“I’m talking about Louisa! Louisa!” he
shouted; his face within an inch or two of mine. “I come back home from a week
away, and I find she’s gone! All the servants are sick in bed and no-one can
tell me anything! I know you’ve been writing to her, and so has that fool
Staines, for I’ve found the letters; but she’s always preferred you to him,
though you are both equal scoundrels, trying to steal her affection! And she
worth more than both of you put together! So produce her this instant, before I
kill you as you deserve!”
All attempts to calm him, and to assure him
that his daughter was not in the house, served only to increase his rage yet
further. He raised his stick and I verily believe he would have attacked me
then and there, had not Mrs Timmis, who had entered the room during this
outburst, come to my rescue.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” she began, politely
but fearlessly, “I can see your honour’s upset, as any father would be, but
I’ll not have anyone come to the master’s home and accuse him of abducting Miss
Wilbrahim, for she’s not here, nor has she ever been. I can tell you where she
is: for she’s gone off to London, sir, the day before yesterday!”
“What! Run away to London, you say?
Nonsense! Lies! Impossible!”
“No, with respect, your honour, it’s not
lies; for my brother Ned, he saw her board the coach, sir. He thought you must
know.”
A servant was promptly despatched to find Ned
Timmis for confirmation of this alarming news. An age then seemed to pass,
during which Sir James paced to and fro, scarlet-faced, growling and muttering
to himself until I feared he might explode. He scornfully rejected Mrs Timmis’s
offer of tea, but eventually agreed to accept a large glass of brandy, which
seemed to mollify him somewhat, and he sat down to continue his muttering. He
might not have believed anything I said, but no-one ever doubted the word of my
redoubtable housekeeper.
Sir James became increasingly impatient
while we waited. Having swallowed his brandy he demanded another rose to his
feet once more, denouncing to the world at large the iniquity of the times.
“I gave orders that while I was away, Miss
Louisa was on no account to leave the house except in the company of Mr
Bunbridge. But now, I go away for just a few days, and when I return she’s
vanished! Disappeared! None of the servants can account for it, and Bunbridge
isn’t at home! Where is she?”
It was at this stage that Ned Timmis appeared,
with the mud of the fields still on his boots, and was instructed by his sister
to give his account.
“Well, your honour, sir,” he began uncertainly,
for he could tell something had gone seriously wrong. His face was very red and
he twisted his hat in his massive hands as he spoke, as he always did when
unsure of himself, “This was the manner of it. It was Tuesday and I was in
Mulchester for the market, seeing farmer Brayford concerning the purchase of
some swine, three breeding sows and a young boar it was, and that being done we
fancied supping an ale or two at the White Rose tavern, so we made our way to the
square, and there was the London coach about to depart, and on the other side
what should I see but Mr Bunbridge’s trap; the Rector himself, he wasn’t there,
but I recognised his horse, for it’s one that I did find for him some years
back, and a hard bargain he struck for it. And there in the trap sat Miss Wilbrahim,
all on her own! I hadn’t spoke to her, she being above my station, since the days
long past when she did visit the Priory here and I showed her the farms, and I
was surprised that she did remember me, but she calls out. ‘Now then Ned
Timmis! There’s not a moment to be lost! Pray take up my box and follow me to
the London coach before it leaves! I must be on it!’ ‘Why, Miss Wilbrahim, what be you off to
London for?’ I asks her. ‘I’m off to see someone’, she tells me, ‘But I haven’t
the time to tell you now: be quick, or I’ll miss it!’ And so I did as she told
me, and I picked up the box and carried it, not that it felt like there was too
much in it, and helped her board the coach and straightway it departed with her
on it. And then Mr Bunbridge returned and found that she’d gone; and he wasn’t
half surprised! And I’d thought he must have known about her plans, or she
wouldn’t have been in his trap, but it seemed he didn’t know nothing about it!
And he didn’t ask me what I’d seen and done, for it was like he never noticed I
was there, so I didn’t say nowt.
“And then Mr Bunbridge, he found no-one
wouldn’t answer his questions as to where she’d gone. Now, your honour likely
knows how it is in Mulchester, sir: the folks there is all Dissenters, and they
started to laugh at Mr Bunbridge in his parson’s gown getting all angry and
shouting, and of course they didn’t know as how it was Miss Wilbrahim as had
disappeared, sir, and he didn’t tell them, and one of them says they all knows
about him and the young lassies and that now one of ‘em had escaped him and run
off to find a younger man – I’m sorry to be having to tell your honour such
stories, sir; but I’m only repeating what they was saying – and that naturally
made Mr Bunbridge even angrier, and people laughed at him even more, and while
all this was going on I left to go about my own business, and that’s how things
stand. Did I do wrong, sir?”
