The King's Mail

Chapter I. The Flowek Giel

Without once pausing in Ms flight, Baxter kept on his way, and galloped for miles along the old Southampton road, his strong horse never once failing him, but bearing him upon his perilous course beyond the fear of danger, and the hue and cry of his pursuers. It was not until after he had gained the far descending slope of the long Hog's Back, that he ventured to restrain his headlong speed, then striking through a country lane, turned to the right, and made his way in the direction of Farnham. His horse had saved his life, and he caressed and patted it, leaning over its neck, talking in familiar tones, praising its speed, and vowing there was not another horse like him in all England. VOL. III. B *J> He dismounted when near a running brook, and pulling a handful of hay from a stack stand ing near the wayside, sopped it in the water, and saw his horse eat it, while he stood fondling, almost playing with it all the time, then with a wisp, rubbed down its sides and swept the foam from him.

There was another ten miles' run in him yet, and Baxter looked about him with a laughing and defiant air for those who'd like to come and try it. His horse stood nipping the grass growing by the roadside, while Baxter laid himself at his full length and drank of the clear stream a long hearty draught. He drank again and again, and had a bowl of his favourite punch been steaming by his side, would not have turned from the brook, of which he drank his fill, and never thought water half so sweet before. "This Adam's ale," he cried, "is not such bad tipple after all, when a man is thirsty and has his work to do. I only wish poor Mike were here to have a drink of it, instead of all the doctor's stuff he'll have to swallow unless they choke him off before his arm gets well. If he were only here, we would make a shift to carry him, wouldn't we, Jack ?

You'd carry double for once, and think nothing of it, wouldn't you, old boy, and give them the go by after all ?" His horse replied in the best way it could, arching its neck, pawing with its foot, and switch ing its tail, finishing by thrusting its nose right into its master's breast, as he stood stroking it down, and slapping its broad chest. " Time's up," cried Baxter, once more throwing himself into the saddle ; " but you may take it easy now, Jack; there's lots of time and to spare, so long as those gentlemen are out of sight." He rode along through pleasant lanes for some way further, then striking across the country to wards Farnham, put up at a decent inn for the night, attended personally to the grooming and feeding of his horse, and the next day pursued his way to London. He had no fear of being recognized; the chances were all in his favour, and with anything like luck, he thought he should get well out of the scrape after all.

The first thing to do was to change his lodging and keep Bridgeman under control. He had seen enough of him to know there was no dependence to be placed on him, he was too nervous to be trusted at a push, and too selfish, even if he were less nervous, to think of any one but himself. But then Bridgeman was afraid of him, that he knew well enough, and with a Httle management might run in harness quietly enough, if he only kept a tight rein on him. The news of Garroway' s apprehension, although perhaps to have been expected, came upon them like a thunderbolt, and Baxter had not only to endure his own share of anxiety and regret, but to keep his friend and companion within bounds, who would have shown a fair pair of heels, and ran away beyond the reach of danger at the first news of it. But both men were alike in this, they had no means beyond the income obtained by the exercise of their wits; and though they had hitherto found that capital pay a good interest, they knew that interest was uncertain, and their whole for tunes depending upon chance : one day worth thousands, the next without a guinea.

Baxter knew this well enough, and endeavoured to per suade the irresolute Bridgeman into a knowledge of his true position, and the uselessness of flight. He had strong faith in Garroway, for with all his love of finery, he had invariably found Mike true to his word and consistent in his dealings — they might hang him, but he would never peach. With Bridgeman he would not have been quite so sure ; he was a coward and sufficiently selfish to think only of himself. Had he a chance of saving his neck by betraying others, he would do it, let who might suffer ; and the very knowledge of what he would do himself, operated so strongly on him, he would have, scampered away and shipped himself beyond seas, even at the risk of having to work for his living, or of begging in the public streets. Baxter, on the contrary, had a bull-dog stubbornness about him ; he would never fly, he would face his danger and not sneak from it as Bridgeman would have done.

