Riding

By Malcolm Archibald

The successful smuggler, John Smith has become a highwayman to safeguard his inland trade. Riding the roads as the Yellowhammer, he makes both friends and enemies as he robs the rich and powerful.

Yet his old companion Bess is in danger when the eccentric Lady Charlotte finds out who she is, and Lord Fitzwarren employs a killer to hunt Smith down. In a story full of backstabbing, cheating and deceit, Smith is in danger of being outmaneuvered by an expert.

With the killer on his heels, Smith has to toe the line between survival and keeping Bess safe. But can he manage to escape with his life, and his fortune, as he turns from dancing on the waves to riding the king's highways?

A historical adventure set in 18th century England, 'Riding' is the second book in Malcolm Archibald's 'The Rise Of An English Lawbreaker' series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jun 6, 2022

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Prelude

Kent, England, 26 March 1764

Walter Clegg pulled his broad-brimmed hat low over his forehead and cursed at the cold water that cascaded over his already sodden shoulders. He looked ahead, where the road descended into the Birch Ford. Three days of constant rain and the passage of a score of wagons had churned the approaches into a morass of mud, with knee-deep puddles in the ruts. The East Stour River, usually a tranquil stream, roared through the defile like a mountain torrent, crashing through the surrounding trees and carrying branches, broken boughs, and bales of straw.

Bugger, Walter grunted, easing his wagon to a halt. He surveyed the road, assessing the best route to the ford. The rain had created rivulets that carved gulleys in the ground, undermining the soil on either side. Walter dismounted from his cart and tested the ground. If he straddled a couple of the gulleys, the heavy, iron-shod wheels of the wagon might not slip, and he could reach the ford in safety. Once across the surging brown water, there remained the problem of ascending the northern side.

I’ll deal with that when I come to it, Walter told himself.

Having decided his route, Walter pulled at his horse. Come on, Quebec. We’ll take this slowly.

Quebec put one hoof onto the slope and then another, with Walter guiding him step by step, ensuring the wagon’s weight did not drag him down. Steady now, Quebec!

When the horse pulled the cart over the lip of the slope, the weight pushed downward. Walter leapt back and slid a skid-shoe beneath the rear wheels. The skid-shoe locked the wheels, so they slowed any runaway movement of the coach.

Easy now. We’ll take the slope a few steps at a time.

Quebec seemed to understand Walter’s words, dipped his head into the rain and stepped down the slippery slope.

As the rain hammered down, Walter eased the wagon down the slope until, at last, he reached the ford, where he halted Quebec and scratched his head.

The water had risen while Walter had negotiated the descent and it was now a roaring brown-and-cream torrent carrying stray branches from overhanging trees. Walter took a deep breath. He had not seen the East Stour so wild for years and wondered if it was worth the trouble of crossing.

All right, boy, we’ll take it steady. Walter stepped into the ford, grunted at the force of the deluge, removed the skid-shoe, and began to lead Quebec across. The water reached the horse’s withers and passed the wheel hubs of the wagon, splashing into the interior, where a tarred canvas tarpaulin protected the contents. Walter led the way, thigh-deep, then waist-deep and chest-deep, gasping as his feet slipped on the muddy riverbed.

The brown water churned around Quebec, who rolled scared eyes as it plodded gamely on. As they reached the centre of the ford, the water splashed over the wagon’s body, adding to the puddles that already pooled on the tarpaulin and running under the two wooden kegs in the back.

We’re getting there, Quebec, Walter encouraged the horse. Only a few more steps. He thrust onto the far bank, leading up Quebec, and stood, sodden but triumphant, with the horse dripping behind him. Well done, boy, he said, patting Quebec’s neck. He contemplated the steep slope in front, dotted with the silver birch trees that gave the ford its name.

Well now, Quebec. How the devil will we get up there?

The clear voice floated to him. Halloa down there! Do you need some help?

Walter looked up to see a lone horseman on the crest of the rise. Rainwater wept from his tricorne hat and dripped down his mud-spattered riding cloak as he lifted a hand in greeting.

I’m trying to get my cart up the hill, Walter shouted.

So I see, the horseman said cheerfully, stepping his horse carefully down the slope. When he came closer, Walter saw he was a man in his mid-thirties with an open countenance and a queue of his own hair. The mud that speckled his greatcoat and horse showed he had been riding hard on the atrocious road.

