ON THE COACH FROM OXFORD
A rough night, cold and wet, with a thin sleet falling and the wind
blowing from the north-east full against the great coach which lumbered
on its way from Oxford to London.
Passengers inside huddled together, stamping benumbed feet and wishing
for the journey's end. Passengers outside poured anathemas against the
weather and the slowness of the horses into the depths of fur-lined
coats, wherein their faces were buried.
Only two or three of the younger men perched near the driver were able
to crack occasional jokes, whilst one alone strove huskily to troll a
stanza of some popular ditty.
Insulting! Positively insulting to sing of drinking and being jolly,
or drowning melancholy either, in face of such a gale, and the coach an
hour behind time! Even his comrades upbraided him, whilst one
beetroot-nosed individual near looked positively murderous.
But Michael Berrington was made that way, and--so an Oxford wag
declared--would have found food for laughter with a noose around his
neck.
"Hi, there! Hi! hi. For Heaven's sake, my masters! Hey----"
Michael leant over the side of the coach and called aloud to the driver
to pull up.
A man, in holland smock, and face as white as chalk, had burst through
the hedge on their left and was running frantically after them.
"Hey, hi, for Heaven's----"
He was breathless before he reached them, and the anathemas of the
beetroot-nosed passenger rose high above his fur collar.
But Michael--nimble now as when, ten years before, he had scaled a high
garden wall with a child's ball--had swung himself down on to the
ground beside the man.
"Come," he cried gaily; "you've been running. Have a drink, my friend,
and tell us the merry news afterwards. I'll wager it's worth the
hearing."
The man gulped down the contents of the extended flask readily enough,
and proceeded to tell his tale in crescendo tones.
He had been working yonder with the mangels for Farmer Benton's sheep,
and had just stepped into the copse near, when he heard voices on the
other side of it, and the jingling of bits.
Gentlemen of the road they were,--three of them, black-masked, and
dainty in their dress as any lords. How they laughed too, little
dreaming of the mangel-digger, as they discussed how they and the rest
of their band meant to rob the Oxford coach at Craven's Hollow, not far
from Reading. Seven was the hour, and the prey secure. A lonely
place, my masters, and rich booty. They had news of a certain
gentleman whose valise was worth risking their necks for.
The man told his tale in the broad Berkshire dialect, but the outline
of it was enough for those who rode on the Oxford coach.
Marry! What a to-do there was! Gabbling, crying, cursing,--one urging
this thing, one the other, whilst the excitement of the beetroot-nosed
passenger caused more than one to wonder what his valise contained.
And above all the cackling and hysterical shrieks of the women, rose a
rollicking voice.
"The hour of seven," cried Michael Berrington, with gusty laughter.
"And it's not six of the clock yet. Why, troth, we'll be miles away
past Craven's Hollow and through Reading itself before then, so you
give me leave to handle the ribbons."
More clamour at this you may be sure, more cursings too, and cries that
to be robbed by highwaymen was better than to have their necks broken
by a mad young blood from Oxford University.
But Michael's friends were nearest the driver, and the beetroot-nosed
passenger stood their champion, so that, before more could be said, the
driver of the "Red Reindeer" was whisked from his seat and stowed
struggling away in the custody of two chuckling Oxonians, whilst
Michael gathered up the reins with a cry of encouragement to the
horses, which were growing restive with long standing in the cold.
It was Tom Blakeley who wound the horn, and he of the beetroot nose who
cried "Well played," as the greys leapt forward under the light touch
of the lash, leaving the mangel-digger--richer by many a coin of the
realm--to pass the time of night with a certain bearded traveller who
swore, with mighty pretty oaths and hectorings, that he would rather
tramp it through the slush to Reading than trust his neck to any
devil-may-care Oxford scholar.
And meantime Michael Berrington drove as surely those four sleek but
sweating greys had never been driven before.
Those within the coach vowed that their last hour had come, and clung
together, the women in hysterics, and the men swearing as a sudden jolt
would fling them one against the other, whilst shrieks and groans told
of bumps and bruises manifold.