He was a bold, reckless, daring fellow, with a strong sense of honour about him, after his own fashion, and to save or serve a friend, would have braved anything, or sacrificed himself. But as the time drew near for Garroway' s trial, an aching sense of dread fell upon both men, and shifting from their old quarters, they took lodgings in the noiseless thoroughfare turn ing out of St. Martin's Lane, called May's Build ings, where they could he perdu, and wait the result. None of their friends knew where they lived, and the two men gave up, for the time, all visits to their haunts, keeping within doors day and night as well, their heads aching from the close confinement, and fevered by their nightly drink. Bridgeman had given up claret and taken to punch instead, and night by night went stagger ing: to bed.

But even then he had a ner vous fear about him, and would not go to bed ■at all unless T5axter slept in the same room with him, and kept his pistols under his pillow. He knew Jack would fight, so he had a chance of escape, even if the worst came to the worst. The trial had taken place the day before, and up and down the narrow court the newsmen went, blowing their horns, and shouting out their tidings of how the highwayman had been tried at Guild ford, together with a full, true, and particular account of the summing up of the judge, and the sentence passed upon the culprit. A newspaper was quickly purchased, and Baxter read the news, pausing at every word, and inspecting the opened out sheet with breathless expectation. At last the sentence came ! Garroway was found guilty. He was condemned to die, but he had not betrayed. his friends.

"Poor Mike!" sighed Baxter, laying the paper down, and leaning with his hand pressed over his brows. Bridgeman gulped his punch, and said, " Poor fellow ! poor Mike ! and not to split on us after all. I had no idea there was so much pluck in him." "Pluck!" cried Baxter, dashing his hand across his eyes, " Pluck ! Mike has more pluck under an inch of his fine red coat than you have in your whole body. You would have sold us out and out — hung us like dogs, so you could have saved your own neck. Mike's heart is in the right place, although he is a httle squeamish now and then, and fond of finery as a woman ; but time's up, and poor Mike will swing." His hand was pressed over his face again, and the strong man sat sobbing silently, though audibly. Bridgeman was silent too, but his brow was brighter than before they had read the news, and though he appeared to feel for Mike, yet in his heart he wished the time had come that he would be dead and buried, since die he must, and he relieved from any fear of his making a confession.

At last he said — "Do you think he will confess after all, Jack? Those parsons get hold of a fellow at such times as these, and worm the truth out of him before he is aware of it." " Do I think you are a selfish hound who think only of yourself, and would hang him with your own hands, if yon could only make sure of him ?" cried Baxter, starting up in his chair, and looking fiercely out of his red and but half-dried eyes. " Oh ! I only meant to say " " I know what you say, and what you mean, as well as you do yourself, so hold your tongue, and if you are not too drunk when you go to bed say a prayer for the poor fellow, and wish you may die as true, if not as honest a man." There was no more to be said to this. Baxter was evidently roused, and Bridgeman knew it, so he sat drinking his punch in dogged silence, and appeared to think himself an ill-used gentleman, while Baxter read the trial over again, and again, in the " Evening Post," leaving his companion to grow fuddled with his drink, and at the last walk off in the sulks, staggering to bed.

They had only a few guineas left between them. Something must be done to raise the wind and bring in fresh supplies ; so Baxter sold his watch, and the next night the two men went out again as usual, visiting their old haunts, playing for small sums, and running as little risk of losing as possible. They had bad luck of it at first, but by little and httle they won what they had lost back again, and added a few more guineas to their store. Both men played nervously, but after a time Bridgeman lost his head drinking punch, and spoiled the game, so they lost again. Baxter had kept himself sober, and watched the cards fall down as though his very life de pended on them. Still bad luck, so Baxter took to punch as well, which only had the effect of clearing his head and exciting him to bolder ven tures.

He won this time, so the punch was swilled again. He won again, and whilst the drunken and incapable Bridgeman sat sleeping in his chair, Baxter drank deeper, and staked higher than he had done. His head was clear enough now; he would have played with any man, and risked his last sixpence on a card. He had won hundreds. Cards or dice, it was all one to him ; he was in for a run of luck, and swept the table clear of notes and guineas. They had sat for hours, and when the daylight broke in upon the room, he roused Bridgeman from his heavy slumber, and shaking him by the arm, told him to " get up and come along." Tom rubbed his eyes, jumped up with a start, and stared at Baxter with a frightened expression, as though he half expected to see a constable in stead. He had evidently not forgotten his fears of Mike Garroway's peaching on him.

