with his calves, after the Irish fashion, “if the fellow isn’t lighting his pipe! I saw the sparks fly on each side of him, and there he goes like a smoky chimney on a frosty morning! See, he turns his impudent phiz, with the pipe in his mouth! Are we to stand that, Mr. Coates?”
“Wait awhile, sir — wait awhile,” said Coates; “we’ll smoke him by-and-by.”
Pæans have been sung in honor of the Peons of the Pampas by the Headlong Sir Francis; but what the gallant major extols so loudly in the South American horsemen, viz., the lighting of a cigar when in mid career, was accomplished with equal ease by our English highwayman a hundred years ago, nor was it esteemed by him any extravagant feat either. Flint, steel, and tinder were bestowed within Dick’s ample pouch, the short pipe was at hand, and within a few seconds there was a stream of vapor exhaling from his lips, like the smoke from a steamboat shooting down the river, and tracking his still rapid course through the air.
“I’ll let ’em see what I think of ’em!” said Dick, coolly, as he turned his head.
“I’ll let em see what I think of em!”
It was now gray twilight. The mists of coming night were weaving a thin curtain over the rich surrounding landscape. All the sounds and hum of that delicious hour were heard, broken only by the regular clatter of the horses’ hoofs. Tired of shouting, the chasers now kept on their way in deep silence; each man held his breath, and plunged his spurs, rowel deep, into his horse; but the animals were already at the top of their speed, and incapable of greater exertion. Paterson, who was a hard rider, and perhaps a thought better mounted, kept the lead. The rest followed as they might.
Had it been undisturbed by the rush of the cavalcade, the scene would have been still and soothing. Overhead a cloud of rooks were winging their garrulous flight to the ancestral avenue of an ancient mansion to the right; the bat was on the wing; the distant lowing of a herd of kine saluted the ear at intervals; the blithe whistle of the rustic herdsman, and the merry chime of waggon bells, rang pleasantly from afar. But these cheerful sounds, which make the still twilight hour delightful, were lost in the tramp of the horsemen, now three abreast. The hind fled to the hedge for shelter, and the waggoner pricked up his ears, and fancied he heard the distant rumbling of an earthquake.
On rush the pack, whipping, spurring, tugging for very life. Again they gave voice, in hopes the waggoner might succeed in stopping the fugitive. But Dick was already by his side. “Harkee, my tulip,” cried he, taking the pipe from his mouth as he passed, “tell my friends behind they will hear of me at York.”
“What did he say?” asked Paterson, coming up the next moment.
“That you’ll find him at York,” replied the waggoner.
“At York!” echoed Coates, in amaze.
Turpin was now out of sight, and although our trio flogged with might and main, they could never catch a glimpse of him until, within a short distance of Ware, they beheld him at the door of a little public house, standing with his bridle in his hand, coolly quaffing a tankard of ale. No sooner were they in sight, than Dick vaulted into the saddle, and rode off.
“Devil seize you, sir! why didn’t you stop him?” exclaimed Paterson, as he rode up. “My horse is dead lame. I cannot go any further. Do you know what a prize you have missed? Do you know who that was?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” said the publican. “But I know he gave his mare more ale than he took himself, and he has given me a guinea instead of a shilling. He’s a regular good ’un.”
“A good ’un!” said Paterson; “it was Turpin, the notorious highwayman. We are in pursuit of him. Have you any horses? our cattle are all blown.”
“You’ll find the post-house in the town, gentlemen. I’m sorry I can’t accommodate you. But I keeps no stabling. I wish you a very good evening, sir.” Saying which, the publican retreated to his domicile.
“That’s a flash crib, I’ll be bound,” said Paterson. “I’ll chalk you down, my friend, you may rely upon it. Thus far we’re done, Mr. Coates. But curse me if I give it in. I’ll follow him to the world’s end first.”
“Right, sir — right,” said the attorney. “A very proper spirit, Mr. Constable. You would be guilty of neglecting your duty were you to act otherwise. You must recollect my father, Mr. Paterson — Christopher, or Kit Coates; a name as well known at the Old Bailey as Jonathan Wild’s. You recollect him — eh?”
“Perfectly well, sir,” replied the chief constable.
“The greatest thief-taker, though I say it,” continued Coates, “on record. I inherit all his zeal — all his ardor. Come along, sir. We shall have a fine moon in an hour — bright as day. To the post-house! to the post-house!”
Accordingly to the post-house they went; and, with as little delay as circumstances admitted, fresh hacks being procured, accompanied by a postilion, the party again pursued their onward course, encouraged to believe they were still in the right scent.
Night had now spread her mantle over the earth; still it was not wholly dark. A few stars were twinkling in the deep, cloudless heavens, and a pearly radiance in the eastern horizon heralded the rising of the orb of night. A gentle breeze was stirring; the dews of evening had already fallen; and the air felt bland and dry. It was just the night one would have chosen for a ride, if one ever rode by choice at such an hour; and to Turpin, whose chief excursions were conducted by night, it appeared little less than heavenly.
Full of ardor and excitement, determined to execute what he had mentally undertaken, Turpin held on his solitary course. Everything was favorable to his project; the roads were in admirable condition, his mare was in like order; she was inured to hard work, had rested sufficiently in town to recover from the fatigue of her recent journey, and had never been in more perfect training. “She has now got her wind in her,” said Dick; “I’ll see what she can do — hark away, lass — hark away! I wish they could see her now,” added he, as he felt her almost fly away with him.
Encouraged by her master’s voice and hand, Black Bess started forward at a pace which few horses could have equalled, and scarcely any have sustained so long. Even Dick, accustomed as he was to her magnificent action, felt electrified at the speed with which he was borne along. “Bravo! bravo!” shouted he, “hark away, Bess!”
The deep and solemn woods through which they were rushing rang with his shouts, and the sharp rattle of Bess’s hoofs; and thus he held his way, while, in the words of the ballad,
Fled past, on right and left, how fast,
Each forest, grove, and bower;
On right and left, fled past, how fast,
Each city, town, and tower.
CHAPTER 6
BLACK BESS
Dauphin. I will not change my horse with any that treads but on four pasterns. Ca, ha! He bounds from the earth as if his entrails were hairs; le cheval volant, the Pegasus qui a les narines de feu!
