“They are?” He seemed doubtful.
“Yes, they are.”
I said it with all the severity and authority a fifteen-year-old might muster, yet I wondered if I had convinced him. A man who is by nature not very observant, as Mr. Tolliver was not, had little respect even for the details he did remember. And so, continuing, I made every effort to maintain that same attitude of near-hostile severity.
“And so,” said I, “you reached the coach house with little time to spare.”
“So little,” said he, “that I scarce had time to pay my fare and hop aboard.”
“I’ve never ridden any but a hackney coach,” said I. “Is a ticket sold to you? Something that might say ‘Night Coach to Bristol,’ or some such?”
“No, nothing of that kind. You pay your money; they give you a stub with a mark upon it; and you surrender it to the coachman — or as it happened to be, in this case, the driver.”
I sensed something here, and so I moved in swiftly upon it: “Why did the driver take your stub, rather than the coachman?”
“The coachman had gone ill, and the driver said he must make the trip alone. I asked him would he like some company up there on the box, and he said indeed he would, a big fellow like me. He asked could I handle a fowling piece, should we run into any trouble on the road. And I said to him I had better in my portmanteau, and I produced my brace of pistols. I had them from the French War, used them, too, though I was a Sergeant Provisioner. We all fought when we were needed, Indians and the like. That’s where I learned butchering — in the Army — slaughtering, butchering, I did — ”
Again I interrupted: “Stay, stay. Am I to understand that you rode all the way to Bristol next the driver?”
“Indeed I did, and a good enough fellow he was — Ben something. Ben Calverton was his name. We had some talks during the stretches when he walked the horses.”
I could scarce believe our good luck. “Why then, he will probably remember you.”
“Oh, he’ll remember me, right enough.”
“Why? Did you meet highwaymen on the way?”
“No, and glad I am for it.”
“Why then are you so sure?”
“Because I was unwise enough to tell him my Christian name.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard it,” said I.
“It’s Oliver,” said he. “The driver thought it a great joke.”
“Oliver… Tolliver?” And at that, in spite of my intention to keep a solenm mien, I burst out laughing.
Leaving Mr. Tolliver for the coach house, I guiltily cautioned him to say nothing of our talk to Sir John, yet at the same time charged him to tell his story to the magistrate again exactly as he had told it to me. If my laughter had piqued him, as it seemed to have done, I was indeed sorry, and he had my apology for it. He told me that all seemed to react as I had; that the driver had gone so far as to make up a verse in jest upon his rhyming name — and that, of course, had pleased Oliver Tolliver not at all. “Nevertheless,” said he, “he seemed a good sort, and no doubt they can tell you at the coach house when next you might find him about. He drives only at night, to and from Bristol.”
And so I walked swiftly through streets now at flood tide with rushing waves of humanity. All that Mr. Tolliver said ill of London was true, of course, but to walk among the common people at such an hour did much to redeem my faith in the great city. It was and is still a place as no other. In fact, it was two cities: a London by day of honest clerks and toilers engaged in all manner of work; and another city at night, peopled by drunkards, thieves, whores, and pimps. Here and now in that sunny morning hour, I saw no sign of that dark London. I could but revel in my naive way that most of the faces I saw in the crowd seemed happy and guileless, and the rest at least resigned and docile.
So was it at the coach house when I went to him who sold the stubs and inquired after Ben Calverton. The fellow at the window did wear a smile and hummed a tune as I approached him.
“Ben Calverton?” said he in response to my query. “Ah yes indeed, young man, he is one of our best, he is — a hero of the road. He makes that long drive to Bristol every other night but one, man must have a backside of iron! None knows the road and its dangers as he does — thrice did highwaymen attempt to stop him, and he drove right through them, twice was gunfire exchanged. Ah yes, young sir, he is one of our best.”
“When might he next be available to talk?” I asked. “It is a court matter. I am come from Bow Street.”
At that there was the first hint of a frown from him. “You don’t mean to say he’s got himself into trouble, do you?”
“Oh no, nothing of the kind. It is a matter concerning one of his passengers some time ago.”
“Ah — well, in that case, you’re in luck. Ben Calverton should arrive from Bristol, God willing, in a quarter of an hour or so.” He studied the clock on the wall behind me. “Yes, if nothing untoward has happened along the way, then he should be pulling in just about then.”
A short line of passage-purchasers had formed behind me. The fellow at the window signaled to him behind me that he would be done with me in but a moment’s time.
“Where might I wait for him?” I asked.
“The best for you,” said he, “would be next door at the Coach House Inn. The drivers must give their report upon arrival. But it is Ben’s custom to have a glass of ale first thing afterwards. I shall tell him you are there and waiting to talk.”
“Tell him it concerns Oliver Tolliver.”
^‘Oliver Tolliver, is it?” He laughed merrily. “Such a name! Oh, I’ll not forget that! Good day to you, young man.”
And so into the yard — coaches and horses and passengers waiting. There was a hum of excitement and expectation about the place, such as made me wish I were part of this congregation, portmanteau in hand, about to set off on some long journey to some distant place such as Bristol or Edinburgh, or even over the water to Dublin. The world was such a large place, and I was determined to see my share of it before I was done.
The Coach House Inn was but a modest place for eating and drinking, where travelers or those come to meet them might while away the minutes in a friendly setting. Though it was not near filled, the smoke of tobacco hung heavy in the place, darkening its ill-lit inside so that one might swear it were night outside rather than day. I took a place at the bar near the fireplace, and the barman approached, asking my pleasure.
“Coffee, sir, if you have it.”
“We have it. You want that with or without?”
I was puzzled. “With or without what?”
“With or without a flash of lightning — in the cup or on the side.”
“Oh, by all means without.”
He returned with a steaming cup which cost but tuppence. Indeed it was strong but potable — yet would it be so with gin, as the barman had offered it? How could one drink the two together? It seemed a confusion of purpose.
Once settled I played a game that many play in such situations — looking about at the travelers and attempting to discern who and what they are and where they might be going. All the while I kept a sharp eye upon the door, looking close at those who entered, lest I miss Ben Calverton.
When he did enter, there was no mistaking him. A great wide man was he, though not so tall. He swaggered a bit as he walked and carried a long whip taller than himself, such as all coach drivers use to urge their horses on. Two steps in the door he planted his feet and looked around. Then did he bellow forth, ”Oliver Tolliver/’ and roared a laugh so great it near shook the timbers of the place.
Heads turned, talk halted, and in embarrassment I waved him over to me. There, as if by magic, a tall glass of ale had appeared before he arrived at the bar. Alas, when he did, there was disappointment written upon his round face. I, it seemed, was the cause of it.
“You ain’t him,” said he. It came from him near in the nature of an accusation.
“No, sir, I’m not,” said I, speaking hastily. “It was about Mr. Tolliver I wished to talk to you. You see, I — ”