Poul Anderson - A Midsummer Tempest

Will spat on his shovel. “At least I needn’t wield thee no longer.” To Rupert: “M-m, Highness, if an oald… ranger… might zuggest, yonder’s a clump o’ woods, an’ beyond’s a ryefield just right for comin’ through, meetin’ nobody.”

“Thou’d not abandon this faithful mount of ours, wouldst thou? Why, I’m shocked as they oncoming will be.”

Rupert laughed aloud, though it was more war cry than merriment. “Lay on the coal!” He stood to the controls.

Will looked dismayed but resumed his labor. “Well,” he mumbled, “if we be goin’ to play Robin Hood on tha bridge, you’ve tha zize to be Little John.”

The other driver screeched whistle and slammed on brakes. In rumble and whoosh, he came to rest. Rupert stopped more leisurely. The last few yards he advanced at an easy rate, till cowcatchers nearly touched.

The unknown crewman leaned across his overlook and bawled furiously: “Who art thou, whore-son runagate and knave? What thimblewit of a dispatcher sent thee? Back, back!”

Rupert’s answer came as loud, more deep, very mild: “We’re nighest Buxton and its sidings.’Twill expedite us both if thou giv’st way.”

His opposition, a burly redhaired fellow accompanied by a still more bearlike stoker, waved fists aloft.

“Dolt! Read the crest emblazoned on this boiler: Westminster, Birmingham, & Manchester! And thou, a wretched local of some kind, hast gall to ask that I unschedule me?”

“The war’s left only stumps of thy proud line. Now do be reasonable and back up. I’ve business more toward than draper’s goods or even beer, if that be in thy wagons.”

The driver seized a wrench. “I’ll business thee!”

“Oh, wilt thou, good my friend?” Rupert’s blade snaked free. He went himself like a tiger, in half a dozen bounds onto the top of his own engine and down the lengths of both, till he stood above the other steering board and lazily swung bright menace through the smoke.

“Methinks it would be Christian to oblige me,” he purred. Wrench and shovel clattered to deck. The crewmen stared slack-jawed at his bulk and his weapon. “But since ye are this loth to do a favor, why, I will do it, and give you a ride in one of your own freightcars, safely locked. Climb down to earth, now; do not seek to flee. I’ve longer legs than you,’tis plain to see.”

Will unbarred and slid back the door of a carrier, secured it after Rupert had prodded the prisoners in. “I reckon here’s where we change trains, my loard,” he said. (Rupert nodded.) “A moment, pray. I’ll further look inboard.” At the next wagon which he examined, he uttered a yip of glee. “Here’s brew indeed, whole casks o’ nut-brown yale! We’ll not go thirsty, though we may go stale.”

“Our prize’s tank and tender are quite full,” Rupert said. “To Stoke or further,’twere a steady pull, save that for speed, we first must turn around, and send that message.” He stroked scabbard and hilt. “So, we’ll seize the ground.”

In a few minutes the North country locomotive stood deserted, watching its Southland sister progress steadily backward.

As Rupert had guessed, the little town was not frequented for its mineral springs in these unhappy times. It seemed to dream almost empty between its high surrounding hills, beneath a heaven half open and half mountainous snowy clouds: one wide street lined with gracious old buildings, a marketplace with a fine old cross. A few homes stood further out along meandering lanes, dominant among them at the west end a mansion raised in the days of Elizabeth.

The railway station was down by the River Wye, in order that a steam pump might keep the water tank loaded without need to sink a well. Otherwise there were coal bins, switchyard, semaphore, shed-like house, everything gaunt and dust-gray. Chuffing in, Rupert grimaced. “Such ugliness—here—comes nigh blasphemy,” he said. “If naught else, they could plant a garden, as I’ve seen done in other places.”

“ ’Twar formerly, my loard.” Will pointed to a weedbed. “No doubt tha new warder be a true Puritan, his miand on higher things Hake cabbages.” He glanced at the barrel lashed onto the platform bench. “Think you’a’s got a cup to spaere? After thic sweat tha general an’ me lost, hoistin’ this monstrous weight o’ beer to a handy plaece, what shaeme we let tha bigger part splash free whilst standin’ on our heads to drink from tha bunghoale.”

“We might better seek food,” Rupert reproved him. “Or to carry out our mission.”

His gaze traced the course he must follow to point the train properly south. His experience was not sufficient that the maneuvering would be easy, given six cars for tail. Carefully, he inched toward position.

The stationmaster came forth. He was a big, rawboned person in somber garb. A scar seamed his brow, running into close-cropped gray hair. His limp did not make him less fierce-looking. “A Roundhead veteran, pensioned off with this post,” Rupert muttered to Will. “Handle him like a hot petard, if we’re to capture the station.”

“Halt!” the man cried. “What means this?”

Rupert obeyed in a hiss of vented steam, leaned over the rail and answered, “Emergency most dire. Bandits.”

“Aye—you in your Popish mane!”

“No, hold, sir. I own I fought for the King, but being taken prisoner and finding’twas not truly his cause, I’ve become Sir Malachi Shelgrave’s man—you’ve heard the name? My comrade and I were riding secretly in a van, as guards, lest robbers strike, which they’ve been doing further north. We looked not for them hereabouts, but found our way barricaded only a few miles hence. Ere we could act, driver and fireman were slain. Then did we come forth and chase the rogues, doing some execution; but since we could not go on, we must needs return.”

The Puritan had stood rigid beneath Rupert’s smooth word-flow. “Indeed?” he responded. “Evil news forsooth. Let me fetch my codebook, that I may broadcast it at once.” He hobbled into the stationhouse.

“Keep lookout from here,” Rupert whispered to Will. “I’ll secure him.” He jumped down to the flagstones beside the track and strode toward the house.

The stationmaster emerged. In his belt was a pistol. At his shoulder gaped a blunderbuss. “Let go thy sword!” he screeched. “Arms aloft ere I blow out thy treacherous brains!”

Rupert stiffened. He saw finger go tense on trigger. “I’d love to do it, Cavalier,” the station-master said.

Rupert’s hands went up. “You’re much mistaken, sir,” he began. Inwardly: Yon bell-mouth tolls the knell of all my hopes.

“We’ll see about that,” was the reply. “If proper authority certify thee honest, thou’lt go free and, if thou’st a grain of sense, thank Ebenezer Smail that he’s cautious. Too hellish many masterless men—worse, fugitive Cavaliers—a-prowl these days. I think ye’re two of’em; but better hang tomorrow than be shot today, ha?”

A shout: “Thou on the cab! Sound thy whistle, summon me help!”

Will stopped forward, brought palm to ear. “Eh?” he said. “What?”

“Pull the whistle cord, thou sicksoul! Else I’ve a bolus for thee, after thy fellow sufferer has swallowed his pellets.”

“Zir, I be very deaf,” Will said in the flat tone of those who are. “I zee you oaverwrought’bout zomethin’ or’tother. Maybe zuspicious of us, hey? Can’t blaeme you, no, can’t blaeme you. We’ve no fear o’ tha sheriff.

I’ll be happy to do your little wish, if you’ll come nigh that I may hear.”

Smail glared. “Stand fast,” he told Rupert. Crabwise, to keep the giant covered, he approached the locomotive.