Outside, however, things wore a merrier aspect.
The Oxford grads were enjoying themselves, trolling out jocular songs
as though they sat to see the finish of the punch-bowl at a College
wine, rather than a likely finish in a neighbouring ditch with a broken
neck or two thrown in.
But the stranger with the nose and valise neither sang nor swore, but
sat behind Michael, urging him to quicken his steeds' pace again and
again, in tones which were inflected with growing anxiety.
But Michael needed no urging.
He was at least half an Irishman and was bred for a sportsman;
moreover, he meant winning that race.
Faith! those inside might split, slit, and confound themselves and
others till they were hoarse, the coachman, pinioned firmly by Nat and
Horace Goulden, might entreat and implore for pity on horses and
passengers, but Michael heeded nothing of them all.
High above the shrieking wind and creaking of tossing boughs overhead
rose his strong, young voice, whooping on the straining, panting steeds
as they dashed downhill at a gallop.
It was Providence that looked to the wheels of the coach.
A yell from Tom Blakeley, perched behind, set hearts a-thumping lustily.
Cross roads and a stretch of common land had shown keen eyes the sight
of a group of horsemen riding with loose rein to meet them.
Half a mile lower was Craven's Hollow, and our merry gentlemen of the
road were on their way for their tryst.
But the Oxford coach was half an hour before her time.
"Hola! Hola! Hola!"
It was a wonder those chanting grads did not fling themselves from the
coach-top in their excitement.
They were ahead of their pursuers.
Blunderbusses and pistols had been handed up from the arm-chest below,
but it was agreed that a fight was to be avoided.
These gentry of the black mask were straight shooters and might let
more hot blood than was desirable.
"Hola! Hola! gallant greys! The best feed Reading can provide, and no
more journeyings to-night if you do it."
Michael's voice, coaxing at first, rose to shrill command, as the long
whip cracked, and the great coach swung round a corner at such an angle
as nearly sent Tom Blakeley spinning after his horn.
But the men behind quite understood the game now, and were ready enough
to play it out. One does not see a rich prize disappearing round the
corner without giving chase.
And their horses were fresh.
Yet the coach had a good start.
Craven's Hollow at last!
"Steady there, Michael, steady! Bad going, and a rickety old bridge
which wants treating with respect."
But Michael was deaf to caution. To steady down meant capture, and one
must risk something for success.
So down the hollow rattled the great, clumsy vehicle, and even the
youngsters grouped round the box-seat forgot to sing and shout now, but
clung on in silence--wondering----
Over!
A positive gasp of relief went up as the greys, galloping across the
wooden bridge, went sturdily up the hill, whilst the coach swayed and
rocked from side to side of the rough lane.
"Huzza, huzza!" cried Blakeley, waving his hat; and the shout was taken
up with growing fervour as the passengers, looking back, saw half a
dozen horsemen come down the Hollow pell-pell.
La! what a crash and what a yell of triumph from the hill-top.
The bridge, strained to its last plank by the coach, had split and
broken as the pursuers set horse-hoof on it, thus precipitating two of
the foremost riders into the stream.
It was highly regrettable that they could not wait to see the end of
the adventure; but the greys were already half-way down the hill, and
yonder twinkled the lights of Reading.
It was unlikely that the gentry behind would leave their comrades to
drown in a swollen torrent, since there is considerable honour amongst
thieves; so the Oxford coach proceeded at a more respectable rate
towards the town, thus enabling those within to right and congratulate
themselves on being alive.
On the outside a merry chorus was being sung, and one Michael
Berrington, much patted on the back, urged to write himself down hero
as he drove his panting horses up to the sign of the "Blue Boar."
Even the beetroot-nosed traveller asked leave to shake hands and
congratulate the finest young whip he had ever driven behind.
Michael, being no swaggerer, laughed, and passed off the honours with a
jest.
But it was good to know that the name of Berrington was being toasted
that night in the little inn-parlour of a Reading posting-house.
One day--ah well! Youth must have its dreams, and we all figure as
heroes to ourselves in them some time in our lives.