Will tugged his exiguous chin. “Stupid question. Tha general always has a plan. Or a scheame or a ruse or a wile or a plot or zomethin’.”
“May God speed it. And I trust He will, for He’s already let the builders lay tracks—barely before the war erupted—bypassing such dangerous-to-us big towns as Manchester or Sheffield. We’ll need fresh coal and water at Buxton, not far ahead now. None come to take its waters in these uneasy times. Hence I expect few people at the station and assume we can overawe them. We’ll need to, for a message would not be believed that did not originate at a regular depot.”
“Message, zir?”
“Aye, by semaphore to Stoke-on-Trent, where again we must feed and slake this brute. It’ll tell how we’re on special business and are to be helped in every way, despite our appearance. We’ll slash the cords behind us, of course, to block countermands. At Stoke we switch onto a line running due west. The one thence to Chester was cut, and if ’tis been repaired, that was by unfriendly hands. But the one I’ve in mind ends at Llangollen. The plan was to build south from there, to connect Welsh coalfields with Midlands manufacturies. The war’s halted that, Llangollen’s a mere terminal of no interest to anybody, and … Wales is for the King.”
“Moast zaggishly reckoned, your Highness,” Will beamed. “Worthy indeed o’ tha victor at Powick Bridge, Edgehill, Brentford, Cirencester, Birmingham, Chal-grove, Whitebridge where you routed ’em ere breakfast an’ went back to finish shaevin’, Bristol, Newark—” Abruptly the knot bobbled in his scrawny throat. “Uh, my loard, beggin’ your pardon, not to carp, you deem—however—”
“What is’t?” Rupert surged to his feet. Will pointed into wind and cinders. Far over the hills, but growing, lifted a plume of smoke.
Rupert snatched the telescope. “Aye, another train on this track,” he growled. Muscles bunched in his tattered, blackened sleeves. “I feared that might happen. … Nay, better said, I knew the odds were it would. We’re not on any schedule, or even the route we’re supposed to plod.”
Will spat on his shovel. “At least I needn’t wield thee no longer.” To Rupert: “M-m, Highness, if an oald … ranger … might zuggest, yonder’s a clump o’woods, an’ beyond’s a ryefield just right for comin’ through, meetin’ nobody.”
“Thou’d not abandon this faithful mount of ours, wouldst thou? Why, I’m shocked as they oncoming will be.” Rupert laughed aloud, though it was more war cry than merriment. “Lay on the coal!” He stood to the controls.
Will looked dismayed but resumed his labor. “Well,” he mumbled, “if we be goin’ to play Robin Hood on tha bridge, you’ve tha zize to be Little John.”
The other driver screeched whistle and slammed on brakes. In rumble and whoosh, he came to rest. Rupert stopped more leisurely. The last few yards he advanced at an easy rate, till cowcatchers nearly touched.
The unknown crewman leaned across his overlook and bawled furiously: “Who art thou, whoreson runagate and knave? What thimblewit of a dispatcher sent thee? Back, back!”
Rupert’s answer came as loud, more deep, very mild: “We’re nighest Buxton and its sidings. ’Twill expedite us both if thou giv’st way.”
His opposition, a burly redhaired fellow accompanied by a still more bearlike stoker, waved fists aloft. “Dolt! Read the crest emblazoned on this boiler: Westminister, Birmingham, & Manchester! And thou, a wretched local of some kind, hast gall to ask that I unschedule me?”
“The war’s left only stumps of thy proud line. Now do be reasonable and back up. I’ve business more toward than draper’s goods or even beer, if that be in thy wagons.”
The driver seized a wrench. “I’ll business thee!”
“Oh, wilt thou, good my friend?” Rupert’s blade snaked free. He went himself like a tiger, in half a dozen bounds onto the top of his own
“May God speed it. And I trust He will, for He’s already let the builders lay tracks—barely before the war erupted—bypassing such dangerous-to-us big towns as Manchester or Sheffield. We’ll need fresh coal and water at Buxton, not far ahead now. None come to take its waters in these uneasy times. Hence I expect few people at the station and assume we can overawe them. We’ll need to, for a message would not be believed that did not originate at a regular depot.”
“Message, zir?”
“Aye, by semaphore to Stoke-on-Trent, where again we must feed and slake this brute. It’ll tell how we’re on special business and are to be helped in every way, despite our appearance. We’ll slash the cords behind us, of course, to block countermands. At Stoke we switch onto a line running due west. The one thence to Chester was cut, and if ’tis been repaired, that was by unfriendly hands. But the one I’ve in mind ends at Llangollen. The plan was to build south from there, to connect Welsh coalfields with Midlands manufacturies. The war’s halted that, Llangollen’s a mere terminal of no interest to anybody, and … Wales is for the King.”
“Moast zaggishly reckoned, your Highness,” Will beamed. “Worthy indeed o’ tha victor at Powick Bridge, Edgehill, Brentford, Cirencester, Birmingham, Chal-grove, Whitebridge where you routed ’em ere breakfast an’ went back to finish shaevin’, Bristol, Newark—” Abruptly the knot bobbled in his scrawny throat. “Uh, my loard, beggin’ your pardon, not to carp, you deem—however—”
“What is’t?” Rupert surged to his feet. Will pointed into wind and cinders. Far over the hills, but growing, lifted a plume of smoke.
Rupert snatched the telescope. “Aye, another train on this track,” he growled. Muscles bunched in his tattered, blackened sleeves. “I feared that might happen. … Nay, better said, I knew the odds were it would. We’re not on any schedule, or even the route we’re supposed to plod.”
Will spat on his shovel. “At least I needn’t wield thee no longer.” To Rupert: “M-m, Highness, if an oald … ranger … might zuggest, yonder’s a clump o’woods, an’ beyond’s a ryefield just right for comin’ through, meetin’ nobody.”
“Thou’d not abandon this faithful mount of ours, wouldst thou? Why, I’m shocked as they oncoming will be.” Rupert laughed aloud, though it was more war cry than merriment. “Lay on the coal!” He stood to the controls.
Will looked dismayed but resumed his labor. “Well,” he mumbled, “if we be goin’ to play Robin Hood on tha bridge, you’ve tha zize to be Little John.”
The other driver screeched whistle and slammed on brakes. In rumble and whoosh, he came to rest. Rupert stopped more leisurely. The last few yards he advanced at an easy rate, till cowcatchers nearly touched.
The unknown crewman leaned across his overlook and bawled furiously: “Who art thou, whoreson runagate and knave? What thimblewit of a dispatcher sent thee? Back, back!”
Rupert’s answer came as loud, more deep, very mild: “We’re nighest Buxton and its sidings. ’Twill expedite us both if thou giv’st way.”
His opposition, a burly redhaired fellow accompanied by a still more bearlike stoker, waved fists aloft. “Dolt! Read the crest emblazoned on this boiler: Westminister, Birmingham, & Manchester! And thou, a wretched local of some kind, hast gall to ask that I unschedule me?”
“The war’s left only stumps of thy proud line. Now do be reasonable and back up. I’ve business more toward than draper’s goods or even beer, if that be in thy wagons.”
The driver seized a wrench. “I’ll business thee!”
“Oh, wilt thou, good my friend?” Rupert’s blade snaked free. He went himself like a tiger, in half a dozen bounds onto the top of his own
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