Jack Bolt and the Highwaymen's Hideout Read online

  Thrown to the floor, Jack was plunged into darkness, clutching the side of his head. Someone pulled a hood over his face. He tried to cry out but he couldn’t, as the cloth was jammed in his mouth and someone was on top of him, grappling with his arms.

  “Shut up, thief, or I’ll slit yer throat like a pig!” a high voice hissed into his ear.

  Jack struggled but he wasn’t used to fighting and found himself quickly overpowered. Before he knew what had happened, he was tied up and forced into a chair. His arms wouldn’t budge. Whoever it was didn’t want him to escape. A rope was wound round and round and round the chair until Jack was covered from his neck to his ankles. He felt angry and hot. Moving his head around, he managed to spit out the cloth in his mouth.

  “You don’t need to tie me up anymore,” he pleaded, coughing.

  “Shut up,” hissed his attacker. “An’ no running off.” Jack heard a high laugh, almost a giggle.

  “Don’t worry—I’m hardly going anywhere,” he muttered, blinking in the darkness. He could just make out slivers of light here and there.

  She laughed again. It was the high-pitched laugh of a girl! Worse—she was smaller than he was!

  “Please—take the bag off—I … I can’t … breathe …,” he complained.

  “All right—I’ll take off the sack, but ye must not say a word—y’hear?”

  Jack grunted. “Okay. I’ll be quiet.” (I’ll shout the house down if it helps, he thought.)

  The girl took off the bag and Jack saw a fierce little face staring at him with a triumphant glint in her eye. Jack felt anger and humiliation. Whatever had been in the bag had been covered in dirt. He could taste it. The girl must be about his age, he thought. Her face was smudged with dirt, and wisps of hair hung down from a scarf tied behind her ears. She had narrow little eyes and a small nose. She held a poker in her hand.

  She grinned. “Got y’all ready for market, eh?” She glanced down at the ropes with satisfaction. “’Though you was a bit more trouble than a turkey!”

  She stood back and suddenly kicked him in the shin. Not too hard (and, anyway, he was protected by the thick rope binding), but not playfully either.

  “OW.”

  “Shut up,” she growled. “Thief.”

  “I’m not a thief,” Jack said.

  “Yes, you are.” She glared at him. She seemed about to spit in his face, then thought better of it.

  The girl stared at Jack’s sneakers. They were new and white. His jeans were a beautiful blue too.

  “What were you doing up there, thief?” she asked, jutting out her chin.

  “I’m not a thief,” he told her again.

  She held out the poker and pointed it at him. “Yes, you are. Thief. Or spy?” she added venomously.

  “Neither,” Jack said. He wanted to say “I’m a time traveler!” But he didn’t. It was too ridiculous. “I know Lord Henry Vane.”

  That brought her up short. She frowned and tilted her head to the side. “Do you, now?” She smiled slyly. “I don’t know him meself. Maybe you should be telling the soldiers? For you may see the soldiers shortly, I can tell you.”

  “Why would I tell the soldiers?” he said. “I’m Lord Henry’s friend.”

  “He’s a Toby,” she told him.

  “A what?”

  “A highwayman. You should be careful of the company you keeps. Or you’ll be dancing on nothing.” She mimed a rope pulling at her neck, kicked her legs, and grinned wickedly at him. Now Jack understood the phrase. “’Oo made your shoes?” she asked, still intrigued by his sneakers.

  Before he had time to answer, someone called from outside: “Polly!” It was a woman’s voice. The woman he had heard last night with the soldier.

  The girl, Polly, left him, hurrying past—her face suddenly hard.

  Jack could hear them talking outside in low voices. With a sick feeling he realized that in the eighteenth century they hanged thieves.

  A moment later there was a shout from outside, and a short round woman bustled into the kitchen. She had a ruddy face, warts on her chin, and unruly gray hair. She placed her hands on her hips and stared at Jack, all tied up as if he were about to perform an escapology trick.

  “Oh, the devil! Look at the knots—you wild child!” It wasn’t clear whether she was referring to Jack or to the girl named Polly. “There’s no end of trouble here. Who are you?” she demanded, speaking softly to Jack.