Sir James had become increasingly impatient
with this roundabout way of telling a simple story, and eventually spluttered, “And
why do you imagine she wanted to travel to London unaccompanied?”
“Well now, sir, I did think it was strange
that she should be off to London on her own, but I thought it must have been
with your honour’s permission; and I didn’t feel it was my place to question
her, so I didn’t.”
Sir James, in impotent rage, cursed him
roundly for his stupidity. The recipient of this abuse, after standing around
in awkward silence for a brief while, bowed hastily and retreated with relief
back to his husbandry. Sir James continued to growl, but now appeared at a loss
as to what to do, merely exclaiming to all and sundry that even if I was not
directly responsible for his daughter’s flight, it was nonetheless all the
fault of “Those damned books you’ve been sending her, putting ridiculous ideas
into her silly head!” Then, suddenly, my worst fears were confirmed as he
clutched at his chest and collapsed into a chair, wheezing and gasping for
breath. His face, but lately red, was now a ghastly white and beads of sweat
stood out on his forehead. Mrs Timmis, thinking this must be the onset of the
fever, or worse, rushed to his assistance, serving him more brandy and mopping
his forehead with cold water. This seemed to bring some relief, but all he was
able to do was to keep muttering weakly, “What’s to be done? What’s to be
done?”
I felt a sudden pity for the poor old
man, and decided that with Sir James plainly unfit to travel, the
responsibility of finding his daughter devolved upon me. If Louisa had indeed
departed for London, it was now my duty to set out immediately and find her. I
ordered my riding-habit to be brought and Alexander to be saddled up and made
ready without delay, whilst I snatched some food and collected whatever money
was to hand. Mrs Timmis did her best to dissuade me from such a precipitate
action, but I overruled her and told her to arrange for my carriage to drive
Sir James home to Stanegate. While these preparations were under way, I could
not help but be amused by how slyly Ned Timmis had contrived to cast slurs on the
character of Mr Bunbridge.
When all was ready, I took Sir James’s hand. “Do not worry, sir!” I told him, “I shall bring your daughter back safe and sound, I promise you!” He smiled weakly at me, and his grip on my hand was without its normal strength. Mrs Timmis continued to look disapproving, but contented herself with fussing around Sir James; and in a little more than an hour I departed on my journey. As I travelled, I pondered what could have caused Louisa to resolve so precipitately to fly to London. Was her father correct in blaming it on the books or the letters she had received? Although she was young and without knowledge of the world, she was surely not silly enough to confuse romantic stories with reality. Did she hope to meet Lord Staines, who had been writing to her? Or was it to meet me? If so, I bore a great responsibility to return her safely home!
I rode past Bereton and through Mulchester on
the old road. Despite the urgency of my mission, I forced myself not to travel
too fast, for I dared not exhaust Alexander too early if I intended to reach
London the next day. A few miles beyond Mulchester I came to an inn called the
Hollybush, and recollected with surprise that this was the very establishment
where we had been obliged to break our journey after the accident with the
stage-coach on my first journey to my new home. How long ago that now seemed! I
remembered it as a low and dirty place, but my horse was by now in need of rest
and water, and I too was tired and hungry, so I halted there.
The landlord was a rascally-looking man. He
had no teeth, his nose was broken and his forehead bore many old scars, which
made me wonder if he had once been a prize-fighter. His waiter, by contrast,
was as thin as a lath. There were a few idle fellows lounging about, who
regarded me with sullen suspicion. I ordered that my horse be watered, and
bread and bacon for myself. The beer was sour and the victuals poor, and took
far longer to serve than I would have expected for such fare. While I was
eating the loungers continued to stare at me. I ignored them, and rode onwards
directly I was able.
I was now travelling through wooded
countryside where few people lived. Suddenly round a corner a masked man on a
chestnut horse appeared. Coming close on my left side, he raised a pistol at my
head, while at the same moment a confederate on foot appeared on either side of
my horse and seized the reins.
My assailant was dressed in a dark brown
coat and high boots. I could see little of his face, for a black tricorn hat pulled
low over his forehead and below this he wore a mask. I recalled the fears expressed
by the ladies on my first journey northwards of the notorious highwayman known
as Black George. There could be little doubt that this was him.
