A Daring Game Of High Toby - A Trilogy

Within the insipidness of a gloomy upstairs room at the rear of a bustling inn, its casement window overlooking the stable yard, a gentleman of independent means was busy dressing for the evening. The hour was nearing the darkness of the day and the gentleman, known to everyone around as the handsome and generous merchant from London, was preparing himself for a twilight rendezvous. All his clothes were dark in colour, save for the plume of bright feathers erupting from the band of his wide brimmed hat.    
   
Earlier that afternoon he had slipped out to tend to his horse, a fast powerful mare and as handsome as he.  Standing at seventeen hands high she could outrun any animal anyone cared to put up against her with ease. Yet it was not to bed her down for the day that he tendered her but rather to carefully tack her up and make her ready for an exciting excursion out into the shadows of the lonely countryside thereabouts. Now, as he satisfied himself that his appearance was fitting for the encounter he had planned, he was set to go. He silently threw open the window which was always left ajar, swiftly scaled the tiles of the low almost flat roof just below it, and was able to swing himself down to the stable yard and drop into the saddle where his horse, Bess, waited patiently for him ~ she was accustomed to waiting. She had, long ago, learned how to stand statue still and hauntingly quiet as she awaited her master. Her well cared for hooves remained unshod for her regular evening outings therefore, as the somber duo stole briskly out into the road and beyond, they did so completely unheard and unnoticed.      
   
In those days, almost three hundred years ago in England's fair land, turnpike roads were but muddy, uneven tracks to allow folk to get from place to place. The main roadways between towns and cities were used, among others, by stagecoach operators to carry passengers between here and there and the traveller was required to pay a toll in order to make use of them. A road such as this was known as the high toby. These, of course, were the days before the coming of the railways and the stagecoach owners contested for the coveted reputation of the fastest conveyances on the road, often giving them names such as 'Flyer', 'Greyhound' or 'Dart'.  It was with one of these coaches that Black Bess and her sinister rider galloped away to keep their appointment.    
   
Every quite often the condition of a particular stretch of the high toby was deeply rutted making it difficult to negotiate for a fully laden coach and four. This caused the driver to slow his pace to safely pass over the way. It was here that Bess was able to put to use her expertise, standing motionless in the shadows until her ears pricked up as she heard a sound that she knew so well.  The unmistakable thunder of a team of horses at the gallop but beginning to slow their gait for the rough.  As the coachman steadied to walking pace the dark horseman put on his all-concealing face mask then urged his mount from out of hiding and so into the path of the coach.  "Stand and deliver!"  demanded the lone assailant, and the daring game of high toby was firmly afoot.    
   
Everyone aboard the coach knew that they were quite helpless as they gazed down the threatening steel barrels of a pair of flintlock pistols.  They were at the mercy of a highwayman.  All the passengers were ordered to alight and gather together away from the vehicle.  The feathered hat was passed around between them and they were politely invited to place their money and jewelry, gold watches on fine gold chains and golden rings taken from plump pink fingers, within. The shrewd highway robber knew that the coach, bound for Bristol, would be carrying wealthy merchantmen (and perhaps their ladies) to visit the city's dockland warehouses where their fortunes had been acquired. For him it was easy pickings. He gathered up the spoils, transferred the hoard to his saddlebags and, raising his hat (which was now back atop of his head), bid them all a hearty farewell. Thanking them for their co-operation he reared Bess up on her hinds, fired a single noisy and smoky shot into the air, then galloped off at speed. It would be a good hour or more before the travellers arrived at the next staging inn and were able to raise the alarm, by which time Bess would have covered many miles and she and her companion would be nowhere to be found.    
   
The lone rider finally arrived back at the inn and the richly laden saddlebags were carefully tossed onto the same low roof underneath which, just a couple of hours before, Bess had stood obediently and sound in the knowledge that she would soon be away on her adventure.  Now it really was time for her to be bedded down for the night, at rest with an ample helping of hay accompanied by a large pale of wonderful, cool, refreshing water. Inside the inn no one noticed when the familiar gentleman appeared amongst them as they laughed and sang and drank their fill.  The generous gentleman from London handed the innkeeper a shiny golden sovereign and ordered refreshment for himself and everyone in the house. It was, indeed, a happy time.    
   
Who was this mysterious stranger who had, not long ago, made the inn his home, insisting on a room at the rear of the building for he enjoyed the peace and quiet of his own company and could be close to his beloved horse there?  He had introduced himself as Turpin, Richard Turpin, and he was a merchant whose dealings in imported goods from Europe had him quite comfortably off.  Not unbelievably wealthy, you understand, but quite comfortable.  No one questioned from where came the money to live as he did, dress as he did and so often fill the empty tankards of the patrons of the tavern at his own expense. No one wondered at how he could find the means to purchase such a beautiful animal as Bess and no one, but no one, would ever guess that Mr. Richard Turpin of London had in fact, several years before, stolen her.        
   