  Polly hadn’t asked him who he was. “I’m Jack Bolt,” he said. “And I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was your house …”

  She studied him thoughtfully and spoke quietly again. “So where did you pop up from, Jack Bolt?”

  “Next door,” he said truthfully.

  She squinted at him. Jack felt pinned down by her piercing blue eyes. “Did you, now? She says you know Henry. Is it so?”

  Jack nodded—here was an opening. “Sure,” he said. “We’re old friends.”

  “Fetch Henry!” the woman told Polly.

  “Where—,” began Polly.

  “Where d’ya think? In the back room at the Cap and Stockings. They been there all night, they have, wasting their money. Tell him young Jack Bolt is here to see him—if he’s a mind to come.”

  Polly disappeared and the ruddy-faced woman looked over at Jack and chuckled. “She can tie a knot, that one. She can’t cook a sausage, but she can tie a knot like a bargeman.”

  Lord Henry Vane came with Tom Drum in tow. Polly showed them in and proudly presented Jack. “You see—I’m as good as any man!” she said. To Jack’s annoyance, they both burst out laughing.

  “Why—if you had caught the world’s strongest man, Polly, you could not have tied him up more thoroughly!”

  “You know this lad, Henry?” the ruddy-faced woman asked.

  “I do indeed, Mistress Manners. He is a valued member of the gang.” Henry looked at Jack, but his eyes were cold. “More than that, he is our lucky charm.”

  “What?” cried Polly indignantly. “Since when is he a member of the gang?”

  “Since quite recent,” Tom Drum told her.

  “But you promised me,” Polly said to Lord Henry.

  “Later, Polly—untie this lad now, please.”

  As Polly walked around and around Jack, undoing the coils of rope, Jack’s feeling of relief drained away. The chiseled features of Lord Henry were sunk deep in thought. Behind his eyes lurked a darkness. He pulled Jack up the stairs and turned on him.

  “What do you think you’re doing, you turkey?”

  “I just wanted to see if it was true—that you came from the eighteenth century. I wanted to see what life was like here,” said Jack.

  “Life? It’s one short cackle of laughter,” Lord Henry said with sudden venom. “And then we’re off to the other world. Did you tell them about the hideout?”

  “No.”

  “Good lad. We’re relying on you.” He let go of Jack’s arm and grew friendlier. “Let us make a deal, Jack Bolt: you want to see life, then I’ll show you life, here in the glorious eighteenth century, but you must help us tonight. I am a suspicious man, Jack—it is my nature—and now that you are here I shall have to keep you nearby, for I can’t run the risk of having the hideout discovered. It is a most precious place. Tonight there is a job to be done, if you get my meaning, and afterward we will need a place to rest up. I think it’d be best if you come with us. Don’t you?”

  Lord Henry smiled. It felt like the sun breaking through the clouds. Jack realized that he had no choice.

  Chapter Eight

  Taking from the Rich

  Clinging to the highwayman’s coat, Jack galloped across the countryside. A vast cloud of starlings—more birds than he had ever seen—wheeled in the overcast sky above them. Lord Henry’s curly wig was pushed into Jack’s face and was maddeningly itchy. He had been given some rough clothes that not only smelled like old cheese but also scratched him raw. It was like wearing an old doormat. His bottom banged on the saddle until it was
bruised and sore.

  Despite this, Jack felt a fantastic freedom as the air whistled past his ears and the thud of the horses’ hooves shuddered through his body. As the countryside sped past he felt like whooping for joy. When Red Ruby leaped over a hedge, Jack’s stomach lurched and he clung on for dear, glorious life.

  Around him, the countryside wasn’t that different from his own time. Of course there were no cars or paved roads, and there were many more trees—but otherwise, it was the same. Sky and fields and woods and lanes and houses. The houses were smaller, and there were hardly any of them. And the roads were only dirt trails. Jack had seen paintings of this old countryside, full of people in the fields and warm colors and horses and distant houses, and it really was like that. He felt freer without the roads and the signs and the fences everywhere. This world felt more open and empty—and more dangerous too.

  They came to a halt under an old oak tree on the roadside. Tom Drum trotted up behind them with Polly. She had insisted on coming, and Lord Henry seemed unwilling to stop her. Jack wished she wasn’t with them—she either ignored him or shot him glances of hate. He did the same back.

