Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (461 page)

Fox smiled and shook his head.

“You remember how we posted to Newmarket before the races.  We took a public coach, Tregellis, clapped the postillions into the rumble, and jumped on to their places.  Charlie rode the leader and I the wheeler.  One fellow wouldn’t let us through his turnpike, and Charlie hopped off and had his coat off in a minute.  The fellow thought he had to do with a fighting man, and soon cleared the way for us.”

“By the way, sir, speaking of fighting men, I give a supper to the Fancy at the Waggon and Horses on Friday next,” said my uncle.  “If you should chance to be in town, they would think it a great honour if you should condescend to look in upon us.”

“I’ve not seen a fight since I saw Tom Tyne, the tailor, kill Earl fourteen years ago.  I swore off then, and you know me as a man of my word, Tregellis.  Of course, I’ve been at the ringside
incog.
many a time, but never as the Prince of Wales.”

“We should be vastly honoured if you would come
incog.
to our supper, sir.”

“Well, well, Sherry, make a note of it.  We’ll be at Carlton House on Friday.  The Prince can’t come, you know, Tregellis, but you might reserve a chair for the Earl of Chester.”

“Sir, we shall be proud to see the Earl of Chester there,” said my uncle.

“By the way, Tregellis,” said Fox, “there’s some rumour about your having a sporting bet with Sir Lothian Hume.  What’s the truth of it?”

“Only a small matter of a couple of thous to a thou, he giving the odds.  He has a fancy to this new Gloucester man, Crab Wilson, and I’m to find a man to beat him.  Anything under twenty or over thirty-five, at or about thirteen stone.”

“You take Charlie Fox’s advice, then,” cried the Prince.  “When it comes to handicapping a horse, playing a hand, matching a cock, or picking a man, he has the best judgment in England.  Now, Charlie, whom have we upon the list who can beat Crab Wilson, of Gloucester?”

I was amazed at the interest and knowledge which all these great people showed about the ring, for they not only had the deeds of the principal men of the time - Belcher, Mendoza, Jackson, or Dutch Sam - at their fingers’ ends, but there was no fighting man so obscure that they did not know the details of his deeds and prospects.  The old ones and then the young were discussed - their weight, their gameness, their hitting power, and their constitution.  Who, as he saw Sheridan and Fox eagerly arguing as to whether Caleb Baldwin, the Westminster costermonger, could hold his own with Isaac Bittoon, the Jew, would have guessed that the one was the deepest political philosopher in Europe, and that the other would be remembered as the author of the wittiest comedy and of the finest speech of his generation?

The name of Champion Harrison came very early into the discussion, and Fox, who had a high idea of Crab Wilson’s powers, was of opinion that my uncle’s only chance lay in the veteran taking the field again.  “He may be slow on his pins, but he fights with his head, and he hits like the kick of a horse.  When he finished Black Baruk the man flew across the outer ring as well as the inner, and fell among the spectators.  If he isn’t absolutely stale, Tregellis, he is your best chance.”

My uncle shrugged his shoulders.

“If poor Avon were here we might do something with him, for he was Harrison’s first patron, and the man was devoted to him.  But his wife is too strong for me.  And now, sir, I must leave you, for I have had the misfortune to-day to lose the best valet in England, and I must make inquiry for him.  I thank your Royal Highness for your kindness in receiving my nephew in so gracious a fashion.”

“Till Friday, then,” said the Prince, holding out his hand.  “I have to go up to town in any case, for there is a poor devil of an East India Company’s officer who has written to me in his distress.  If I can raise a few hundreds, I shall see him and set things right for him.  Now, Mr. Stone, you have your life before you, and I hope it will be one which your uncle may be proud of.  You will honour the King, and show respect for the Constitution, Mr. Stone.  And, hark ye, you will avoid debt, and bear in mind that your honour is a sacred thing.”