Two horses are better than one, the stranger said. I’ll hitch mine to your wagon if you have no objections.

That’s very Christian of you, Walter said. He put a hand on the pistol under his greatcoat. What’s the catch? What would you gain by helping me? In the England of 1764, acts of charity were few and far between. Any traveller on the road was as likely to be a robber as a companion.

What will I gain? The stranger’s smile broadened. I’ll have the knowledge that I’ve done my Christian duty. He unfastened the scarf from his neck to reveal the white flash of a clerical collar.

You’re a clergyman! Walter relaxed the grip on his pistol.

The Reverend James Tyler. The rider gave a slight bow. At your service, sir.

Walter Clegg, sir. Walter removed his hat out of respect, bowed awkwardly and stood bareheaded and dripping in the rain.

Put your hat back on, Mr Clegg. We are all equal in the eyes of the Lord. The Reverend Tyler glanced upwards and smiled once more. And He maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust. That’s Matthew 5:45, and here endeth the lesson for today.

Yes, sir, Walter said awkwardly. He could not remember when he last attended a church service.

Tyler patted Walter’s cart. Now, let’s get your wagon up the slope before the flood sweeps it away. We have no Ark to relieve us, but we can use the horses, two by two.

Even with two horses pulling and both men pushing, manoeuvring the wagon up the slithering slope was an ordeal. They shoved and dragged the wagon a few yards, inserted the skid-shoe and halted for a rest, panting and grinning at each other.

Next stage, Tyler said, and they pushed again, with the horses straining and the men’s boots ankle deep in near-liquid mud.

Both men were sweating when they reached the summit, with mud spattering them from shoulder to feet. Walter leaned against the wagon, gasping for breath but with the road to Appleby open before him.

Thank you, Reverend, he said. I could not have managed it without you. He forced a smile. The Lord put you in the right place.

The Reverend Tyler returned the smile. He had a long face with laughing, mobile blue eyes, and white teeth. I think we should thank the Lord for his mercies, he said and knelt on the sodden grass beside the road.

After a moment’s hesitation, Walter sank to his knees and closed his eyes in unaccustomed prayer.

We thank the Lord for his blessings in this fortunate meeting, Tyler intoned, and for providing me with a gainful reward for my efforts. Now hand over your pistol. The pleasant tone of his voice did not change.

Walter felt the unmistakable pressure of a gun muzzle against the back of his neck. What?

Your pistol, Mr Clegg, Reverend Tyler repeated. He patted Walter’s cloak and removed the gun. Thank you, Mr Clegg. This is rather an old-fashioned piece, don’t you think? I would not like you to hurt yourself trying to fire it. Stand up, please, and put your arms around the nearest tree. That silver birch will do nicely.

With the barrel of the Reverend’s pistol seeming as wide as an eighteen-pounder cannon, and only an inch from his face, Walter obliged. Are you going to kill me?

Why would I do that? the reverend asked. I already have what I want.

What’s that? Walter asked.

Your cart, the reverend told him. And all its contents. Put your arms right around the tree, please, and hold your hands.

Walter obeyed, and Tyler tied his wrists together with a length of twine.

I do apologise for leaving you like this in such terrible weather, the reverend said. But the alternatives are worse. Either I could shoot you, which I don’t wish to do, or I could leave you free, in which case you would raise the alarm and pursue me.

Walter glared at the highwayman. Do you know who owns that cart? And who owns some of the contents?

I do not, Tyler said.

It belongs to John Smith, Walter told him. John Smith of the Spike.

Is that so? Tyler smiled. I have never heard of the gentleman.

You will, Walter said. Unless you release me, I promise you’ll know all about John Smith.

Tyler’s smile did not waver. Please carry my compliments to John Smith of the Spike and tell him that the Reverend Tyler thanks him for his generosity.

John Smith is an ill man to cross, Walter made a final desperate attempt to salvage the situation. If you restore me to freedom and give me the cart back, I’ll say no more about it.

Tying his horse to the back of the wagon, Tyler laughed and climbed onto the seat that Walter had recently occupied. Thank you for your kind offer, Mr Clegg, but I must decline. Pray, remember to give John Smith my compliments.

Take care of Quebec, Walter shouted, but Tyler did not reply. Instead, he cracked the reins on the horse’s rump and drove away, leaving Walter tied to the tree under the incessant hammer of the rain.

