MICHAELMAS TRIP

The crisp autumn air of Michaelmas ran through Sylvester’s hair and carried the sound of fallen leaves crunching under the wheels as he drove his gig from London to Hertfordshire. Moving north towards his destination, Sylvester had just passed Islington and now guided his horse to a slower pace as he began to approach a cluster of buildings marking the next turnpike on the New Road. 

Another toll fee was going to set him back a little, which was one of the reasons why he rarely travelled home. But Michaelmas was a special occasion; the entire family was gathering for supper. And what did another couple of shillings represent in his ascending fortunes? 

He stopped to pay the turnpike keeper. 

‘How are the road conditions ahead?’ he asked. 

‘The usual, sir. The usual...’ the old man wearily replied. 

Sylvester furrowed his brow at the word ‘usual’. 

‘No troubles expected, then?’ 

‘Well, sir, there is that urchin what robbed me last night.’ 

Sylvester raised his eyebrows, 

‘That is most unfortunate!’ he said. ‘I hope you delivered him to a constable! Well, he may even land up in my courtroom as I am only recently appointed justice. This very morning, in fact. The youngest magistrate ever!’ He puffed out his chest and with a broad smile he patted the worn leather satchel beside him. Inside lay the official decree. 

‘Oh... the outcome of the story is a trifle different than you might expect, sir. I will tell you what happened, if you be interested.’ 

Sylvester did not truly care for the people involved in the crime; it was meting out justice that he was most concerned with. He had a few moments to spare, and he was most curious to know more. 

‘Tell me,’ Sylvester said. 

The turnpike keeper nodded. 

‘Last night,’ he began, ‘after collectin’ the toll from a traveller, I left the booth to return to my bed. Usual-like, sir. But that’s when I heard a noise. I come back and what do I find? I find a boy, with his greedy fingers on the strong box where the toll money is kept! “Oy!” says I. “Stop what you doin’! Stop, you thief!” He lifts his head, his eyes wide, leaves the box and runs out. Made me chase him down, the boy did!’ the keeper went on, angrily shaking his fist. ‘And a muddy business that was, I can tell ye! Runnin’ after an urchin at my age! But I was able to catch him and hold him fast by the collar. Told him I was callin’ the constables next. So, what does he do?’ 

‘What does he do?’ Sylvester echoed. 

 ‘He starts cryin’ no end, sayin’ he only needed the money because he’s fleein’ some bad people and beggin’ for me to let him go.’ 

Sylvester shook his head, ‘Young reprobates! They will say anything to avoid punishment.’ 

‘I agree, sir,’ the old keeper said, lowering his eyes. 

‘And what did you do next?’ 

‘Well, sir... I took pity on the poor lad, I did. And I let him go. When I came back here and checked the strong box, it was empty. He must have taken the money before, you see. Luckily there were only six shillings in it.’ 

Sylvester clicked his tongue and shook his head.  

‘Unfortunate indeed!’ he said. ‘Well, I hope that he is caught.’ 

He would never be outsmarted by an urchin; separating truth from lies was his specialty. Criminals brought to his courtroom would crumble under his gaze, their pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears. He would wield the law with an unwavering hand. 

‘Say, keeper,’ Sylvester asked next, ‘might you know of a decent place where a gentleman like myself could stop for a midday meal somewhere along the way?’ 

‘The Lion Inn, sir,’ the man replied. And added, pointing in that direction, ‘A mile from here.’ 

‘Thank you!’ Sylvester said. He took his leave of the turnpike keeper and resumed his journey. 

Tonight, after sharing the news of his promotion, he would revel in the respect and recognition of his family. His father, a stern patriarch, would regard him with pride; his mother, her face wet with tears of emotion, would give him the generous portions normally reserved for Silas. And dear brother Silas? He would just have to accept his dethronement as the family's golden boy. 

It did not take Sylvester too long to reach the Lion Inn. A small, low-beamed building with a worn sign depicting a faded lion greeted him. The smell of smoke and stew filled the air. Sylvester stopped his gig in front of the inn and pursed his lips as he surveyed the place. Not the kind of quality he was expecting, but at least the food would be tasty, judging by the aroma. 

He sighed in resignation, climbed down and secured his horse. The he reached out to find his top hat and leather satchel, and went in. The enticing, mouth-watering aroma – most likely stewed beef – became stronger as he entered the establishment. 