They left the house together, and turning through the streets, gray with the early daylight, directed their steps towards their lodgings. Bax ter was " well up in the stirrups," as he said, and fit for anything. Bridgeman, on the contrary, was fit for nothing, but skulking along in the shadow of the houses, kept a good look-out before him and behind him. " What the devil are you after, Tom ?" cried Baxter, losing patience, when he saw his com panion so bent on choosing the back and narrow turnings. " You are not on Hind Head now, nor taking a run for it from your friends at Godal ming. You haven't the heart of a mouse in you, and the last few weeks have turned you from the dashing fellow you used to be, into a woman." " It's all the fault of punch, Jack," said Bridge man, looking before him, while he watched a distant figure approaching from the far end of St. Martin's Lane.

"If I had only stuck to claret, I shouldn't have these tremblings over me, but I can't help it, for who knows but Mike may split upon us after all. Life is sweet, and if you have a chance of saving it " "You'd hang your friend, I suppose," inter rupted Baxter. " I'll take good care how I give you a chance of hanging me." Then seeing how his companion came to a dead halt as he stood looking before him at the distant figure, cried, " What are you lagging back for now ? and what are you gaping at, with your two moons of eyes in that way for ?" " Don't you — don't you see somebody there ?" half hiccuped Bridgeman, pointing to the figure. " What if I do ?" replied Baxter. " There is nothing to frighten one in a market-woman carry ing a basket on her head, is there ?" " Oh ! if it's only a woman, and you are sure it's a woman, she be hanged.

I thought perhaps Mike had confessed, and " " Not he, he's true as steel, and here is the woman, basket and all." They were close to the turning leading to their lodgings now, and as they drew near it, they met a girl carrying a basket of flowers on her head, coming from early market at Covent Garden. They met face to face, and the girl moved a little on one side, with the intention of letting the men pass by, for Bridgeman was rather un steady on his legs, and Baxter's strong arm had to keep him from swaying about. The girl stared first at one then the other, then fixed her gaze on Baxter, with a curious open-eyed expression. Baxter looked at her too, while a half recollection came upon him of having seen her face somewhere before. The girl was about to pass him, when he placed himself full in her way, and said — " Down with your basket, wench, and let us look at your posies.

Why, you look as blooming as they do, only a little careworn, to my thinking. Here — here is half-a-crown for you, so give me a bunch worth smelling at." The girl put her basket down, picked out the best she had and handed it to him. Baxter took it, put the money in her hand, and was walking away, when she said, " I have no change, sir." " Keep it and buy some meat with it. You look as though you wanted blood in your veins. Your face is pretty enough, but there's too much of the colour of new milk about it, to my fancy, and wants a dash of one of your own posies to give it a little red and white." There was plenty of red and white in the girl's face, when she replied, "You had better take more flowers, sir, as I can't give you change." " How much for the lot ?" stammered Bridge man, trying to chuck the girl under the chin ; "Jack's fond of flowers, so let him keep the basket and I'll have the missus."

Half frightened by the staggering movements of Bridgeman, the girl was running past them, when Baxter jerked him back and cried, " None of your tricks, Tom, and keep your hands off the girl, for she appears honest, and has a sickly look about her, as though she had too soon got out of a sick bed, or something very hke it." The girl flushed to the eyes again, then taking up her basket, dropped him a curtsey, and with the money in her hand, passed on, while Bridge man swung himself half round with a view of catching hold of her, and nearly stumbled over Baxter in the attempt, who, wrenching him up again with a sudden jerk, kept him from falling. " Steady, Tom !" cried Baxter, " and no tricks, as I said before. You are mighty courageous all of a sudden." " Of course I am. Do you think I fear a woman as much as I do a constable ?

Not a bit of it, and if Bow Street runners would only put on petticoats, I should be running after them instead of their running after me. It is a weakness of mine, and punch always makes it worse." They were at the court now, and close to their lodgings, when Baxter turned and looked back after the girl, who was standing some short dis tance off, with her basket of flowers on her head, looking after them as well, with a curious, yet earnest expression in her face. They were flush of money now, and the next day treated themselves to a ride through High gate on to Finchley, and so round to Hampstead, dining at Jack Straw's castle, and having a day's clear " out " of it. Baxter was in good spirits when the dinner came ; but on the road he was moody and out of sorts, as though his recollection were busy with the last ride he had had with Bridgeman, and appeared to miss the third com panion, who had laughed and chatted with them when riding down from London with Martin Blakeborough, to look at his old house and talk their secret matters over.