Chapter One

Kingsgate, Kent, England, March 1764

John Smith stepped inside the stable yard and lifted a hand to the man who was examining the wheel of a stagecoach.

Good morning, William.

Good morning, Mr Smith. William Foreman straightened up, wiping his hands on a piece of rag. What can I do for you?

Nothing, William. Smith extended his hand. I was wondering if I could help you.

I’m doing all right, thank you, Mr Smith. William shook Smith’s hand. All I need is a modicum of luck and a surge of passengers. His smile was slightly rueful. A coach company can’t run without customers.

Smith glanced over the coach. You’re doing a good job with that carriage, William. It’s looking as good as new.

Thank you, Mr Smith. William patted the coach’s door, where a delicate hand had painted the words Appleby Express: Kingsgate – Appleby – London. It’s been a long road, but this vehicle is nearly ready to replace my old coach.

That was why I came to see you. Smith leaned against a pile of sawn timber. Business. You must have spent a lot of money renovating that carriage.

William nodded. A bit, he agreed cautiously.

I have decided to branch out from shipping into land transport, Smith continued, eyeing the yard with its stabling for four horses, discarded paint pots, and pieces of equipment. William’s nearly completed coach stood proud beside the old-fashioned vehicle he had used for two years. I have the capital but lack the knowledge.

What are you suggesting, Mr Smith? William asked.

A partnership, William, Smith said. I supply the capital, and you supply the expertise.

William shook his head. No, thank you, Mr Smith. I do not wish to enter into a partnership with anybody. I will own this business and rise or fall on its success or failure.

Smith pushed himself upright and walked around the yard, with William watching everything he did. I will not interfere with your business, Smith said. I have three carts taking my goods to various parts of Kent and London, and I wanted to branch out into the passenger trade.

I am sorry, Mr Smith, William said, but I must decline your offer. I have no intention of taking on a partner.

As you wish, William, Smith said with a slight smile. In that case, I will bid you a good day and wish you every success in your venture.

Thank you, Mr Smith. William could not keep the relief from his voice as Smith left his stable yard. He watched Smith walk away and returned to his task, ensuring the spokes of each wheel were fit for their purpose.

Smith walked away, smiling. He could only admire William’s single-mindedness and wished him every success. Now he must think of another way of entering the coaching business.

Smith lifted his fowling-piece, cocked, aimed, and fired, with the shot catching the pigeon cleanly. The bird dropped at once to lie on the ground as a few detached feathers drifted slowly down to the scythe-cropped grass.

Take that to the cook, Smith ordered and watched as a servant hurried to obey. And you, Borway, tell me that again. He began to reload, pouring a measure of powder down the barrel of his piece with his ornate powder horn.

Somebody stole your cart, Mr Smith, Josh Borway said. And all the contents.

Did they, now? Smith put away his powder horn, fished a ball from his ammunition pouch and dropped it down the barrel. Do we know who the somebody was? He rammed the ball home and thumbed in a wad.

He called himself the Reverend James Tyler, Borway said.

Smith looked up with the ghost of a smile around his mouth. A holy highwayman? That’s unusual. Was he gathering funds for his flock?

I don’t know, Mr Smith.

Which cart? Who was the driver? Smith poised his fowling-piece, searching for another target.

Walter Clegg, Mr Smith.

Was Walter much injured? Smith saw a bird explode from a tree, aimed but did not fire.

No, Mr Smith. The highwayman tied him to a birch tree, and a traveller found him a few hours later. Borway hesitated. I wondered if Clegg was in league with the highwayman.

No, Smith shook his head. I know Walter Clegg, and he’s an honest man. He would not work with a knight of the road. How did it happen?

The highwayman helped Clegg up the slope at the Birch Ford, then held him at pistol point on the Appleby side. Clegg was badly shaken.

Where is Walter now?

At home, Mr Smith.

Smith nodded, shot at another pigeon, missed, cursed, and handed the fowling-piece to Borway. Take that to the gun room, clean it and put it on the rack. He passed over his powder horn and ammunition pouch. Take these as well and tell Bess I will speak to Walter.

When Mr Smith?

Now, Smith said. Accompany me when you have disposed of the musket. He stalked away, shouting to the stable boy to prepare Rodney, his favourite riding horse.

Walter lived in a cottage opposite the Dancing Horse Inn, with two small windows and a low door at the front and a long vegetable garden at the back. His wife Agnes answered the door and invited them in.

How is Walter, Agnes? Smith asked, taking off his tricorne hat and tapping it on his thigh.