The jovial voice of the owner, a stocky man with a bushy beard, immediately greeted him, 

‘Welcome, traveller! You look famished. Come in, come in! Always room for one more!’ 

The inn was full of customers, there was sawdust everywhere on the floor, and it was stuffy and noisy. Sylvester looked around for a moment, his brow arched. 

 ‘Choose your seat. I will be right with ye, sir,’ the owner entreated. 

There were a couple of large tables where a crowd of patrons were eating loudly amid animated conversation. Sylvester spotted an empty space, placed his satchel down on a square of the long wooden bench that ran alongside the table and sat on top of it. Squeezing in between two other men, he hunched his shoulders, his brow knitted, grumbling under his breath. This might have been acceptable before, but now that his social standing had changed, he should not have to suffer such conditions. He tried to think of the food he was about to savour and of his family’s faces as soon as he shared the news of his promotion. 

The innkeeper came back, a rag over his left shoulder. 

'What shall I bring ye, sir?’ he said while quickly cleaning the spot on the table in front of Sylvester. ‘I recommend our tasty beef stew.’ 

‘Yes. And a jug of your finest ale.’ 

‘Very good, sir,’ the man nodded and left. 

Ten minutes later, his plate of food and his drink were set in front of him. 

Considering his trip so far, plus the waiting time, Sylvester was quite thirsty, so he started by tasting the ale. He grimaced: the dratted beverage was warm and shamefully watered down. It barely tasted like ale at all! 

He raised his mug and called, ‘Innkeeper!’, wishing to have his drink changed. But it was useless, the man was not even looking in his direction. 

It was at this moment that a specific type of movement caught Sylvester’s eye. A hooded boy, probably not even twenty, was slipping, unseen, among the patrons. Sylvester saw him lift a coin purse and move on. Could this be the unremorseful, lying urchin who had tricked the turnpike keeper? Minutes later, the boy was gliding towards the exit. 

The pursuit of justice was more important than a meal, so Sylvester thought. He found his satchel and quickly searched for some coins, which he left on the table, before rushing outside. 

Near the entrance, a large gentleman now stood, insulting his servant for something he had done. Sylvester looked right; he looked left; he looked around the men, drawing their puzzled gaze upon him, but he could not see the little thief anywhere. 

Sylvester sighed and his shoulders slumped. He had just spent a couple more of his short supply of coins to pay for a meal he did not taste, only to lose sight of the cursed urchin. 

He looked down and saw a pocketbook on the ground. He instinctively picked it up and looked inside. 

‘Thief!’ the stocky gentleman suddenly shouted. 

Sylvester looked around for a pickpocket, but then understood it was him the voluminous gentleman was referring to. 

‘I should have you arrested!’ the man complained, snatching the pocketbook from Sylvester’s hands and quickly looking inside to check nothing was missing. 

‘Preposterous!' Sylvester exclaimed, frowning. ‘The sheer audacity of suggesting... I had nothing to do with it! Do you know who you are addressing, sir? I am a magistrate. I uphold the law; I do not break it!’ 

The rotund man scoffed, turned and walked away. He did not even bother to apologise. 

The corners of Sylvester's mouth turned dramatically down, and his gaze could have killed. He untied his horse, jumped back into his gig and resumed his trip. 

 A few minutes passed and thoughts of the upcoming evening did something to relax his features as well as his grip on the reins. He would finally have the largest portion of roasted goose, the best part of its crispy skin, and a generous slice of his mother’s legendary blackberry pie. All the family would finally look at him with recognition and admiration. Familial success was within his grasp. 

Focused on driving and lost in his musings, Sylvester did not notice the extra weight in his gig, hear any muffled sounds, or even observe the unusual snorting and restlessness of his chestnut horse. Moments later, a human cry of relief and gasps came from his travel case on the back. 

Sylvester jolted upright, nearly letting go of the reins, and his jaw dropped as he stared. The lid of his travel case was open, and an urchin sprang out, jack-in-the box style. A small bag hung across his chest. 

‘You! What are you doing in there?’ Sylvester exclaimed, his face showing a bewildered expression. 

The urchin straightened himself, a hint of defiance playing on his lips. 

His eyebrows knitted again, Sylvester stopped the gig and marched round to meet his unwanted passenger. 

‘How did you get in my travel case? Did you wrinkle my clothes? I will call a constable right now.’ 

‘Which constable? There is no one around.’ 

Sylvester clenched his jaw. 