Eventually the gentleman bid goodnight to everyone at the inn and retired to his room.  He locked the door behind him and climbed out of the window in the darkness in order to recover the saddlebags which still lay on the roof outside.  Once back inside he separated the coins from the other items and decanted each valuable stack into two individual bags which he then stowed away in the bottom of a tall cupboard that stood in the corner of the room.  Barefooted he crossed the floor to the window and peered out over the empty stable yard. He could see the stall where Bess would be sleeping in her bed of straw and noted that all was quiet round about. He smiled to himself as he took to his own bed and was soon sound asleep.    
   
The sun was already shining brightly as Dick Turpin awoke the following morning.  He poured out an agreeable amount of water into a floral decorated bowl from a matching pitcher and washed himself. The water, although cold, felt refreshing on his face leaving him feeling clean and tidy.  When he had dressed, he strolled downstairs where the innkeeper's wife brought him bread and cheese and a large tankard of that very morning's milk. She inquired how would be his day and he replied that he would be travelling to London Town on business, a few hours ride with Bess. This was more or less true as as he intended to visit one of his acquaintances to dispose of the now substantial amount of valuable objects that he had taken from the trembling passengers of several stagecoaches. The unscrupulous person he was to meet would, hopefully, purchase all the goods with no questions asked and turn the hoard into hard cash for him.  So, after he had finished his breakfast, he walked out into the stable yard to greet Bess, who had been awake since before dawn awaiting his company.    
   
As Bess was made ready for the road the respectable gentleman spoke softly to her and he thought of how wonderful it was to be in the saddle with her. She was his best friend and he took great care of her. Her jet-black coat was groomed to perfection that morning. Her flowing tail flicked to and fro as she felt his gentle hands stroke her face. Yes, it was a special thing for both to be riding in the freedom of the open countryside with nought to trouble them. It reminded Dick of a story he had once heard, when in a tavern somewhere, of the mythical River Lethe where anyone who drank from it experienced forgetfulness and forgot all their troubles. He wondered if that was really true ~ how did the story teller know of it? Out there they could feel the wind on their faces and the pair could gallop away as fast as they had a mind to. And when the day was over it was such a comfort to return to the stable and spend the time it took to get her ready to be fed and watered and bedded down in her fresh clean straw. Yes, that was the word ~ a comfort.    
   
The two were, at last, ready to take to the road and both looked forward to that.  Dick mounted easily and positioned himself comfortably in the saddle. Bess didn't need much encouragement to carry him out of the hostel yard and into the road which led to London.  A brief wave to the innkeeper, who was outside in his apron rolling a huge empty oak barrel along the pathway to an outbuilding, and they were gone.  Through the countryside around Richmond and heading easterly towards their destination. The day was fine but cool so the going was easy for Bess, taking the journey in her stride. Villages came and went and in between was such a pleasant experience cantering through meadows and trees, passing the oncoming Bristol bound stagecoach with a friendly wave. Every now and again they could stop for Bess to take a drink from a wayside stream and Dick would treat himself to a mouthful of brandy from his silver flask. Then off again into the daylight until the houses and cottages became much more aplenty as they neared London and so on to Whitechapel which would be the end of their journey.      
   
The Blue Bell Inn at Whitechapel was a popular haunt for robbers and thieves to frequent.  Useful information and illicit goods could be exchanged there over a tankard of frothing, foaming, ale. Most of those who gathered there knew each other and strangers were always met with suspicion lest they were agents of the law. Dick Turpin was no stranger to them though, many faces smiled when he called by and he was applauded amongst them. He ordered a pot of the innkeeper's finest brew and asked him to see that Bess was supplied with oats and water. The innkeeper covertly signaled to him that the person who was the cause of his visit was waiting in a back room. Dick's eyes scanned the room for a moment and then he casually strolled over to a doorway and entered a discreet snuggery at the rear of the building. At a table by the fire sat a cheerful character, carefully scutinising a sparkling broach and biting on the gold mounting to tooth-test its worth.  This was the individual who would buy Dick's ill-gotten gains and this dealer was a woman, Mary Brazier, known to all as 'The Fence'.  The two chatted for a while as Mary cast an expert eye over the treasure trove. A deal was bartered, the money changed hands, and Dick said adieu to her quite a lot lighter for his return journey.      
   
As Dick re-entered the bustle of the inn the innkeeper took him to one side and mentioned to him that a stranger had arrived outside and was meticulously looking over Bess as though the animal was familiar to him. Dick at once sensed danger and made himself ready for flight. Earlier in the year Dick had been part of a gang operating in the Whitchapel area and specialising in robbing farms where their owners were likely to have a store of money stashed away in the house. Using violent means, they persuaded the unfortunate farmer to reveal its whereabouts. So notorious did this gang become that a huge reward of fifty pounds had been offered for information leading to the capture of those involved. The identity of the gang members was not known to the authorities but were, of course, known to Dick Turpin. One of the gang was a fifteen-year-old lad who had joined them and had been included in several raids ~ John Wheeler. In return for the reward, and a pardon for himself, John had decided to betray the gang by naming them and suggesting where they might be found. As Dick, spying through a crack in the door, quietly observed the stranger eyeing his horse with a little too much interest in her he realised that this was no stranger to him ~ it was John Wheeler and the lad had clearly recognised the horse. Dick had never really trusted Wheeler, mainly due to his young age, and so the outlaw horseman would be taking no chances, not with his very life at stake. Dick soon rounded up a group of rogues from the inn who would encircle the stranger, pretending to be the worse for drink, and make jolly with him. During this distracting subterfuge Dick and Bess had vanished ~ in a cloud of dust.    
   
