The Adventures of Ironstone Jack

By Michael White

Step into the tumultuous world of the Mid-Eighteenth Century, a time of profound transformation and upheaval. In the quaint village of Hamble, a place where change creeps in slowly, Ironstone Jack, the local blacksmith, stumbles upon an unexpected encounter with a daring highwayman. From this fateful moment, a series of gripping adventures unfolds, each inhabited by a diverse cast of intriguing characters and brimming with unforeseen challenges.

What hidden secrets lie within the heart of the woods, where the apothecary's wife ventures alone, seeking mysteries untold? And why does a peculiar rat incessantly haunt the windmill's shadows as if harbouring a cryptic request? As you traverse the pages of this tale, you'll also wonder if the eccentric Cruickshank will, once again, unwittingly send his cottage's roof soaring into the sky.

"The Adventures of Ironstone Jack", the first instalment in this enchanting series, introduces you to this enthralling world, blending adventure with a hint of mischievous humour. Delve into a realm where curiosity knows no bounds and where the unexpected waits just around the corner, inviting you to join in the excitement.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eighth Day Publishing
• Release date: Nov 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223193258

Michael White

Ex-drummer, Ex-software author and Ex-flares wearer Michael White was born and lives in the northwest of England. In a previous life he was the author of many text adventure games that were popular in the early 1980's. Realising that the creation of these games was in itself a form of writing he has since made the move into self-publishing, resulting in many short stories and novellas. Covering an eclectic range of subjects the stories fall increasingly into that "difficult to categorise" genre, causing on-going headaches for the marketing department of his one man publishing company, Eighth Day Publishing.Having accidentally sacked his marketing director (himself) three times in the last two years, he has now retired to a nice comfortable room where, if he behaves himself, they leave him to write in peace.In his spare time (!) Michael likes to listen to all kinds of music and is a big fan of Steven Moffat, whether he likes it or not.Michael is currently working on several new projects and can be contacted at the links [e-mail], or via my own website on http://mikewhiteauthor.wordpress.com, or via twitter on @mikewhiteauthor.

Book preview

THE ADVENTURES OF IRONSTONE JACK

THE LAST HIGHWAYMAN / THE FINAL ARROW

MICHAEL WHITE

EIGHTH DAY PUBLISHING

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Copyright © 2023 by Michael White

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.K. copyright law.

Contents

1.THE LAST HIGHWAYMAN

2.THE FINAL ARROW

THE LAST HIGHWAYMAN

They say that Ironstone Jack had eyes like fire. That he could fight with flame and smoke and disappear at will, and that when he sang, the birds and beasts of the forest would gladly do his will.

It is also said that Ironstone Jack was an evil man, that he stole from the rich and poor alike, neither caring nor favouring one over the other and that he would snatch the last penny from under a poor man’s plate and steal the soft feathers from the pillows of a rich man.

They say that he could not love nor weep and shunned all friendships but one, and in the end, even they betrayed him.

They Lied.

THE ADVENTURES OF IRONSTONE JACK

THE LAST HIGHWAYMAN

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This is where it all began. The legend of the last highwayman, the final arrow, Pickpurse and the fish, the Highhall Shambles and the tales of the halls of gold. The man, the arrow, the fish, the gold. All things must have a beginning, and all things must have an end. But this is the start of it, and this is what happened.

First, birdsong. A slight breeze blew across the moor, drizzle fell from a leaden sky, and horse’s hooves thudded across the peaty loam. A distant rattle of reins clashing could be heard, and a coach drawing to a halt. A horse’s whinny. An angry, wordless cry and a pistol shot.

Hold! a distant voice called, seeming to slowly fade with grim finality. The rain continued to fall.

From where these sounds arose, a wooden signpost stood at the top of the hill. The post was placed at a crossroads and stands straight and true as if whoever had placed it there secured it so well that by doing so, it was nailing the crossroads down, almost as if they were afraid of it moving. Written upon the post in careful letters, one of the four struts reads, Hamble. The coach stopped a little further along the lane and was neither heading to nor coming from there.

It was finely made, with an expensive-looking livery, but presently it was half on the road and half off it. Two fine horses stood champing at the front of it, both agitated and keen to be on their way. Besides the coach stood a round-bellied, red-faced man and two well-dressed women. All three were looking at the short man standing before them, who was seated on a large black horse, a mask over his face and a flintlock pistol in one hand. A man dressed in a black surcoat and dark trousers lay before them. He was sat propped up against the coach wheels, his eyes glassy as if shocked by the red wound in his arm slowly seeping blood onto the dark clay of the road. Given the absence of anyone sitting in the coach’s box, it was likely that the wounded man on the road was the driver.

Brother whip there took a mighty fine chance on jumping old Snooks, so he did. said the man on the horse, throwing a small sack from his saddlebags down into the lane. I would say it best that none of you is taking after the same way o’ thinking as he. Fill the sack, if you will. Rings, money, promissory notes. All are of great interest to Old Snooks. No hiding or the like. I will be checking.

I’ll see you hanged for this. muttered the older man darkly, but Snooks just smiled behind his mask, watching as they passed the sack between them, removing jewellery and emptying purses.

Just be quick, said the Highwayman casually. Nearby birds sang in the trees that lined the lane, a slight breeze moving the leaves. It was a bright summer’s day in August, warm yet still early enough for the heat not to have risen as high as it undoubtedly would. From the hilltop, the lanes that gathered at the crossroads could be seen running in all four directions. The roads were empty, nothing passing along them. Just below them, but out of view beneath the hill, was the village of Hamble, a small rural township. Long, thin plumes of smoke rose from where the village lay, rising and fading into the air.

