A few reeling topers in the streets saw the horseman flit past, and one or two windows were thrown open; but Peeping Tom of Coventry would have had small chance of beholding the unveiled beauties of Queen Godiva had she ridden at the rate of Dick Turpin. He was gone, like a meteor, almost as soon as he appeared.
Huntingdon is left behind, and he is once more surrounded by dew-gemmed hedges and silent slumbering trees. Broad meadows, or pasture land, with drowsy cattle, or low bleating sheep, lie on either side. But what to Turpin, at that moment, is nature, animate or inanimate? He thinks only of his mare — his future fame. None are by to see him ride; no stimulating plaudits ring in his ears; no thousand hands are clapping; no thousand voices huzzaing; no handkerchiefs are waved; no necks strained; no bright eyes rain influence upon him; no eagle orbs watch his motions; no bells are rung; no cup awaits his achievement; no sweepstakes — no plate. But his will be renown — everlasting renown; his will be fame which will not die with him — which will keep his reputation, albeit a tarnished one, still in the mouths of men. He wants all these adventitious excitements, but he has that within which is a greater excitement than all these. He is conscious that he is doing a deed to live by. If not riding for life, he is riding for immortality; and as the hero may perchance feel — for even a highwayman may feel like a hero — when he willingly throws away his existence in the hope of earning a glorious name, Turpin cared not what might befall himself, so he could proudly signalize himself as the first of his land,
And witch the world with noble horsemanship!
What need had he of spectators? The eye of posterity was upon him; he felt the influence of that Argus glance which has made many a poor wight spur on his Pegasus with not half so good a chance of reaching the goal as Dick Turpin. Multitudes, yet unborn, he knew would hear and laud his deeds. He trembled with excitement, and Bess trembled under him. But the emotion was transient. On, on they fly! The torrent leaping from the crag — the bolt from the bow — the air-cleaving eagle — thoughts themselves are scarce more winged in their flight!
* * * * *
110. This, we regret to say, is not the case. The memory of bold Will Davies, the “Golden Farmer”— so named from the circumstances of his always paying his rent in gold — is fast declining upon his peculiar domain, Bagshot. The inn, which once bore his name, still remains to point out to the traveller the dangers his forefathers had to encounter in crossing this extensive heath. Just beyond this house the common spreads out for miles on all aides in a most gallop-inviting style; and the passenger, as he gazes from the box of some flying coach, as we have done, upon the gorse-covered waste, may, without much stretch of fancy, imagine he beholds Will Davies careering like the wind over its wild and undulating expanse. We are sorry to add that the “Golden Farmer” has altered its designation to the “Jolly Farmer.” This should be amended; and when next we pass that way, we hope to see the original sign restored. We cannot afford to lose our golden farmers.
CHAPTER 7
THE YORK STAGE
York, Four Days!—Stage Coach begins on Friday, the 18th of April, 1706. All that are desirous to pass from London to York, or from York to London, or any other place on that road, let them repair to the Black Swan, in Holborn, in London, or to the Black Swan, in Coney Street, in York. At both which places they may be received in a Stage Coach, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, which performs the journey in four days — if God permits! — and sets forth at five in the morning. And returns from York to Stamford in two days, and from Stamford, by Huntingdon, in two days more. And the like stages in their return. Allowing each passenger fourteen pounds’ weight, and all above, three pence per pound. Performed by Benjamin Kingman, Henry Harrison, and Waller Baynes. —Placard, preserved in the coffee-room, of the Black Swan Inn at York.
The night had hitherto been balmy and beautiful, with a bright array of stars, and a golden harvest moon, which seemed to diffuse even warmth with its radiance; but now Turpin was approaching the region of fog and fen, and he began to feel the influence of that dank atmosphere. The intersecting dykes, yawners, gullies, or whatever they are called, began to send forth their steaming vapors, and chilled the soft and wholesome air, obscuring the void, and in some instances, as it were, choking up the road itself with vapor. But fog or fen was the same to Bess; her hoofs rattled merrily along the road, and she burst from a cloud, like Eöus at the break of dawn.
It chanced, as he issued from a fog of this kind, that Turpin burst upon the York stage coach. It was no uncommon thing for the coach to be stopped; and so furious was the career of our highwayman, that the man involuntarily drew up his horses. Turpin had also to draw in the rein, a task of no little difficulty, as charging a huge, lumbering coach, with its full complement of passengers, was more than even Bess could accomplish. The moon shone brightly on Turpin and his mare. He was unmasked, and his features were distinctly visible. An exclamation was uttered by a gentleman on the box, who, it appeared, instantly recognized him.
“Pull up — draw your horses across the road!” cried the gentleman; “that’s Dick Turpin, the highwayman. His capture would be worth three hundred pounds to you,” added he, addressing the coachman, “and is of equal importance to me. Stand!” shouted he, presenting a cocked pistol.
This resolution of the gentleman was not apparently agreeable, either to the coachman or the majority of the passengers — the name of Turpin acting like magic upon them. One man jumped off behind, and was with difficulty afterwards recovered, having tumbled into a deep ditch at the roadside. An old gentleman with a cotton nightcap, who had popped out his head to swear at the coachman, drew it suddenly back. A faint scream in a female key issued from within, and there was a considerable hubbub on the roof. Amongst other ominous sounds, the guard was heard to click his long horse-pistols. “Stop the York four-day stage!” said he, forcing his smoky voice through a world of throat-embracing shawl; “the fastest coach in the kingdom: vos ever such atrocity heard of? I say, Joe, keep them ere leaders steady; we shall all be in the ditch. Don’t you see where the hind wheels are? Who — whoop, I say.”
The gentleman on the box now discharged his pistol, and the confusion within was redoubled. The white nightcap was popped out like a rabbit’s head, and as quickly popped back on hearing the highwayman’s voice. Owing to the plunging of the horses, the gentleman had missed his aim.
Prepared for such emergencies as the present, and seldom at any time taken aback, Dick received the fire without flinching. He then lashed the horses out of his course, and rode up, pistol in hand, to the gentleman who had fired.
“Major Mowbray,” said he, in a stern tone, “I know you. I meant not either to assault you or these gentlemen. Yet you have attempted my life, sir, a second time. But you are now in my power, and by hell! if you do not answer the questions I put to you, nothing earthly shall save you.”
“If you ask aught I may not answer, fire!” said the major; “I will never ask life from such as you.”
“Have you seen aught of Sir Luke Rookwood?” asked Dick.
“The villain you mean is not yet secured,” replied the major, “but we have traces of him. ’Tis with a view of procuring more efficient assistance that I ride to town.”
“They have not met then, since?” said Dick, carelessly.
“Met! whom do you mean?”
“Your sister and Sir Luke,” said Dick.
“My sister meet him!” cried the major, angrily —“think you he dares show himself at Rookwood?”
“Ho! ho!” laughed Dick —“she is at Rookwood, then? A thousand thanks, major. Good night to you, gentlemen.”
“Take