  They had waited only a short while when three horsemen came cantering up to them. They wore hats and black cloaks.

  “Lord Henry Vane!” called one as he galloped up.

  “The very same!” called Lord Henry back. “Well met, lads! Your timing is perfect—we have just arrived.”

  From behind Lord Henry, Jack looked at the men. They were a fine sight from afar—black figures galloping with their cloaks flying in the wind—but close up, he saw they were rough and shady characters, with bad teeth and tattered clothes.

  “This is Dirty Dick,” said Lord Henry, gesturing to a bearded man with a hungry look.

  Dirty Dick peered at Jack. He said nothing but looked mystified.

  “And this is Pete the Pudding.”

  A stout man nudged his horse forward and also peered at Jack then Polly. “’Ello, young un,” he said to Jack.

  “Hello,” said Polly brightly, before Jack could speak.

  “And this is Bernard.” Lord Henry gestured to a big man with a thick jaw and a long red scar down his cheek.

  “Bad-Breath Bernard,” said Dirty Dick.

  “Haaaaaaaaaa!” went Bernard in Dirty Dick’s direction.

  “Woooooooooorrrr! You could wilt a flower in Wessex with your breath!” groaned Dirty Dick, holding his nose.

  “An’ your fizzle ain’t so fragrant neither, Dick,” growled Bernard, standing in his stirrups and leaning over.

  “And behind me—is Jack Bolt,” said Henry swiftly. “Welcome to the Vane Gang!”

  “’E’s just a boy,” observed Dirty Dick.

  “So what?” said Polly to Jack’s surprise.

  “And that’s just a girl!” exclaimed Bernard.

  Jack noticed two guns sticking out of a belt that Bernard wore across his chest.

  “I’m as good as any of you,” began Polly, glaring at them. “I can load and shoot a pistol. I’ve done it lots.”

  “What you shot, then?” asked Dirty Dick. “A couple of gnats?”

  “I shot a duck,” said Polly.

  “Sittin’ on a pond!” laughed Pete the Pudding. His laugh was unfortunate, a stupid-sounding, honking laugh.

  “Enough!” cried Lord Henry. He turned to Polly. “Everyone in the gang gets along, I say. Otherwise, they’re out.”

  Polly pouted unhappily. She glanced at Jack—this time not a look of hatred but one that wondered if maybe they should be friends.

  “What ’as you shot?” Dirty Dick asked Jack.

  Jack shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “What use is that?” complained Bernard.

  Lord Henry explained. “These two are my guests. They’ll stay by us but not appear. They are not taking part in any holdup—that’s a man’s job. But we need their help to hide the booty. Jack and Polly are very important to the plan—so all of you hold your tongues, and be polite to my little guests.”

  The men looked at each other and after a few grumpy looks and some shrugging, they appeared to come to a kind of unspoken agreement. You wouldn’t want to meet these guys on a dark night, Jack thought, and he smiled at the irony. The dark gray clouds made the afternoon feel like dusk.

  “Now,” Lord Henry resumed his merry speech, “I have been told by a good friend that the Duke of Belvoir’s carriage is to pass on the north road. It’ll be packed with rich passengers. But, lads,” he cried in a rousing, theatrical voice that made Jack smile, “it is a lonely road, and it is a long and tiresome journey, and I do feel sorry for the passengers!”

  “Maybe they could do with a little light relief?” suggested Tom Drum, fixing his mask over his eyes.

  “Aye, an encounter with a famous highwayman or two should do the trick!” laughed Pete the Pudding, as if he had just had an idea. “It might pass the time on such a boring journey.”

  “An’ we could make the coach a little lighter—by relieving it of some of those bits of yellow metal an’ pretty stones!” Bernard chimed in, his voice as low and deep as a well.

  The highwaymen laughed. Tom Drum winked at Jack. And suddenly Jack felt so special to be included in their gang that he entirely forgot about the danger and the time and whether he should be doing what he was doing.

  * * *

  “Stand and deliver!

  Lord Henry Vane is the name,

  Here to rob you once again!”

  Red Ruby reared up on her hind legs and snorted dramatically. Lord Henry’s eyes twinkled through the slits on his mask. He twirled his pistol in the air and there was a sudden BANG!