He demanded that I instantly surrender my
valuables. This was the most perilous moment of my life. My heart was beating
like a drum, yet time seemed to stand still. What was I to do? A wrong move,
and in an instant I might be dead, and my body stripped and left in a ditch. I thought
of our soldiers and sailors who looked death in the eyes in all corners of the
world, and of Lord Staines’s imperturbable coolness as he faced the pistol of
John Wilkes. But here it was not only my life, but perhaps Louisa’s too, that
hung by the slenderest thread, should I fail in my mission to find her.
Somehow, I found a slight encouragement in the
highwayman’s voice, for it had a note of merriment in it, as
if he regarded thieving as a jest. I did not think he intended to kill me. He
had the voice of a gentleman, and his horse, I noticed, was no mere farmer’s
beast but a magnificent stallion, impeccably groomed. Black George was clearly
no common robber.
Trembling inwardly but steeling myself not
to show fear, I produced my purse, but held it just out of his reach. “I think
you could at least tell me your name, sir”, I said, trying to keep my voice nonchalant
and unconcerned, though I was scarcely aware of what I was saying. “Am I to
assume that I am addressing the famous Black George?”
He laughed, for he knew that in my heart I
was frightened. “My name? People indeed sometimes call me Black George, but
others might perhaps honour me with the title of King George; for although George
of Hanover may sit enthroned in London, I am sovereign in the forests south of
Mulchester! My authority is acknowledged by all the villagers around here, and
I reward their loyalty with a share in the customs duties that I levy on the
travellers who pass through my realm. Coachmen, if they are wise, pay me a
regular sum in advance, and thereby hope to be left to complete their journeys
undisturbed, though sometimes I stop them anyway, just to remind them to be
prompt in their payments. Now, I think, is the time for you to make your
contribution to my kingdom’s revenue!”
He reached out his left hand for the purse.
I saw that the hand bore a long scar on the back, running down through the
wrist, and that the middle finger had been broken and stuck out in a peculiar
fashion. I resolved, as far as I could, to treat the occasion with amusement.
Also, I thought, the longer I could contrive to keep him talking, the better,
especially if I could interest or entertain him.
“Well, Black George, or King George if you
prefer: since I perceive you are a gentleman, I make this appeal to you”, I
replied, “Although I am not one of your subjects by residence, I am at least a
neighbour, for my name is Charles Huntingdon, of the Priory, over at Bearsclough.
As such, I freely acknowledge your sovereignty over these woods, and I am
prepared to give you my money, and my watch too. ‘Who steals my purse, steals
trash’, as the poet says. But I must beg you to leave me a few guineas, and
also my horse to enable me to complete my journey, for I am on an errand to
rescue a young lady, a mere child, whom I fear might be in great danger. Surely
you, as a man of honour, will not hinder me in this task?” I was speaking much
slower and keeping my voice low, for I now knew who I was: I was the great
David Garrick on stage, playing the part of a carefree young gentleman; and I was
trying to submerge myself entirely in the role, though I would have hoped that
Garrick would have provided himself with a better play-script. Looking back, I
can see how false I must have sounded, and am amazed that he did not shoot me
on the spot. But his reply was just as artificial, and suggested he was acting
a part too, and one in which he was amused that I saw fit to cast him as a
highway robber who was nonetheless a gentleman. Garrick might have rated Black
George’s acting better than mine.
“Indeed? A fine story! And pray, who might
this young maiden in distress be?” he enquired, obviously not believing a word
of it.
“Her name is Miss Louisa Wilbrahim, sir, and
she is the daughter of Sir James Wilbrahim of Stanegate Hall, near Bereton. She
has run away to London, and I must find her before she comes to harm”.
“Has she, by gad!” he exclaimed, and laughed
again. “Then the girl has more spirit than I would have thought! I esteemed her
a feeble little thing!”
“Do you know Sir James then?” I asked, my
actor’s mask briefly slipping in my astonishment.
His foot-soldiers protested, “Take his stuff
and his horse and let’s get going! Someone might come by at any moment!”
“Be quiet, Tom!” Black George ordered, and
then said to me, “What, old Wilbrahim? I know all about him! Particularly I
know who supplies his wine and brandy, and where it’s stored! And an excellent
customer he is too! I might add that the smugglers also are expected to pay
their tolls when they pass through my lands. Now hand over your purse and watch
immediately!”
Still withholding my purse, I asked, “I
suppose the innkeeper sent you a message that I was on the road?”
