Troubled Waters

our foes… Britons, in the pay of the French or Spanish, who are in need of… convincing,' he said with a leer. 'Foreign agents who covert themselves in our nation, and operate traitorous bands of native- born informers, who must be 'smoaked out,' exposed, and hung, or simply drop off the face of the earth, to the utter confoundment of their spymasters in Paris or Madrid, or… certain other foreign capitals,' he said with a sage tap aside his nose.

'Skulkers for the Foreign Office, ye mean,' Lewrie said. 'Who work for you. I thought you were retired, Mister Twigg.'

'Years of service overseas has made my face and name much too well known to our opposition,' Twigg told him. 'I now merely keep my hand in with consultations, and… some few tasks closer to home. My fellows here, well…' He leaned over the top of his walking-stick towards Lewrie, on the rear-facing bench. 'My in-town residence, on Baker Street, among other locations, is the

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most convenient place for discreet comings and goings, so… I call my fellows the 'Baker Street Irregulars,' though private armies are no longer allowed in Britain.'

He had himself a little simper of amusement.

'You forget, Zachariah,' Sir Hugo reminded his odd choice for a friend, 'that some Scottish lairds still maintain private regiments… 'Lord Thing-gummy's Own Highland Foot,' or 'Lord Sheep-Thief's Border Reivers,' haw haw!'

'Fortunately, all on temporary loan to His Majesty, though, old son,' Twigg quickly rejoined in like good humour, 'and part of Great Britain's army… 'til they feel an urge for rebellion and independence once more, God save us. In point of fact, a fair number of my fellows come from such private regiments… easier to second from any regular British unit, whose soldiers took the 'King's Shilling' for long enlistments. Though there are ways… should a fellow be promising, ha!'

'Mercenaries, in essence,' Lewrie asked with a worried frown.

'Trust Twigg, my boy,' Sir Hugo assured him. 'I do b'lieve our side pays better than our foes, so with such lads about, you're as safe as a babe in his mother's arms.'

Even as light as the balloon coach was, with such a light load aboard, all of them had to get out and push to help the horse team get to the crest of Portdown Hill. Fortunately, the road was new-gravelled and dry, so they didn't end looking like Thames River mud-larks. And six horses made it bowl along quite nicely and swiftly under the reins of the regular coachee, a tad faster when Twigg took his turn upon the box, or when Sir Hugo tried his hand at emulating Jehu, the Biblical charioteer. As the sun rose and the summer warmth gathered, the greatcoats were shrugged off, baring livery and uniforms, and the oddness of their Indians' garb. Twigg was right; they did make a raree show! And, every twenty-odd miles or so, when the horse team had to be changed for fresh beasts, they received a variety of greetings.

'Run, lads, run an' raise th' Yeomanry!' one myopic twit cried as they clattered into Petersfield. 'The fookin' French are 'ere!' As loosely organised as the local volunteer soldiery were, the travellers were long gone by the time a sergeant turned up with half a dozen men, all still struggling into uniform. At least their coach's stop had given those poor fellows a good excuse for leaving work, and angrily chivvying free beer for their troubles from the weak-eyed old fool.

'Huzzah! Th' circus is a'comin'!' a young stableyard hand yelled in glee when they stopped at Guildford, and that brought out a mob of gawkers, who, though disappointed that their party wasn't the circus, at least took joy from such an outre batch of travellers.

'Crikey, ye ain't th' King isself, is ye?' the publican at the last stage stop wondered aloud as their coach rolled to a halt at his tavern and posting-house on the outskirts of Kingston, near the south bank of the Thames. His customers and help tumbled out to witness the arrival, ready to curtsy, doff their hats, or tug their forelocks, 'til Twigg and Sir Hugo alit, not looking all that royal, and slunk back to their labours or their drinks.

Lewrie stretched his legs, rolled his shoulders, and eased his aching fundament in the shade of a large oak just outside the doors to the tavern, sitting on a wooden bench with his legs at last stretched out instead of awkwardly pinched up crabwise. Desmond and Lewrie's two other hands got down from the coach-top seats, and stood licking their lips in expectation.

'The team need changing, d'ye think?' Lewrie asked his father, who was, with Twigg, seeing to the horses' watering, and stroking them over. It wasn't that much further to London proper; from where he sat Lewrie could espy the city's taller steeples already.

'They seem sound enough to make it to the Elephant and Castle,' Sir Hugo told him, and Twigg shrugged, then nodded his agreement.

'Half-pints, then, Desmond,' Lewrie said, digging for his coin purse and handing his Cox'n a crown piece. 'One for me, too.'

'Aye, sor!' A half-pint sounded good to Desmond, though Furfy rolled his eyes and heaved a sad sigh of disappointment that they had no time for a full'un. So many stops had taken a toll upon Lewrie's purse; beer with hard-boiled eggs to tide them over at Petersfield; beer, roast beef, and currant duff at the posting-house in Guildford… at the paying passengers' rate, not the price of a two-penny ordinary; and one stop midway 'twixt Guildford and here for cheese, apples, and more beer…!

His sailors came out of the tavern with their half-pints, and a rather pretty serving girl fetched Lewrie his, returning his change as she gave him a fair curtsy and smile, and Lewrie returned it, allowing her the last few pence for a tip, which earned him a second smile and bob. He took a sip, appreciating the brew, probably unknown to other towns beyond a long walk, and laid up in the tavern's cellar.

What a dead bust! Lewrie thought; all this way, and I could've ridden it alone, for all the danger we 've seen.

He wasn't exactly sure just how long the Beaumans had been here in England, but began to doubt that they could have enlisted thugs for out-of-court revenge this quickly. Wouldn't know their way about, nor know whom to approach…

'Hoy, there,' one of the out-riders called. All four of them had come to the watering troughs to freshen their mounts at the same time; all were now dismounted, but one of them-the taciturn leader-had kept his wits about him. Twigg and Sir Hugo snapped their heads about in the direction he was chin-pointing.

Up the London road near a thick stand of trees and shrubbery, a lone man stood by the head of his horse, stroking its nostrils to keep it silent, and half-hidden waist-deep in the bushes. Lewrie got an impresion, a quick'un, of dark clothing, a wide-brimmed and flat black farmer's hat. About an hundred yards or so away, Lewrie estimated, as the fellow, now aware that he was being stared at, sprang up onto his saddle, urgently sawed his horse's reins, and spurred away before any of their out-riders could even think to saddle up. Within moments the strange rider was out of sight round a bend, leaving small dust-puffs of dry dirt road that hung like a tan mist where shafts of sun dapples filtered through the trees!

'Uh-oh' was his father's sour comment. 'Trouble at last, ha! Skirmishers, out. You concur, Zachariah? Your men… your call.'

'Scout for an ambush, Perkins, there's a good fellow,' Twigg said with a harsh snap. 'Damme! Just, damme!'

'Might've been a highwayman,' Lewrie supposed aloud, finishing his beer, setting the mug on the bench, and walking to the head of the horse team for a better look, as their unofficial cavalry vedette hastily mounted and cantered away in pursuit. 'Make a try for a rich coach but thought we looked too daunting, so he…'

'Not a bit of it, sir!' Twigg countered, slashing the air with his walking-stick like a cutlass. He peered at Lewrie with a pitying expression, as if he were the most naive fool in the world, or as blind as a bat. 'No one innocent spurs off in such fashion. A highwayman… perhaps, but… in whose/pay, Lewrie, and the leader, or sentinel, of how large a band? I thought our luck had been a tad too good. But it does make eminent sense to wait and watch nearer London than try their hand closer to Portsmouth.