  “Oops—I’m terribly sorry,” he apologized, laughing. “I am a little twitchy on the trigger today. Please do not be frightened. No one shall be hurt. And never mind, for look! What joy—I have another pistol at the ready!” He grinned as he produced a second pistol from his coat pocket. The coachman eyed Lord Henry with a mixture of fear and disdain.

  Now four masked highwaymen rode up and surrounded the coach. Henry Vane walked Red Ruby forward as Tom Drum dismounted, carrying a sack that he opened up as if preparing to fill it.

  Hidden in a tree nearby, Jack looked down on the robbery. When Henry Vane went forward to stop the coach, Jack was surprised to find Polly gripping his arm. He could feel her fear and it made him scared too. But they were safe in the tree. Lord Henry had explained that they always treated the victims with respect. People loved being robbed, he had said with a laugh. They had such a jolly tale to tell their friends in society, and their long and tedious journey was, of course, so much more thrilling! In gratitude they often gave something to the poor. It was only right, wasn’t it, that the poor should benefit from the rich?

  But now that Jack saw the robbery taking place in front of his eyes, he knew that it was wrong. And he suspected that Lord Henry Vane knew it was wrong too—otherwise why would he attempt such an elaborate justification?

  “Am I right?” Lord Henry called out merrily. “I have robbed this carriage before?”

  “Yes, you have,” the coachman said wearily. “Twice.”

  “Oh! What bad luck!” laughed Lord Henry with pleasure. “It’s not the Duke of Belvoir again, is it?”

  “No, sir. I am taking the duke’s houseguests back to London. The duke is not here.”

  “Shame,” said Lord Henry. “I have so enjoyed our meetings. Such a pleasant gentleman with, I must say, exquisite taste in clothes. Come on, then. Passengers out, one at a time, please, in a nice, orderly fashion. All offerings thankfully received. We take from the rich, we give to the poor!” he sang.

  The door of the carriage opened and a well-dressed, portly gentleman stepped out. He held a small bag of coins. Tom Drum stepped forward and took it with a small bow. He dropped it in the sack with a flourish. The highwaymen clapped.

  “Thank you very much,” said Lord Henry. “Next!”

  An elderly woman in a towering gray wig stepped out. Jack
could see how she was shaking. She held out a necklace to Tom Drum and looked straight at Henry Vane. “I know your mother, Henry,” she said. “You are a very naughty boy and a great disappointment to her.”

  At first, silence greeted this bombshell, then the highwaymen snorted with laughter. What a hoot! Jack found their laughter infectious, and he smiled too. It was hard to think of the big man as a naughty little boy.

  Henry Vane was silent. Robberies were always exciting. He wanted to snicker like crazy—but he wanted to cry at the same time. His mother! This woman knew his dear mother! He decided to ignore the woman. It was too upsetting to think about his mother (but how was she?). And in front of the gang too. He must rise above it.

  “Next!” he called coldly.

  Out of the carriage stepped a young woman. The hood of her cloak obscured her face, but there was a grace in her movements that made the highwaymen fall silent.

  “Hellllllllooooooooooo.” Lord Henry’s voice purred with appreciation. This was more like it.

  “Hello, Henry,” replied the woman shakily.

  Lord Henry Vane flinched. His face fell and his confidence drained away. He knew this voice. In an instant it took him back to his childhood. It pierced his heart and brought a lump to his throat.

  “Who—,” he began.

  The woman reached up and pulled her hood back to reveal a bright, round, honest face, framed in an arc of small, fair curls. Her blue eyes looked directly at the highwayman.

  “Dazzling diamonds,” breathed Lord Henry.

  “Eh?” Dirty Dick peered at the other highwaymen. Jack sensed that something unexpected was happening. He held the branch above him tightly. There was a change in Lord Henry’s voice, a surprise and uncertainty.

  Polly whispered, “’Oo’s that?”

  Jack shook his head and strained to hear.

  “Lady Marchwell …,” Lord Henry began and stopped. The gang of highwaymen shifted uneasily on their horses. They had never seen Henry Vane tongue-tied.

  “What have you done, Henry?” the young woman cried out passionately. She looked Henry Vane up and down, upset and disgusted. “How have you sunk so low?”