He’ll live, Agnes was a short, plump woman with prematurely grey hair. She reached for a bottle. Brandy, Mr Smith? I know that Josh will take some.

Not for me, thank you, Smith said. I’ve come to see Walter.

He’s in there, Agnes indicated a door at the rear of the room.

Walter was slumped on a chair in the back room, staring out a small window at his garden. He looked up when Smith entered. My potatoes are underwater this year, Mr Smith. I hope all that rain doesn’t rot them.

Smith nodded, leaning against the wall. We certainly need some sun, Walter. Tell me what happened with your cart.

A highwayman who called himself the Reverend James Tyler robbed me at the Birch Ford, Walter said.

Smith nodded. I knew that much, he said. Describe this reverend fellow.

Walter screwed up his face with the effort to remember. Tall and slim with a pleasant manner. At first, I thought him to be about thirty-five, but when he came close, he looked younger. Maybe about thirty, with a cultured voice and bright blue eyes.

Was he a genuine reverend? Smith asked.

I don’t know, Mr Smith. He quoted from the Bible, but many people can do that. Walter gave a gentle smile. I doubt he was ordained. Maybe unfrocked.

Smith pushed himself away from the wall. A tall, slim highwayman with a pleasant manner and bright eyes. You rest and recover, Walter. I’ll find this holy highwayman. He nodded to Agnes on his way out and pressed a purse into her hand. Here, Agnes. That will help you over this period.

Agnes weighed the purse in her hand, with the worry shading her eyes. Thank you, Mr Smith.

Smith dismounted from Rodney at the Birch Ford. Crouching, he examined the tracks in the dried mud. It was unfortunate that the ford was well-used, for other traffic had passed this way, overlaying the marks Walter’s cart had made. However, Smith persevered, casting around for hoof prints and wheel tracks.

Can you find anything? Bess asked without dismounting from Starlight, her mare.

I think so. Smith pointed to a set of hoof prints, partly obscured by the passage of heavy wheels. Do you see these prints?

Bess nodded.

See how deep they are in the mud? That horse either had a very heavy rider or was pulling something weighty. Here we have a second set, broader and equally deep, on the same line, as if two horses were pulling the same load.

That’s our wagon, then, Bess said.

That’s our wagon, Smith agreed. Now we have to follow the trail through all the others. I’ll walk if you lead the horses. He stepped onto the deep ruts left by the cart and climbed the slope, keeping his eyes on the object.

The trail was obscure in places, yet distinct at the top of the slope, and then vanished amidst a melee of hoof prints and wheel marks in an area still muddy despite two days of dry weather. Smith cursed and cast about on the far side of the morass until he found a cart with two sets of hoof prints.

Is that our man? Bess asked, still astride Starlight.

Smith crouched in the mid and peered at the tracks. I believe so. Can you see this hoof mark? He pointed to one print. One of the nails is askew. Something must have distracted the farrier. I noticed that same squint nail further back.

They moved faster on the level, with Smith concentrating on the unique horseshoe print. He lost the trail a mile further on, swore again and cast around.

John! Bess pointed to the side of the road. Look at that bush. It doesn’t belong. There are no roots, and the bottom leaves are without buds.

Smith examined the bush. Somebody had cut it and expertly interlocked it with a live plant, so a casual glance would not notice the difference. Bess had seen the irregular line of buds and the dead leaves from the previous autumn.

Well done, Bess. Smith lifted the bush aside, revealing a carefully concealed side track, barely broad enough for a cart to pass.

The tracks are clear here, Smith said and strode along the track, with Bess following a few yards behind. They passed through a thicket of elm trees into open countryside with broad views of the Downs. A host of birds chattered around them: hedge sparrows, chaffinches, blue tits, and great tits calling to each other and competing for a mate.

Where will this track lead, John? Bess peered ahead. I didn’t think to bring a spyglass.

Nor did I, but we’ll soon find out, Smith said. There’s a building ahead.

A weather-battered sign proclaimed The Vicarage, and they moved slowly as they approached the house, with Smith loosening the pistol he carried inside his jacket. The Vicarage was square-built, with weather-tiling and tall chimneys. The upper storey boasted three front-facing windows and stood within a substantial, well-maintained garden. A blackbird watched them from its perch high up an elm tree, whistling.

I like to hear a blackbird sing, Bess said, reaching for her blunderbuss.

