Jonathan Richardson - Confessions Of An English Traveler

This he did, my coach lurching ahead.

Thus began a chase, coach after coach, which was and still is about the most illogical and senseless thing in which I have ever been ensnared, for I really thought the wildly approaching coach was really driven by bandits who would force my stage to the curb and mount it, much as pirates lash their marauding ship to the merchant ship and swarm aboard the enemy, cutlasses in teeth and long blades working.

Let me set the stage for my readers. The hour was slightly after midnight. London's fog lay in big patches. At this hour few honest citizens were on the streets. They were home in bed, windows and doors barred.

And through these patches of fog thundered my hansom, an ornate coach, probably one stolen from a rich man, thundering behind and, to my surprise, gaining steadily, for my horses were fresh and oats-fed and very, very fast.

“More whip,” I hollered up.

“The steeds have no more, m'lord!”

I looked out the back window. We were now in deep fog. Instantly, we were out of fog. All was clear-the narrow street, cobblestoned and rough, the houses, leaning this way and that, the weirdness of the whole thing-and my coach, lurching in its speed, steel-rimmed wheels whamming stone.

And the other coach, driver lashing his plunging chargers, gaining, steadily gaining, and I remembered the naked fair Lady Haversock, my knob only in her cunt.

With sinking heart, I realized I'd not broken her maidenhead. I vowed, then and there, I'd someday break her veil, my bulb coming out with her membrane draped over it.

The reader will remember I wrote that I finally broke the good woman's maidenhead, but that was another time.

I glanced back at the coach. My heart sank. It had indeed speedy steeds, for it had gained much between the last two patches of fog-free periods.

I wished, devoutly, I had a side-arm but, of course, wishes did not supply this, and I hurled forward, disarmed and slightly fearsome.

For who, in my helpless position, wouldn't be afraid?

As I have said, the whole affair bespoke of insanity. Fog coiled upward. Stages plunged through this fog. My driver drove as though our lives depended on the speed of our chargers, which we both thought at that time was the truth. And behind us roared the second stage, driver standing as he plied his lash over the steam, plunging backs and rumps of his four horses.

I glanced back in a clearing. My heart went to my boots. The cab behind belonged to Lord Haversock. The gaudy crest on its front told me that. My god, had he recognized me, a cuckolding cocksman, in the dark?

I remembered his lordship standing in the dark doorway, his huge pistol in his hands. I looked about for some instrument to use to defend myself and of course found only my fists.

How terribly fate had and was treating me. I had behaved like a gentleman from first to last in m'lady's boudoir. The lady had been entirely willing-nay, she'd demanded my prick! It takes two willing persons to fuck, you know-and her hips had wriggled with sexual hunger.

Her husband did not deserve such a beautiful young wife. He had gone up her rectum, had he not, and not into her vagina? And she'd begged me to implant a life in her womb.

Lord Haversock, the sonofabitch, was the villain, not I. I had been merely trying to right a terrible wrong.

Thus my feverish mind, working through fear and doubt, built up its case-and then it occurred to me that his lordship possibly had not recognized me, as I had feared.

Evidently he'd found no man in the bedroom of his terrified wife. Somewhere in the night he'd heard a carriage thundering out and he'd ran to his hansom, which evidently had stood ready for emergency-horses and with driver.

And he had then had his driver follow this cab, thinking it the strange hansom.

All this was conjecture, of course, but later, as this sordid recital will show, this conjecture proved correct. But let us return to the present, with my driver lashing my horses for speed… and more speed.

And behind me another driver lashed his steeds, and his steeds were faster than mine, for they were overhauling my carriage rather rapidly. Fear struck me momentarily. Lord Haversock's teams plainly might run over my hansom, with me in it, of course!

I cried for my driver to pull in, for further running was a mere waste of carriage and horseflesh, for plainly we were caught but my man, lashing and swearing, evidently did not hear me and my rig thundered on, horses' steel shod hoofs striking sparks from the cobblestones.

Now came fog and again clear air and the carriage of Lord Haversock was now abreast of mine, his driver inching it over to lock hubs with my rig.

Were we to lock hubs, his heavier hansom would send mine toppling-and inside might be my corpse when people came to inspect the ruins. “Stop, stop!” I screamed. My driver again apparently did not hear, but my horses themselves now took a turn in this stupid midnight game of carriage chase carriage, for my off lead horse suddenly reared, neighing wildly, the other three following suit.

My hansom snapped to a bone-crushing halt just as the hind axle of Lord Haversock's carriage smashed in toward the front hub of mine, ready to send me and mine toppling. But his wheel missed because my carriage skidded to a halt, and there we were with my teams rearing and farting and balking, and the carriage of his lordship skidding also to a stop, blocking the street ahead.

I had only one thing left: try to bluff through, pistol or no pistol. I alighted. I called up to my driver. “Do you have a weapon?”

“Only my whip, m'lord.”

“Use it if it is necessary.”

“I use nothing,” the bastard cried, and leaped from the box, leaving the lines dragging. He wheeled and ran into the gloom, the coward-and I was alone, facing Lord Haversock's pistol.

I glanced about hurriedly. Not a fagon, not a loose cobblestone-nothing I could get my hands on. I unbuckled my belt, then noticed my man's whip lying three feet distance.

I snapped my belt buckled again, scooped up the whip, sent its lash trailing behind me, and stood ready for the assault as Lord Haversock, pistol still in hand, came from his coach and advanced toward me, crouched over and with beady eyes probing me.

Then he stopped ten feet away, pistol still level, and called my name, and I gave him recognition, too.

“M'lord, what is this?” he asked.

“I don't know. I heard your carriage roaring through fog. I feared bandits and robbers so I ordered my man to whip up my horses but your steeds are the fleetest I have ever witnessed outside of the thoroughbreds that run at Epson Downs, my friend.”

He peered at me, then asked, “Where is your driver now?”

“He fled, the coward. And when he ran, he ran out of my employment, also. I'll shoot him if he comes back… had I a pistol, which I have not, for I am without arms, m'lord.”

“Where have you been and where do you come from, m'lord.”

I hesitated, for where I had been and from whence I came definitely were out of his business, but then I thought it best to be open and candid, for his question was put for a good reason.

“I have been visiting my brother on Landing Arch Lane. We played whist until late-too late, in fact.”

“I see,” he said carefully. “And because of robbers you whipped up your teams. You ran from no more than possible thieves, I would be led to understand?”

“You understand correctly, Lord Haversock. Now may I ask a question of your personage, m'lord.”

“Certainly, m'lord.”

“Who do you seek and evidently you seek him or her with a pistol to kill some particular person.”

He seemed suddenly aware that he held the pistol. He put it quickly under his broad Indian silk sash of bright red. My heart settled down and a few tons of lead left my shoulders.