Reigning by Malcolm Archibald

Author:Malcolm Archibald
Format: epub

Chapter Nineteen

Amounted magistrate led the coach, with two pistols prominent at his saddle and a sword at his side. Behind him marched four parish constables with long staffs and set, stern faces. The coach driver was middle-aged, with a broad hat partly hiding his face, while at his side sat a burly guard with a brace of pistols and a blunderbuss. Two more constables marched behind the coach, tapping their long staffs on the ground in time with their boots.

“That’s an impressive display of authoritarian force,” Bess murmured.

“It is,” Smith agreed.

Three men and one woman sat on top of the coach, yelling and shouting as they rattled the manacles that secured them. Four more convicted criminals sat inside the coach, three hiding their misery behind false bravado, and the fourth sitting in despondent silence.

“Our man’s inside the coach,” Smith said. “Abraham Reeves. I want him freed and Will Wightman as well.”

Bess frowned. “Who’s Will Wightman?”

“Wightman’s a highwayman,” Smith said. “I want this attack to seem like an attempt to free Wightman, with Reeves’ escape a coincidence. That way, we’ll deflect all the attention from Reeves onto Wightman.”

“Abraham Reeves,” Bess repeated, studying the prison coach’s escort. “This won’t be easy. That magistrate looks like he’ll fire at any excuse, and the guard holds his blunderbuss like a veteran.”

“Josh Lennox is a veteran,” Smith said. “He served eight years in the Fortieth Foot but lost his left leg below the knee on the Heights of Abraham in 1759. A French ball lodged in his shin, and gangrene did the rest.”

Bess nodded. “This is like old times, John. You’ve got everything arranged, haven’t you?”

“I believe so,” Smith said.

“Who’s the driver?”

Smith smiled. “Jeremiah Bragg. He’s a Dover man who served as a quartermaster on Maid of Kent.”

Bess ran a finger down the scar on her cheek. “Did you know that before you arranged this escape?”

“Jeremiah got the job on my recommendation.” Smith glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly time, Bess. Get ready.”

“I’m ready.”

The magistrate led the coach into a broad street, where a crowd had gathered to watch, and a brewer’s dray lumbered towards them. When the coach passed a public house named The Last Drop, a tall man in an old-fashioned wig blew on a hunting horn. As the sharp call echoed in the street, the dray’s driver pulled his horses across the road, blocking it completely.

“What the devil!” the magistrate roared. “Get out of the way, you damned fool! Can’t you see us coming?”

“Wightman!” the horn blower shouted, running toward the coach. “We want Wild Will Wightman!” He banged the flat of his hand on the door. “Are you in there, Will?”

“Wightman!” the crowd roared. “Free Wild Will Wightman!”

Led by a buxom woman, the crowd surged forward, surrounding the magistrate, and cramming the parish constables in a tight huddle, so they could not wield their staffs.

“What the devil is this?” the magistrate shouted as a section of the mob ran at him, shaking their fists and wielding makeshift weapons.

“Come on, Bess,” Smith

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