Keep back a little in case they prove unfriendly, Smith said, cocking his pistol. He pushed open the garden gate, strode to the front door and hammered on the upper left panel with his left fist. The door opened after a few moments, and a young girl looked inquisitively at Smith.

Yes, sir?

Smith put his pistol hand behind his back and bowed politely. My name is John Smith, and I am looking for the Reverend James Tyler.

Yes, sir. The servant girl opened the door wider. If you would care to step inside, Mr Smith, I’ll inform the master that you are here. She looked at Bess, gasped and quickly averted her gaze. The broad scar on Bess’s face had that effect on people.

Is he expecting you, sir? the servant asked Smith.

He is not, Smith said.

The servant ushered Smith inside the house, refrained from looking at Bess’s face and showed them into a comfortable front room. She curtsied, glanced again at Bess, and looked away. I won’t be long, Mr Smith, she promised and departed in a flurry of skirts and petticoats.

Highwayman or Holy man. Smith uncocked his pistol and replaced it in his belt. We’ll soon find out.

The room was square and straightforward, with an unlit fire laid in the grate, a large table with four straight-backed chairs, and a couch against one wall. A sideboard occupied another wall, replete with decanters and glasses, while portraits of stern-faced men stared out above. Leather-bound books filled a glass-fronted bookcase, and a long-case clock ticked away the seconds in the far corner beside the window.

Religious books, Bess commented after a scan of the bookcase. I doubt many highwaymen read such volumes.

Smith nodded. Perhaps the Reverend steals from the rich to give to the poor of his parish? Except that Walter Clegg is not rich. Here comes the Reverend.

Mr Smith? The man who entered the room was elderly, with cropped grey hair above a benign smile. And Mrs Smith? He tried to hide his discomfort at the sight of Bess’s scar. I am the Reverend James Tyler.

Bess curtsied without replying.

To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Mr and Mrs Smith?

I am searching for a horse and wagon that somebody stole from me, Smith said. The robbery occurred at the Birch Ford, and the man who stole it claimed to be the Reverend James Tyler. He held the reverend’s gaze.

I am no highwayman, Tyler denied with a gentle smile. A few such rogues are infesting this parish, as they do many parishes in England. He poured three glasses of port. However, I have a cart that might belong to you.

Thank you. Smith accepted the port. This Tyler did not fit Walter’s description of a tall, slender man in his thirties. How did you acquire the cart, reverend?

Somebody abandoned it outside the vicarage, Tyler explained. Possibly the same fellow who stole it.

Where is the vehicle now? Smith asked.

It’s round the back of the house, Tyler said. It was empty when I found it, without any clue to whom it belonged, or I’d have sent a message to you.

I’ll send a man with a horse to take it away, Smith sipped his port. Highwaymen are a menace throughout Kent, it seems, robbing honest travellers on the roads.

Unfortunately, that is correct, Tyler said. They have been amazingly active this past two months or so, and I’ve been held at gunpoint on two occasions myself. Indeed, Mr Smith, I am surprised that you reached here unscathed.

We were fortunate, Smith agreed. What do they hold up, as well as carriers?

Most anything that travels along this road, Tyler told him. Except the mail coach, he added with a smile. The mail always gets through.

Why is that, pray? Bess finished her port and waited hopefully for a refill.

Tyler did not respond to Bess’s empty glass. There are two possible reasons, my dear. The first is that the mail coach is always heavily guarded, and any highwayman could be stirring a wasp’s nest.

And the second?

The gibbet, Tyler said. Highwaymen are not scared of a simple hanging, but anybody robbing the Royal Mail will end up on a gibbet, and that is another matter.

Smith nodded. Gibbetting is a terrible punishment. To hang in an iron cage while crows peck out your flesh, then slowly rot away.

Tyler put down his empty glass. That’s not the worst of it, Mr Smith. As you will be aware, on Resurrection Day, the Lord will call us out of our graves to appear for judgment and answer for our sins. A gibbetted man will not have a body in which to appear. He is condemned to death in this life and damned for eternity in the next.

Bess realised that Tyler would not refill her glass. Thank you, Reverend.

I have one last question, Reverend, Smith said. You said there has been an increase in highway robbery this last couple of months. Do you know why that should be?

Tyler mused before he replied. "One reason is obvious, Mr Smith. With the end of the French War, we have thousands of discharged soldiers and sailors returning to the country with no occupation and no way