Page 3 of Rogue of the Greenwood
“Sounds dull,” Will said.
John nodded. “Needs some livening up, I’d say.”
Robert shook his head and breathed in heartily. “I, for one, am looking forward to a bit of dullness for a change. Just smell that air—no gunpowder, no smoke….”
“I smell a bit of pigs somewhere, though,” Will noted.
“I think it’s sheep,” John corrected.
The two men made themselves dizzy gasping in half the air of the countryside and arguing over whichbreed of manure had the greatest presence in it. Robert gave up trying to have sensible conversation and walked back to the carriage. The horses stamped nervously, and the coachman finished a quick perusal of their harnesses and overall condition.
“Everything well?” Robert asked.
“Just so,” the man replied as he hoisted himself back up into the box.
“Good,” Robert said. “I’m eager to set my eyes on my home.”
“We just need to wait for the last one of your friends to finish smelling the roses, sir, and then we can be off.”
Even as the coach driver spoke, Robert heard the familiar whistle of his rose-sniffing friend, Alan O’Dell. The happy-go-lucky Irishman always seemed to be humming or whistling or singing a tune with one of the several instruments he lugged along wherever he went. Occasionally the men in their regiment complained at the noise, but to be honest Robert rather appreciated Alan’s melodies. Life had been hard these past months and weeks. At times music was the only thing the men had to keep them going—especially once they had left the regiment and gone off on the special assignments given to them.
“Here he comes now,” Robert commented as Alan appeared from the thicket.
Alan seemed to notice that all eyes were on him as he adjusted the flap on his trousers. Never shy when it came to attention, he grinned.
“Much better now, lads. Are we back on the road then?”
“As soon as you get back into the carriage,” Robert assured, holding the door open.
His friends jostled and joked as they clambered into their seats. In a few moments, the carriage was rolling along again, and the droning rattle soon settled them into a comfortable quiet. Their journey had been exhausting and Robert knew his friends felt as weary as he did. They rode in silence, the sunlight becoming dappled as they entered the huge, looming forest ahead. Ah, but it was good to be home.
Or very nearly, at least. But why was the carriage slowing? Robert roused and leaned forward to peer out the window. He was suddenly aware of voices outside.
Someone was calling for the carriage to halt! The whole conveyance shuddered and the horses shied nervously. The sound of feet crunched over dried leaves on the ground all around and at last Robert could see what caused their lack of progress.
“Footpads,” he grumbled.
His three friends were already alert. Their time and training in Wellington’s army made them a well-prepared bunch; these Sherwood criminals had chosen the wrong carriage today. Three pistols inside the carriage clicked, loaded and ready to fire. Robert opted for the knife he kept in his boot. Its handle felt far too comfortable in his hand.
Voices shouted, ordering the coachman to remain still or have his head shot off. The door to the carriage was pulled open suddenly and Robert was faced with the dangerous end of a very old flintlock pistol. Although on quick inspection, he could determine the pistol was not so very dangerous, after all. The pan was entirely empty and the hammer only partly cocked.
The half-grown boy who held the pistol did notexactly seem dangerous, either. In fact, Robert would have described him with words more like “terrified” and “awkward.” The boy’s hand shook as he held the pistol, waving it at the four men.
“Stand and deliver!” he shouted in a voice that cracked and wavered.
Glancing at the others, Robert was assured that his comrades saw the situation as well as he did. Their expressions ranged from simply amused to dully confused. It was obvious to all of them, though, that this frightened child posed no real threat. Robert relaxed. Since it was clear that no one would be filling anyone with lead, he took his sweet time in replying to the boy’s order.
“If you want us to stand, I’m afraid you’ll have to move so we can get out of this carriage. If you want us to deliver, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed because my friends and I have very little between us… except for our trusty weapons, of course.”
Robert’s friends showed their guns and it was very clear that they, unlike the boy’s, were quite dangerous indeed. The boy clearly had no idea what to do next. He staggered back, out of the carriage doorway.
Now Robert could see that the young man wasn’t alone. Shifting slightly to peer past the boy, Robert noticed two equally young fellows huddled with one rusty pistol aimed at the coachman. The driver was in no greater danger than the passengers, though. It seemed no one in this group of young bandits was at all skilled in the art of criminal robbery. The pistol these others carried would cause harm only if it was dropped on someone’s foot. The boys’ clothes were tattered and hung ill-fitting on under-weight bodies. Their sagging hats drooped low yet could not hide thefear in their eyes nor the pallor of their dirty faces. The lads appeared far more like pitiful beggars than treacherous thieves.
Robert’s friends clearly felt the same way.
“I’ve got a pence or two in my coat,” Alan O’Dell said quickly, digging into his pocket.
“As do I,” John chimed. “Along with a brass button I found a while back.”
