Andrew Pepper - The Revenge of Captain Paine

For a moment, Pyke cursed his own stupidity. He had underestimated the threat posed by Yellowplush and Rockingham and had needlessly antagonised them for no gain other than to see them squirm. Worse still, he had become complacent, allowing himself to believe that his old skills would somehow carry him through, ignoring the fact that he hadn’t fired a pistol in anger or ridden a horse in five years.

Kicking the horse in the ribs, he felt the beast surge forward and directed it from the track, the animal clearing the first ditch with an effortless leap, spewing up chunks of turf as it landed and throwing Pyke forward in the saddle. Ahead, through the rain, he saw a deeper ditch followed by a wooden fence. He didn’t have any choice but to try to clear these two obstacles and had set about preparing the jittery animal for the jump when one of its hind legs seemed to give way, either because it had been hit by a bullet or because it had sunk too far into the mud. When he tried to make the jump, the mare toppled forward and threw him out of the saddle, catapulting him across the grass until he landed on his back with a thud.

Pyke felt a sense of weary resignation as he lay unmoving on the damp turf, and an acknowledgement that he had overplayed his hand and lost more than he could afford to lose. They found him in a matter of seconds, three or four of them gathering around him like hunters. The smell of whisky on their breath was unmistakable. He thought of his son, who would now grow up without a father, and of Emily. One of them poked him with the barrel of his rifle, while another asked, ‘What do you want us to do with him?’ As a Bow Street Runner he had once enjoyed the full sanction of the law, but here he was less than a nuisance, a nonentity who was expendable precisely because no one knew who he was. Then he heard the same voice say, ‘Search and strip him.’ Another voice muttered, ‘Well, is it Cap’ain Paine or not?’ Pyke looked up and saw the glint of a shovel. ‘When you’ve done that, dig a deep hole, shoot him in the head and bury him.’ The voice belonged to Septimus Yellowplush.

The magistrate bent down to address him. This time he wasn’t wearing his wig and his bald head, as large as a pumpkin, glistened in the rain.

‘No one does what you did to me and gets away with it.’ He took aim and kicked Pyke on the side of his head with his boot.

When Pyke came to, he had been dragged deeper into the field and stripped of his clothes. Shaking violently, he felt the cold as he had never felt it before; it gnawed away at his toes and fingers and spread to the rest of the body. Trying not to panic, he looked up and saw two men, their backs turned to him, digging the hole that he would be buried in. If anything the rain was now falling harder than before. His wrists and legs had been bound with rope and he felt like a pig awaiting slaughter. There was nothing he could do except wait for the shot and hope it came quickly.

He had always hated the countryside.

When the first crack of a rifle sounded, he assumed it was one of the magistrate’s men. The first shot was closely followed by another and then another and very quickly it became clear that it was the men digging the hole who were under fire and scrambling for cover.

Pyke had only managed to crawl a few yards when someone poked him from above with their rifle.

Jackman stood over him and produced a knife from his belt. His whiskers dripped with water. ‘Here, hold out your hands.’ Pyke did as he was told and the radical cut them free with a single jerk of his knife.

Pyke sat up, still dazed. ‘What happened?’

‘The bald one’s dead. I shot him.’ Jackman threw Pyke his clothes. There was a rifle slung over his shoulders.

It took Pyke a few moments to realise what Jackman had told him. Yellowplush was dead. ‘And the others?’

‘Didn’t have the stomach for a fight.’ Jackman hesitated, apparently choosing his words. ‘Look, Pyke, I saw what you did on the bridge. It seems I was wrong about you.’

‘I was wrong about you too.’ Pyke stood up and put on his trousers. ‘Yellowplush seemed to think I was Captain Paine.’

That seemed to amuse him. ‘Must have seen you fight. It was an impressive sight, too.’

‘Why would they think Captain Paine was here tonight?’

Jackman gave him a curious stare and laughed. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘What’s so funny?’

But Jackman was already moving. ‘We should get going. They might return with more men.’

Pyke pulled up his boots and reached for his soaking frock-coat. He looked across the field. In the distance, he could see men on horseback silhouetted against the branches of the trees.

On the other side of the field he joined up with Jackman and crossed a fence using the stile, taking cover behind a hedgerow. ‘Follow this path. It’ll bring you out on to the Cambridge road.’ Jackman thrust the rifle into his hands. ‘Take it. You’ll need it. I have a feeling this isn’t over yet.’

But as Pyke went to thank him again, Jackman had turned around and was moving in the opposite direction.

It took Pyke half an hour to reach the rendezvous point where the carriage, and Morris, were thankfully waiting for him: his assistant, Bledisloe, too, though he didn’t get out of the carriage. When Morris tried to shake his hand, muttering about how relieved he was to see him, Pyke pushed him up against the side of the vehicle and shouted, ‘I was almost killed. But others weren’t so lucky. Navvies employed to build your railway were hounded into a quick-flowing river like they were rats.’ It was still raining and Pyke felt the humiliation of lying naked in the field wash over him again. Morris seemed terrified by Pyke’s outburst and listened like a beaten dog while Pyke tried to explain what had happened, words tumbling out of his mouth in an unstoppable torrent.

‘What’s that noise?’ Something had interrupted his diatribe and Pyke stood there for a moment, looking back along the track he’d just run along.

Water dripped from Morris’s nose. He was soaking wet as well. ‘What noise?’

‘Maybe it was just another rumble of thunder.’ Pyke walked a little way along the track and stopped to listen.

The sound was more distinctive and it was getting louder. Sniffing the air, Pyke stared into the darkness and took the rifle in his hand. Inspecting the gun, he discovered it was loaded. This made him feel a little better, but without additional ammunition the rifle would be of only limited help. In the trees, he heard the twittering of an owl. With a jump, he started to run back towards the carriage, shouting at the driver to get going. When he caught up with it, the carriage was already moving, Bledisloe hauling them inside through the open door.

‘What is it, Pyke?’ Morris said, grabbing his arm. Bledisloe looked panicked as well.

‘Men on horseback,’ Pyke muttered, fighting for breath. ‘And they’re riding in our direction.’

‘Shouldn’t we take our chances and plead our innocence? ’ Morris asked. ‘Perhaps we could hide you somewhere?’

‘Where?’

They looked around the carriage. There were no obvious hiding places.

Pyke banged on the roof and ordered the coachman to make haste. Sliding the glass down, he leaned out of the window and looked behind them. The carriage was moving quickly now, bumping along the puddle-strewn track. Pyke could just about see them, six men on horseback riding in pursuit. But it was only when they had made up more ground that he saw their scarlet coats. They were soldiers, dragoons probably, skilled horsemen who were closing the gap on them with each passing moment. This time, Pyke opened the door and, clinging on to the iron rail that ran along the top of the carriage, hauled himself on to the roof, where Morris and Bledisloe’s luggage was stowed. The carriage was rattling along at a fair speed, mud and water splashing around them, the crack of the coachman’s whip urging on the team of straining horses. Behind them, the soldiers had closed the gap to a few hundred yards. Pyke took one of the suitcases fixed to the roof and hurled it up into the air. The contents of the case momentarily filled the sky before fluttering down on to the muddy track, the suitcase itself landing just where Pyke had intended.