Debt, Imprisonment for -- Fiction; London (England) -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
There sat next to the merchant a young gentleman of about seventeen
or eighteen, brave in scarlet, for he had just received a commission
as ensign in a regiment of the line, and was on his way to join his
colours, as he told us with pride. Directly highway robbers were
mentioned he assumed, being a young man with rosy and blushing cheek,
fitter for a game of cricket on the green than for war's alarms, a
fierce and warlike mien, and assured us that we ladies should not want
protection while he was on the coach. And he made a great show of
loosening his sword in the scabbard to ensure its quick and ready use,
should the occasion rise. The merchant received these professions of
courage with undisguised contempt; the clergyman smiled; Mrs. Gambit
nodded her head and laughed, as if he was a boy whose talk meant
nothing. I neither laughed at him nor scowled at him. In fact I was
thinking, girl-like, what a handsome boy he was, and hoping that he
would some day become a great general. As the country seems at the
present juncture sadly in want of great generals, I fear he has been
killed in action.
When we stopped for dinner, at one o'clock--I remember that I never
before saw so prodigious a piece of roast beef upon the table--our host
must needs spoil all enjoyment of the meal by asking us, just as we
were sat down, sharp-set by the air, if we had met or seen anything of
a certain "Black Will," who seemed to be very well known by all. The
very name caused our poor merchant to push back his plate untasted, and
the young officer to rise from the table and hasten to assure himself
that his sword was loose in the scabbard.
"Because," said the landlord, "it is right for you to know that Black
Will is reported in this neighbourhood with all his crew: a bloody lot,
gentlemen. I hope you have no valuables to speak of upon you. However,
perhaps they will not meet you on the road. They murdered a man last
year, a young gentleman like you, sir," nodding to the ensign, "because
he offered resistance and drew his sword. What is a little toothpick
like that, compared with a quarterstaff in the hands of a sturdy rogue?
So they beat his brains out for him. Then they gagged and used most
unmercifully, kicking him till he was senseless, an honest gentleman
like yourself, sir"--he nodded to our merchant--"who gave them the
trouble of taking off his boots, where, for greater safety, as the poor
wretch thought, he had bestowed his money----"
"God bless my soul!" cried the merchant, changing colour, so that I for
one felt quite certain that his was there too, and that his courage was
down in his boots as well, to keep the money company. "Bless my soul!
hanging, mere hanging, is too good for such villains."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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