So I carried away a last impression of his sensual, good-humoured face, his high cravat, and his broad leather thighs.  Again we passed the strange rooms, the gilded monsters, and the gorgeous footmen, and it was with relief that I found myself out in the open air once more, with the broad blue sea in front of us, and the fresh evening breeze upon our faces.

CHAPTER VIII - THE BRIGHTON ROA
D

My uncle and I were up betimes next morning, but he was much out of temper, for no news had been heard of his valet Ambrose.  He had indeed become like one of those ants of which I have read, who are so accustomed to be fed by smaller ants that when they are left to themselves they die of hunger.  It was only by the aid of a man whom the landlord procured, and of Fox’s valet, who had been sent expressly across, that his toilet was at last performed.

“I must win this race, nephew,” said he, when he had finished breakfast; “I can’t afford to be beat.  Look out of the window and see if the Lades are there.”

“I see a red four-in-hand in the square, and there is a crowd round it.  Yes, I see the lady upon the box seat.”

“Is our tandem out?”

“It is at the door.”

“Come, then, and you shall have such a drive as you never had before.”

He stood at the door pulling on his long brown driving-gauntlets and giving his orders to the ostlers.

“Every ounce will tell,” said he.  “We’ll leave that dinner-basket behind.  And you can keep my dog for me, Coppinger.  You know him and understand him.  Let him have his warm milk and curaçoa the same as usual.  Whoa, my darlings, you’ll have your fill of it before you reach Westminster Bridge.”

“Shall I put in the toilet-case?” asked the landlord.  I saw the struggle upon my uncle’s face, but he was true to his principles.

“Put it under the seat - the front seat,” said he.  “Nephew, you must keep your weight as far forward as possible.  Can you do anything on a yard of tin?  Well, if you can’t, we’ll leave the trumpet.  Buckle that girth up, Thomas.  Have you greased the hubs, as I told you?  Well, jump up, nephew, and we’ll see them off.”

Quite a crowd had gathered in the Old Square: men and women, dark-coated tradesmen, bucks from the Prince’s Court, and officers from Hove, all in a buzz of excitement; for Sir John Lade and my uncle were two of the most famous whips of the time, and a match between them was a thing to talk of for many a long day.

“The Prince will be sorry to have missed the start,” said my uncle.  “He doesn’t show before midday.  Ah, Jack, good morning!  Your servant, madam!  It’s a fine day for a little bit of waggoning.”

As our tandem came alongside of the four-in-hand, with the two bonny bay mares gleaming like shot-silk in the sunshine, a murmur of admiration rose from the crowd.  My uncle, in his fawn-coloured driving-coat, with all his harness of the same tint, looked the ideal of a Corinthian whip; while Sir John Lade, with his many-caped coat, his white hat, and his rough, weather-beaten face, might have taken his seat with a line of professionals upon any ale-house bench without any one being able to pick him out as one of the wealthiest landowners in England.  It was an age of eccentricity, but he had carried his peculiarities to a length which surprised even the out-and-outers by marrying the sweetheart of a famous highwayman when the gallows had come between her and her lover.  She was perched by his side, looking very smart in a flowered bonnet and grey travelling-dress, while in front of them the four splendid coal-black horses, with a flickering touch of gold upon their powerful, well-curved quarters, were pawing the dust in their eagerness to be off.

“It’s a hundred that you don’t see us before Westminster with a quarter of an hour’s start,” said Sir John.

“I’ll take you another hundred that we pass you,” answered my uncle.

“Very good.  Time’s up.  Good-bye!”  He gave a
tchk
of the tongue, shook his reins, saluted with his whip; in true coachman’s style, and away he went, taking the curve out of the square in a workmanlike fashion that fetched a cheer from the crowd.  We heard the dwindling roar of the wheels upon the cobblestones until they died away in the distance.