With a good few miles behind them Dick had time to think. The game would certainly be up in this locality therefore he must start a new existence in another part of the country, far away. At the next village he pulled Bess up at a blacksmith's establishment and had her shod with a set of fine iron shoes. As this was being done Dick withdrew his silver flask from a pocket and swallowed, nay gulped, a large draft of the soothing brandy it contained. He would make for York, a place he had heard of and lying a couple of hundred miles away in the North of England. No one would know him there . He would change his name and begin his new life. He made up his mind that he and Bess, magnificent fleetly Bess, would at the next dawn make the journey, none-stop day and night at breakneck speed, and be in York the following day.  The gentleman with the fine black horse paid the blacksmith handsomely for his work. "Thank, you, sir" said the smith "Thank, you very much mister?" ~ "Palmer" came the polite reply, "John Palmer".      
   
   
TO  LETHE  AND  BACK    
   
      There's comfort on a horse's back    
      As in the saddle I    
      Canter out upon my hack    
      To glimpse the world pass by.    
      Down along the cobbled track    
      And far abroad go we;    
      All the way to there and back    
      The day, my mare, and me.    
   
      All the bothers of this day    
      Doze in the stable stall    
      As often hereabouts I stray    
      At nature's beck and call.    
      Underneath the clouds of grey,    
      Among the moorland sprawl;    
      So no wonder, when I may,    
      I come here most of all.    
   
      My mare and I, then homeward bound,    
      Repaired, returning ride;    
      Drowsy hooves click on the ground    
      At dusky eventide.    
      A sleepy stillness all around    
      As daytime pothers hide;    
      There's comfort in a horses sound    
      And comfort by her side.    
   
LONG AGO, A NIGHTTIDE  DASH    
   
      A ghostly horseman rode alone    
      Just as darkness steeped the sward,    
      O'er marshy meadows, tossed and blown,    
      Splashing through a causeway ford.    
      Dressed so drab a faceless soul    
      Galloped out across the bluff.    
      His wide-eyed mare, there, gave her all,    
      Her breathless, steaming nostril huff.    
   
      Spurring on into the night    
      A misty moisture damped the air:    
      Guided by the white moonlight    
      As thundered on the fearsome pair.    
      Leaving London far aback,    
      Heading northward bound, post-haste;    
      Charging forward through the black    
      As on and on they wildly raced.    
   
      Leaping hedges by the way    
      Over fences, gates and stiles    
      Driving through the stormy spray    
      Holding out for miles and miles.    
      Destined for a distant town    
      Much away from London law.    
      Thwarting forces of the crown,    
      Dashing down some shallow draw.    
   
      But daylight broke to meet the dawn    
      As braving on, the duo rush;    
      Lathered faces, tired and drawn,    
      The journey's end a final push.    
      With rider cosy, snugly quartered    
      A tavern served him salted pork.    
      His faithful mount now fed and watered    
      Both within the walls of York.    
   
A  DARING GAME  OF  HIGH  TOBY    
   
      Where ere a juncture of the ways,    
      Where merge a group of lanes;    
      A lonely soul, this game he plays,    
      To seek ill-gotten gains.    
   
      His handguns idling at his side    
      He'll avail them by and by;    
      Nestling 'neath his cloak to hide    
      And keep his powder dry.    
   
      He contemplates his daunting task,    
      A coach is almost due;    
      He discreetly now amends his mask    
      To hide his face from view.    
   
      His mount is growing restless she,    
      Not caring for to stand;    
      He checks her with the reins to see    
      Her steady in his hand.    
   
      He gulps a quaff of brandy,    
      He's set to spring his trap;    
      Bedecked as like a dandy,    
      A feather in his cap.    
   
      He halts a coach and bears his arms    
      He cries "Stand and deliver!"    
      The gentlemen hold up their palms,    
      The ladies stand and shiver    
   
      He brings his flintlocks to the aim    
      And cocks each loaded pistol;    
      High toby is his daring game    
      Upon the road to Bristol.    
   
      He passes round his feathered hat    
      And treats them all like fools;    
      He takes his pick of this and that    
      And steals their gold and jewels.    
   
      As evening falls, he takes his pleasure    
      In a tavern in the town;    
      Counting out his plundered treasure,    
      Swilling stout ale down.    
   
      But soon the law takes up with him    
      And remands him in his cell,    
      Standing trial, his chances slim,    
      He knows he's bound for hell.    
   
      The judge, no mercy does he show,    
      Peering o'er his brow;    
      Sentencing the bold outlaw...    
      So, who is foolish now?    
   
      Though if you venture out this day    
      Then here's a scene you'll see;    
      A highwayman along the way...    
      Hanging from a tree.    
   
   
.