“They’re about to go inside,” said I, sotto voce.
Once more, Constable Queenan shifted his feet nervously.
“How many are there?” Constable Rumford asked.
“Five of them,” said I.
I could see her talking through the door. Was she weeping? Could Pinkham have done that? Whoever she was, she was quite an actress. The robbers were lined up behind her on either side of the door; they leaned forward in their eagerness to be inside.
Then, of a sudden, the door came open just a bit. The woman remained a moment, but was swept aside in the concerted dash of her five companions. The door slammed shut behind them, and she went to the wagon.
“They’re in,” said I, excitedly, all but shouting it.
“All right, gentlemen, take your places before Lord Mansfield’s door.”
There was a great scramble to leave the coach. I threw open the door on my side and jumped out to allow Constable Rumford an easy passage to the pavement. Constable Queenan was already out and running for the wagon, a pistol in his hand. Rumford took a place directly before Lord Mansfield’s door. While standing on the walkway, I had a better view of the situation, and saw a flaw that had developed in the plan due to the positioning of the robbers’ wagon. It had pulled up a bit shy of the door of the house, thereby making it quite impossible for Queenan to cover both the door and the wagon at the same time.
“Sir John,” said I, leaning back into the coach, “I see something that must be done! Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
Running to relieve Mr. Queenan, I heard Sir John call after me twice, yet I continued, sure that had he eyes as I had to see things plain, he would no doubt have sent me out himself.
(Have no fear, reader, I was armed. Though I had no cutlass at my side, Mr. Baker had buckled round me a brace of pistols. He would not allow me to venture forth at night unarmed, and on that night in particular, he thought it my duty to serve as Sir John’s guard. I hoped that in lending a hand to the constables, I was not neglecting their chief.)
By the time I reached Mr. Queenan, he had ordered the driver and the woman down out of the wagon; they were slow to move, angry, desperate; they seemed ready to bolt at the first opportunity. I explained my intrusion to Queenan, and he assured me he was grateful for my aid. Then did he join Rumford at the door.
I saw that indeed I was correct: The woman in black, who had played out the drama at the door, was indeed Mistress Pinkham. Her eyes widened in recognition as I pulled out both pistols and cocked them. The driver, an old teamster, hard-faced and silent, looked to be one who had driven many an illegal mile in his life.
No more than a minute had elapsed in all this.
Shots were fired inside the house. Though they sounded no more lethal than those of a child’s pop gun, the sound of them had penetrated an oaken door: The skirmish had truly begun.
Then, just moments later, that oak door flew open, and out tumbled the robbers. There were just four of them; one of their number had fallen inside the house. And after them, in noisy pursuit, came Constable Perkins, a pistol in his hand, and a knife clenched between his teeth, and Constable Brede, waving a cutlass about, shouting, aiming his pistol in a most threatening manner at the nearest of the villains.
Reader, you cannot imagine the look of consternation upon the black-painted faces of those in that robber band when, as they emerged from the house, they beheld four pistols, loaded and cocked, aimed at their hearts by Rumford and Queenan. The trouble was, you see, that I myself did not imagine that look of consternation, I saw it. In so doing, I took my attention away from my two prisoners for no more than the length of a glance. Yet that was time enough for them to wreak havoc upon us.
First of all, I had made an error in allowing Mistress Pinkham and the driver to stand but six feet away, which was much too close. (“Jeremy,” Mr. Perkins lectured me afterward, ” you must never allow them to get that close unless you intend to shoot them on the spot” — and such was not my intention.) In that brief space of time, Pinkham leapt across that short distance, grabbed me by the back of the neck with one hand, and with the other grasped my right wrist and attempted unsuccessfully to wrestle the pistol from my hand. Unable to do more than hang on, she settled for that and hung on to me like a lamprey. And then did she begin screaming, rending the night with fearful wails.
Meantime, the driver slipped from my view and made for his seat on the wagon box, and one of the four on the steps broke away from the others and ran to follow.
What I did then, no gentleman would have done, but I was not then a gentleman, nor have I become one: I clubbed Mistress Mary Pinkham upon the head with the pistol in my free hand. I delivered a sharp whack with the barrel, which quite surprised her, but did nothing more. It took two more stiff blows and a bleeding pate to render her unconscious. She slipped with a bump down to the pavement, giving me the first full picture I had had of the situation since her assault upon me.
The driver urged the restive horses forward just as he who had leaped aboard behind him raised a pistol to shoot at us. Seeing that, I raised my own and fired at him. I did not know then whether I had hit him, but he pulled back, leaving the driver exposed. I set myself to fire again with my second pistol just as the horses pulled the wagon past me, removing the driver from my sight. But then, from behind me, was a final shot discharged. I looked round me and saw that it had come from Constable Perkins, who stood coolly, his arm still outstretched, the pistol in his hand still smoking.
We waited, holding our breath as one for a long moment as the horses plunged onward past Mr. Bilbo’s coach and toward Hart Street. We knew that if it made the turn in good order, then it was under control. If, on the other hand, it did not, then whoever held the reins was badly wounded, dead, or dying. And as one, we heaved a sigh of disappointment as it sailed round the corner like a frigate on wheels.
Though Sir John was reasonably pleased to have four of the robber band (including the now-conscious Pinkham) under guard, and a fifth wounded on Lord Mansfield’s floor, he had little time for his constables’ reports on how it had all been accomplished. I, however, did welcome Constable Rumford’s call; he had wiped the faces of the prisoners with a towel and all proved to be white, except the wounded fellow in the house. Once Sir John had me in the coach, he signaled Mr. Bilbo’s driver that it was time to move on to the next stop of our itinerary. As the coach began to roll, I was caught in the midst of reloading the pistol I had discharged. It was a ticklish job at best — to attempt it as we bumped over cobblestones and as he berated me for what he called my “childish propensity for getting in the worst sort of trouble.”
He continued: “And what good did you do? One in your charge escaped. The other — a woman, if you will! — you had to beat senseless to bring under restraint. How much help did you, in truth, provide?”
Continuing in that vein, he filled the time it took to drive from Bloomsbury Square to St. James Street — not a great distance. I made no effort to defend myself, simply let him talk on — for what, after all, could I say in my defense?
At last, as we pulled up before the Zondervan residence, I said to Sir John: “You cannot say anything to me in criticism, sir, that I have not already said to myself a dozen times over.” And indeed it was so.
(I did manage to get the pistol reloaded, however.)
As we climbed from the coach, Mr. Bilbo’s driver called down to us, asking if we would be needing him further. “We’re right close to home here,” said he.
“I know that, driver,” said Sir John, “but I fear that we have one more stop to make this evening, and that will take us all the way to Bermondsey.”