It seemed one of the longest quarters of an hour that I had ever known before the first stroke of nine boomed from the parish clock.  For my part, I was fidgeting in my seat in my impatience, but my uncle’s calm, pale face and large blue eyes were as tranquil and demure as those of the most unconcerned spectator.  He was keenly on the alert, however, and it seemed to me that the stroke of the clock and the thong of his whip fell together - not in a blow, but in a sharp snap over the leader, which sent us flying with a jingle and a rattle upon our fifty miles’ journey.  I heard a roar from behind us, saw the gliding lines of windows with staring faces and waving handkerchiefs, and then we were off the stones and on to the good white road which curved away in front of us, with the sweep of the green downs upon either side.

I had been provided with shillings that the turnpike-gate might not stop us, but my uncle reined in the mares and took them at a very easy trot up all the heavy stretch which ends in Clayton Hill.  He let them go then, and we flashed through Friar’s Oak and across St. John’s Common without more than catching a glimpse of the yellow cottage which contained all that I loved best.  Never have I travelled at such a pace, and never have I felt such a sense of exhilaration from the rush of keen upland air upon our faces, and from the sight of those two glorious creatures stretched to their utmost, with the roar of their hoofs and the rattle of our wheels as the light curricle bounded and swayed behind them.

“It’s a long four miles uphill from here to Hand Cross,” said my uncle, as we flew through Cuckfield.  “I must ease them a bit, for I cannot afford to break the hearts of my cattle.  They have the right blood in them, and they would gallop until they dropped if I were brute enough to let them.  Stand up on the seat, nephew, and see if you can get a glimpse of them.”

I stood up, steadying myself upon my uncle’s shoulder, but though I could see for a mile, or perhaps a quarter more, there was not a sign of the four-in-hand.

“If he has sprung his cattle up all these hills they’ll be spent ere they see Croydon,” said he.

“They have four to two,” said I.

“
J’en suis bien sûr
.  Sir John’s black strain makes a good, honest creature, but not fliers like these.  There lies Cuckfield Place, where the towers are, yonder.  Get your weight right forward on the splashboard now that we are going uphill, nephew.  Look at the action of that leader: did ever you see anything more easy and more beautiful?”

We were taking the hill at a quiet trot, but even so, we made the carrier, walking in the shadow of his huge, broad-wheeled, canvas-covered waggon, stare at us in amazement.  Close to Hand Cross we passed the Royal Brighton stage, which had left at half-past seven, dragging heavily up the slope, and its passengers, toiling along through the dust behind, gave us a cheer as we whirled by.  At Hand Cross we caught a glimpse of the old landlord, hurrying out with his gin and his gingerbread; but the dip of the ground was downwards now, and away we flew as fast as eight gallant hoofs could take us.

“Do you drive, nephew?”

“Very little, sir.”

“There is no driving on the Brighton Road.”

“How is that, sir?”

“Too good a road, nephew.  I have only to give them their heads, and they will race me into Westminster.  It wasn’t always so.  When I was a very young man one might learn to handle his twenty yards of tape here as well as elsewhere.  There’s not much really good waggoning now south of Leicestershire.  Show me a man who can hit ‘em and hold ‘em on a Yorkshire dale-side, and that’s the man who comes from the right school.”

We had raced over Crawley Down and into the broad main street of Crawley village, flying between two country waggons in a way which showed me that even now a driver might do something on the road.  With every turn I peered ahead, looking for our opponents, but my uncle seemed to concern himself very little about them, and occupied himself in giving me advice, mixed up with so many phrases of the craft, that it was all that I could do to follow him.

“Keep a finger for each, or you will have your reins clubbed,” said he.  “As to the whip, the less fanning the better if you have willing cattle; but when you want to put a little life into a coach, see that you get your thong on to the one that needs it, and don’t let it fly round after you’ve hit.  I’ve seen a driver warm up the off-side passenger on the roof behind him every time he tried to cut his off-side wheeler.  I believe that is their dust over yonder.”

A long stretch of road lay before us, barred with the shadows of wayside trees.  Through the green fields a lazy blue river was drawing itself slowly along, passing under a bridge in front of us.  Beyond was a young fir plantation, and over its olive line there rose a white whirl which drifted swiftly, like a cloud-scud on a breezy day.