“Old Jacob at the Hollybush? Why, he is the
most honest man you could ever hope to meet! Him in league with me?” Once more
he laughed, enjoying this banter.
Tom continued to grumble at the delay, and was right to do so; for at that instant there was a loud halloo from behind me, and there was Ned Timmis spurring his horse at a gallop along the road towards us, closely followed by two others! Black George appeared uncertain which way to turn, and in that moment I was able to strike his right hand a blow with my riding-whip. The pistol discharged harmlessly into the ground. I struck again with all my force and smote the weapon from his grasp, at which he cursed, spurred his horse and fled the scene. Tom, no doubt directing his own curses at his master, disappeared into the bushes beside the road, and I was left with my rescuers, all of us panting; them from exertion, me from relief. I told them how I would be eternally grateful to them for my rescue, but asked how it came to be that that they had appeared at that moment.
“Well sir, it’s like this”, Ned replied, a
little short of breath after his gallop, “After my talk with Squire Wilbrahim,
I was out in the fields, for I knew some of our sheep wasn’t in good health…”
I anticipated a discourse on diseases of
sheep, but on this occasion Timmis was able quickly to return to the point of
his narrative.
“… but a boy comes running with a message that
my sister wants to see me straight away. And there I finds her in a right
tizzy, and she says, now listen here, our Ned; the master’s gone charging off
to London to find Miss Wilbrahim; so you saddle the best horse and go after him
sharpish and make sure he don’t get into no trouble: you know it’s bad country
out beyond Mulchester. Oh, and take a couple of good strong lads with you in
case there’s any roughness. And so I called up Harry and Arthur here, and so it
turned out, and so here I am!”
I told him of my suspicions that the
landlord at the Hollybush might have passed the word to the highwayman that I
was on the road. Timmis shook his head, but not in disagreement.
“Oh, you don’t want to have nowt to do with
him, sir; everyone in these parts knows he’s a bad ‘un. Black George, he robs
the travellers, and old Jacob there, he sells the goods on. How the two of ‘em
have ‘scaped hanging; that’s a mystery!”
He then turned to look down the road where
the highwayman had disappeared.
“That’s a fine horse he had there,” he
commented. “A proper gentleman’s horse. Chestnut, with four white socks. Wonder
where he got him. Stolen, I don’t doubt, but not from around here, or the
rightful owner and his friends would recognise him.”
I interrupted his musings to ask, “And now
will you now come with me to London?”
“No, that I will not, sir; for I have much
work to do on the farm; and to speak truth, sir, I have never seen a town
larger than Mulchester, nor do I desire ever to do so. This country I know
well, and it supplies me with all my needs and wants. No sir, I shall ride with
you to the next town, then I shall return home. I’ll keep a lookout for that
horse, though; I’d know it anywhere!”
He would not be swayed in this
determination, though one of the lads looked a trifle disappointed. The other
one had dismounted and retrieved the highwayman’s pistol, which he now
presented to me. It was a fine-looking weapon, chased with silver, but rather
heavy.
“You had better take this, Ned,” I said,
“for I shall have no use for it in London.”
“’Tis a fine weapon to be sure,” he replied,
“But it’s not for the likes of me, for I should be in sore trouble should I be
found with it: perhaps it might be thought that I was the robber! But I’ll take
it and hide it safe till your honour returns; which God willing you will, and
bringing Miss Wilbrahim home with you!”
And so we parted, with the most profuse
thanks on my part, together with some money to buy food and drink for his lads, and the promise of more when I returned.
When I later recounted the story of my
adventure to my London friends, they were greatly entertained, but looking back
on it, I tremble to reflect how close I must have been to losing my life.
The rest of my journey passed free of
incident, but also fruitlessly. The weather was often cold and my anxiety
remained constant. At every major staging inn I passed, I asked the question;
did the London stage stop there? Was there among the passengers a young lady,
unaccompanied, fitting the description I gave? Some could tell me nothing, others
appeared uncertain. I had to assume that Louisa had reached London. But what
might have become of her there? I rode on. I passed a night on the road, but
was unable to sleep much.
When I eventually came to my lodgings it was late in the evening. I had cherished a last hope had been that I might find Louisa there, if she had remembered the address from my letters, but this was now dashed: she had not been seen. Alexander was exhausted, but my landlord very kindly offered to deliver him to the care of a cousin, who was employed ata livery stable not far away. I could do no more that day, and collapsed into bed. I would have to resume my search tomorrow.