Finally, the man and the two women finished divesting themselves of their jewellery and threw the sack back to the highwaymen. It made a chinking noise as it hit the road, and the robber slid down effortlessly from his horse, his flintlock never straying from them as he kneeled and collected it from the ground.

I take it you are all suitably divested of your valuables? said Snooks, his voice slightly muffled by his mask. He had an air of arrogance that was hard to disguise.

It looks full enough to me. said a voice from behind them, and the highwayman spun around to see where from whom it had come.

Standing in the lane on a large black carthorse sat a broad-shouldered man dressed in what may best be described as working clothes. From a smithy, perhaps, but not a farm. His shirt cuffs looked charred at the edges as if sparks or flame had landed there before being hastily extinguished. Snooks stepped back, giving himself a little distance between the three passengers and himself, and brought his pistol to bear upon the large man seated on the horse.

And what business is it of yours? he thundered, almost as if he was affronted by the man’s sudden and unexpected appearance. He dropped the bag to give him his full attention.

None whatsoever, said the man, dismounting his horse and stepping forward before coming to a halt in the lane. It was only now that his actual size was evident. The large horse he had been riding had disguised how big he actually was, for the man was huge. He was well over six foot tall and well built, the muscles in his arms well pronounced and hardened. He was of middling age, with a long black beard and moustache about his face. He had a look about him of frivolity, however, as if he was finding the act of robbery whilst out on his business no more than an inconvenience.

Then it would be for the best that you were on your way, said Snooks, it would not do for you to be getting in the way of old Robbie Snooks when he’s about his business.

Assault and robbery? smiled the stranger, that’s your business, is it now?

On your way! shouted the highwayman, and he shot his pistol into the air. The horses whinnied loudly, but the large cart horse did not move. The three passengers wailed and shrank away from the robber. One of the women started to cry.

Being on my way is a dilemma, sadly. said the large man, See, I run a forge down the lane at Hamble, and if Castille got wind of the fact I had allowed a robber to have run of the lanes hereabout it might be causing me a bit of disfavour. Still, that’s my problem. I got to keep in my good books with the local landowner. You know how it is. I am afraid, however, Mr Snooks, that you have an even bigger problem.

I do? said the highwayman. Despite the mask, the robber gave the impression that he was smiling broadly. And what is that? he said.

As I see it, you shot the coachman there with one flintlock, and you just shot the other into the air, which was something of a mistake, if you forgive me. Now unless you have several more pistols stuck up your breeches, then I would suggest that you and I will have a bit of a set-to now. The large man began to walk forward quickly.

Snooks grabbed the sack and made for his horse, but for his size, the stranger was very fast on his feet. He reached the highwayman quickly, spun him round and thumped him firmly on the jaw. The robber fell to the ground and stayed there.

Damned addle-pated guniguts. said the man, spitting beside the now prone highwayman. He looked up and down the road. Best be retrieving your bangles and the like, he said, picking up the bag from the road. But not now. He will wake soon. I will put this back in your coach for you. Judging by your driver’s lack of colour, he needs to be attended to by a surgeon as soon as possible.

Good lord, praise be to you, sir. said the red-faced man, You have saved us all.

Saved your jewellery, no doubt. he said darkly, You have some spare rope on the wagon?

If so, I think the coach driver may have some under the whip’s seat, perhaps? said the red-faced man, sniffing loudly at the man calling his coach a wagon.

Well, make to it. said the large stranger, I’m not here to wait on your table. Best get to it before this gollumpus wakes. Mr Snooks ain’t going to be seeing straight for a while, but I suspect his humour will be a little riled when he does come to.

I shall attend to it at once. said the man, nearly running to the front of the coach and rummaging through the box under the driver’s seat. The man turned to the women, who were still recovering from the shock of the robbery.

I am Jack. he said, Ironstone Jack, they call me, after me running the forge down the lane. Pleased to be at your service. He took the bag from the women, walked around to the far side of the coach and returned a minute later. There. Your valuables are safe now.

Thank you, said the taller of the two women, but what shall we do with this robber? We cannot let him go free, surely?

I’ll bundle the fellow up with the rope when yon good sir finds one. After that, leave him to me. Charles Castille, the local land baron, will be sure to be hearing his name, mark my words. In the meantime, I suggest you check over your driver. Looks like a nasty wound on his arm, that. I suggest tearing some cloth off his shirt and binding it. It will stop his blood from seeping out. The two ladies reached the wounded driver and set about examining his arm.

The man returned with the rope, and Jack bundled the man up and dragged him to the side of the road.

Can you drive this coach, good sir? asked Jack, and the man nodded enthusiastically.

Of course I can drive it, he said.

Jack smiled. I fear your driver here needs to be attended to with little delay, he said with concern.

Right then. Leave me to do the cleaning up and be on your way, but a word of advice.

And what will that be, sir?

"I might suggest on your next journey in such a fine coach that you stay on the turnpike roads. It will cost you, no doubt, and some of the lanes will bounce you around like a baby on a mother’s knee. But they are safer, see? I’d be sticking to them in future if I were you. Come now. I will help you lift this poor wounded fellow into the coach. Can’t be leaving him lying here, what with all the foxes or worse,