“Yes, yes, it’s they!” cried my uncle.  “No one else would travel as fast.  Come, nephew, we’re half-way when we cross the mole at Kimberham Bridge, and we’ve done it in two hours and fourteen minutes.  The Prince drove to Carlton House with a three tandem in four hours and a half.  The first half is the worst half, and we might cut his time if all goes well.  We should make up between this and Reigate.”

And we flew.  The bay mares seemed to know what that white puff in front of us signified, and they stretched themselves like greyhounds.  We passed a phaeton and pair London-bound, and we left it behind as if it had been standing still.  Trees, gates, cottages went dancing by.  We heard the folks shouting from the fields, under the impression that we were a runaway.  Faster and faster yet they raced, the hoofs rattling like castanets, the yellow manes flying, the wheels buzzing, and every joint and rivet creaking and groaning, while the curricle swung and swayed until I found myself clutching to the side-rail.  My uncle eased them and glanced at his watch as we saw the grey tiles and dingy red houses of Reigate in the hollow beneath us.

“We did the last six well under twenty minutes,” said he.  “We’ve time in hand now, and a little water at the Red Lion will do them no harm.  Red four-in-hand passed, ostler?”

“Just gone, sir.”

“Going hard?”

“Galloping full split, sir!  Took the wheel off a butcher’s cart at the corner of the High Street, and was out o’ sight before the butcher’s boy could see what had hurt him.”

Z-z-z-z-ack
! went the long thong, and away we flew once more.  It was market day at Redhill, and the road was crowded with carts of produce, droves of bullocks, and farmers’ gigs.  It was a sight to see how my uncle threaded his way amongst them all.  Through the market-place we dashed amidst the shouting of men, the screaming of women, and the scuttling of poultry, and then we were out in the country again, with the long, steep incline of the Redhill Road before us.  My uncle waved his whip in the air with a shrill view-halloa.

There was the dust-cloud rolling up the hill in front of us, and through it we had a shadowy peep of the backs of our opponents, with a flash of brass-work and a gleam of scarlet.

“There’s half the game won, nephew.  Now we must pass them.  Hark forrard, my beauties!  By George, if Kitty isn’t foundered!”

The leader had suddenly gone dead lame.  In an instant we were both out of the curricle and on our knees beside her.  It was but a stone, wedged between frog and shoe in the off fore-foot, but it was a minute or two before we could wrench it out.  When we had regained our places the Lades were round the curve of the hill and out of sight.

“Bad luck!” growled my uncle.  “But they can’t get away from us!”  For the first time he touched the mares up, for he had but cracked the whip over their heads before.  “If we catch them in the next few miles we can spare them for the rest of the way.”

They were beginning to show signs of exhaustion.  Their breath came quick and hoarse, and their beautiful coats were matted with moisture.  At the top of the hill, however, they settled down into their swing once more.

“Where on earth have they got to?” cried my uncle.  “Can you make them out on the road, nephew?”

We could see a long white ribbon of it, all dotted with carts and waggons coming from Croydon to Redhill, but there was no sign of the big red four-in-hand.

“There they are!  Stole away!  Stole away!” he cried, wheeling the mares round into a side road which struck to the right out of that which we had travelled.  “There they are, nephew!  On the brow of the hill!”

Sure enough, on the rise of a curve upon our right the four-in-hand had appeared, the horses stretched to the utmost.  Our mares laid themselves out gallantly, and the distance between us began slowly to decrease.  I found that I could see the black band upon Sir John’s white hat, then that I could count the folds of his cape; finally, that I could see the pretty features of his wife as she looked back at us.

“We’re on the side road to Godstone and Warlingham,” said my uncle.  “I suppose he thought that he could make better time by getting out of the way of the market carts.  But we’ve got the deuce of a hill to come down.  You’ll see some fun, nephew, or I am mistaken.”