‘Fine! But what is a disadvantage for me is the same for you. You have nowhere to go, you dirty little urchin! I shall deliver you as a prisoner at the next turnpike,’ he said in the most disagreeable, condescending way. 

‘Oh, Sir, please take pity on me! I am escaping my captors and trying to return home. I need your help!’ 

‘What nonsense is this? Pickpockets have a home now? I thought criminals lived on the streets. You might have learned to speak well but you are nothing better than a sewer rat!’ 

‘I am not a sewer rat!’ the boy protested, with flashing eyes. ‘Do you never stop to consider that sometimes people might need to steal to survive? I had to take a few apples when I was hungry, and I had no money to pay for them.’ 

‘Criminals are all the same to me,’ Sylvester replied, raising an eyebrow and pursing his lips. ‘Low-life tricksters, who do not care to make an honest living and live on extortion and gimmicks alone.’ 

‘You are the most arrogant, egotistical man I have ever met! You would not know hardship if it bit you in your perfectly-tailored breeches!’ 

Sylvester frowned and made to return to the driving seat, but his passenger spoke again. 

‘How long do you think it will take before we reach our next stop?’ 

‘It is roughly ten miles away. So, I would say about two hours, considering the single-horse traction and the extra weight,’ Sylvester replied condescendingly. 

‘Right, then. If within two hours I can convince you that I am not a sewer rat. Will you help me?’ 

Sylvester scoffed. 

‘I know that presently your finances are not at their best-’ 

‘How do you know that?’ Sylvester snapped. ‘Did you rummage through my bag?’ 

‘I have my methods... But you did not let me finish. If I can change your opinion of me before our next stop, will you promise not to have me arrested? I can guarantee a small reward and plenty of recognition as soon as I am restored to my parents.’ 

Sylvester rolled his eyes and twisted his lips in thought, then said, 

‘Agreed.’ 

‘Good!’ his passenger nodded. 

Sylvester jumped back into the driver’s seat and set his horse off at a gallop. 

‘Now I shall tell you my story, and you will not look back to find me until we reach our next destination.’ 

At this, Sylvester turned to look at his passenger. 

‘Did you ever hear the story of Orpheus and Eurydice? Do not look!’ the boy shouted. 

Sylvester turned to the road ahead. 

‘Never heard of them.’ 

‘Forget about it,’ his passenger replied. 'Hear this instead. Once upon a time there was a successful merchant, whose booming business attracted the envy of a dishonest competitor. He never bowed to threat and menace and went on to do his honest business. But one day, his rival thought of kidnapping his daughter and blackmailing him.’ 

‘I thought you were going to tell me your story!’ Sylvester complained. 

‘Please do not interrupt,’ his passenger said. 

Sylvester fell silent and listened to more details about the merchant’s daughter, how she was not the type to wait around, crying and doing nothing, and how she eventually deceived her captors and escaped. 

‘She should report these men to justice!’ Sylvester said. 

His passenger explained how the merchant’s daughter had to steal to survive and how it was the only way for her to travel back home, give or take a few exceptions. Sylvester slowly began to accept that sometimes stealing was a necessity. His passenger was in a similar situation, he reckoned, stealing to survive, like that poor girl in the story. 

Two hours had nearly passed, the buildings of Highgate turnpike were now in sight. 

'Have I succeeded in changing your mind?’ his passenger asked from the back of the gig. 

‘I suppose so, yes,’ Sylvester replied. 

‘And you will no longer have me arrested?’ 

‘I will release you,’ Sylvester nodded. He slowed down and stopped the gig as they arrived at the turnpike. 

‘Would it be a lot of trouble... Could you help me reach my father’s home? He lives in Muswell Hill. It is further north and just after Highgate.’ 

‘I know that... I suppose I can make a small detour before joining my family for supper.’ 

Sylvester searched for his coin purse and paid the turnpike keeper. He noticed how the man’s eyes were bulging. But the man said nothing, and Sylvester did not engage in conversation with him. 

‘Muswell Hill, you say?’ he asked, as soon as they were travelling again. 

‘Yes, sir. And you may look now,’ his passenger said. 

When Sylvester turned, his jaw dropped. What he had thought was an urchin was in fact looking very much like a rich merchant’s daughter. 

‘My father will be most grateful for your kindness, sir.’ 

‘A reward and plenty of recognition, did you say?’ Sylvester asked. 

‘Oh yes, sir. Yes!’ 

‘Let us resume our journey, then.’