Two of them were on their horses still ; of Blakeborough he had heard nothing, although he had promised to write to him ; and Garroway — where was he ? In the condemned cell in Guildford Jail, waiting his exe cution. Baxter could think of nothing else, and walking his horse up the steep of Highgate Hill, kept drawing pictures in his fancy of Mike upon his straw, and the gallows ready to be set up. He had half a mind to turn his horse, and gallop off to see him. If he had only had a dozen hke himself he would have done it, too, and battered down the gate to get at him ; but what could one man do, and he in danger of the same trial, and the same condemned cell, if he were taken ? It was no use thinking of it ; but, though he tried to drive it from him, the recollection of the prison cell would flit across his mind, making him droop his head, and ride along in silent thought.

Bridgeman did not seem to think at all, but kept whisthng with a careless air, and appeared less afraid now he was on the open road than when walking through the crowded streets. There was no one to stare at him there, or pounce upon him when he least expected it. The old women he met he could have ridden over, while the few stragglers on the paths only touched their hats, and went on lazily to their daily work. They were not constables, and what did Bridgeman care for them ? Not the snap of his fingers ! And he went whisthng on, looking at Baxter every now and then with a sidelong glance, wondering what he was thinking of, and if it were of Mike. He thought of him himself sometimes, and speculated what he was thinking of, and whether he trembled, as he should have done, at the thought of the hangman and his horrid noose.

The bowl of punch after dinner cheered them up, but Baxter would not let his companion drink too much of it. There was more money to be won that night, he hoped, and Bridgeman must keep his head clear, and try his knowing hand in assisting him to win it. " You have had enough, Tom, to do you good, and not another drop shall you swallow if I know it ; so don't keep looking at the bowl as though you wanted to drain the dregs and suck the bits of lemon at the bottom. A month ago you were as steady and sober as a judge. Now you're as fond of drink as a drayman." " It's all the fault of the Devil's Punch Bowl, Jack. It was that first put drinking in my mind. If that infernal hollow were only filled with it, well sugared, and flavoured to my liking, I think I could be content to be drowned in it.

Claret's a cold drink after all, and the sight of it gives me a shiver now." Lifting the empty bowl, he drained the few remaining drops into his glass, and sucked them down as if they were drops of nectar; then, turning it about between his hands, cried, " They call that a bowl, do they ? A lady's chocolate cup would hold as much for her morning's sip. There's nothing like a pint apiece, and I could drink a gallon." "I tell you what it is, Tom," said Baxter, leaning across the table, " if you go on in the way you have begun much longer, you'll be as very a drunkard as any in St. Giles's. You have taken to it naturally, as a Red Indian does to rum, and would sell your soul for it. Mind it does not endanger your neck some day as well." The reference to his neck put Bridgeman in mind of Garroway.

He placed the bowl on the table, and said nothing more. They had a long night's play before them ; so, mounting their horses, Baxter and his com panion left the pleasant fields and the delightful village behind them, galloped back to town, put their horses up at a neighbouring stable, then sought their out-of-the-way lodgings in May's Buildings. They had a stake worth playing for now, and, with any luck, might double it, and double that again. Bridgeman' s head was clear enough, and his known skill, and dexterous apphcation of it, made him a dangerous one for any man to try chances with ; and that night, at all events, he meant to do his best. The night came, and they went arm in arm to try their luck. Who were those two men leaning on the mantel -piece, talking to each other by the fire ?

They were the two foreign Counts who had stripped them of their winnings the night before they met Blakeborough at the "Angel Inn." No VOL. III. c sooner had Bridgeman cast eyes on them than he slapped his hand upon his thigh, and said "he would teach them a trick or two worth knowing, if they'd only give them their revenge. It was their turn now, and, with the luck in the right quarter, they would win their losses back again — Bridgeman his three hundred, and Baxter the four hundred he had won of Martin Blakeborough." Their party was speedily made up ; and, until the daylight streamed into the room, they sat and played — then the place was cleared, the lights put out, the door of the gaming-house closed, and winners and losers went away to think of what they had lost or won, or might win or lose next night.

The flower-girl, with her basket on her head, went toiling through the early-lighted street, the morning's sun shining upon windows and glowing on the chimney-tops, while the pavement was yet moist with dew. The girl walked on, and, almost on the same spot, met the two men who had stopped her, and bought a nosegay of her the day before ; but they passed her now without even noticing her, or buying any of her flowers. The thick-set man merely glanced at her, while his companion walked moodily along, with his hands buried in his pockets, and did not appear so tipsy as he was the morning before. They never turned to look at her this time ; but, with their eyes fixed on the pavement, went silently along, and entering the same court, passed on their way. The girl watched them out of sight; then, settling her basket on head, went toiling on to sell her flowers.

Chapter II. The Parcel

Baxter and his companion sat sulkily over their morning's meal; their old ill luck had come upon them, and the two foreign Counts had stripped them of every guinea. Bridgeman's watch had gone to keep company with Baxter's, and they had nothing now they could raise money upon to give them a chance of retrieving their past losses. Baxter had his horse, it was true, but he felt he would rather starve than part with it. Bridgeman's was only hired from the stables round the corner, so they could not sell that; and even if they could, his worth was a mere trifle. Their week's rent was due, with sundry things to pay, and they without a shilling to meet the woman's claim. They could not play without money, and without money what were they to do ? They had plenty of friends who would lose their guineas to them, and pay them if they lost ; but they would not lose, and find the stakes at the same time ; and both men thought they could rather suffer anything than come to that pass.

Something must be done, or they should be turned out of the lodgings, which suited them just now better than any other. It was a quiet, out-of-the-way quarter of the town, and while the news of the mail robbery was still talked of, and the men who robbed it were described in the newspapers, they thought the wisest thing to do was to keep out of sight for a time, and only venture in the streets by night, and then cautiously, avoiding the more frequented thoroughfares. They had only had one day's pleasure since they had been hiding there, riding to Hampstead, and dining at Jack Straw's Castle ; but the money won the overnight had put Baxter in good spirits then, and he thought less of Gar roway than he did now sitting in that dull room, in that close court, wondering if they would execute him after all.

They sat without speaking for some time, Bridgeman making impossible calculations of chances on a piece of paper, and Baxter playing with a pack of cards, trying to make it out how the foreign Counts could always win in the way they had done. He rose at last, and looking out of the window stood staring for some time at the opposite houses, or watching the people pass and repass up that narrow way. Leaning with his forehead on his hand upon the window-sash, he stood busy in his thoughts, and casting about what he had best do. Bridgeman gave up his calculations at last, and went to the cupboard to see if there were any rum left in it to mix a glass of punch with. He had hardly looked inside when Baxter, turning sharply round, told him to go to the coffee-house in St. Martin's Lane, and ask if any letter had been left for him.

Blakeborough and Upton were both in the habit of addressing their letters there, and one or both of them might have written ; and yet they had never inquired whether they had written or not. Bridgeman had a stray shilling left in the corner of his pocket. It was not much, but a shilling's worth of punch was better than nothing when a man had a fit of the blues on him, and nothing to drink to frighten them away with ; so Tom took his hat, and went upon his double errand of inquiry and punch. He had been some time gone — Baxter all the while fuming and fidgeting up and down the room, or looking out of the window towards the entrance of the court, when he saw Bridgeman turn the corner, smacking his lips, and carrying a small parcel in his hand. " You have been long enough to have brought a haystack on your back," cried Baxter angrily, when Bridgeman re-entered the apartment, " in stead of a bit of tied-up paper hke this.

I know what you have been after well enough, and if you don't mind what you are about, you'll be waking out of your first sleep to get a suck at the brandy bottle. After dinner a man may do what he hkes, if he has the head and stomach for it; but morning drinking is the devil, and will send you to him in no time. Let me see what you have there. Give it me, and don't keep fumbling at the knot when there is a knife to cut it with." The parcel was addressed — "John Baxter, Esq. To be left at the Coffee-house, St. Martin's Lane, until called for." A coin had been pressed upon the wax that fastened it, and an imperfect copy of King George's head was the only seal it bore ; but the wax had not been broken, nor the string untied. Baxter slit it from the cover with a knife, and both men stood looking with curious eyes at what the contents might be.