The “Warwick Crown Prince”—“Spicy Jack”—Poor old Lal!—“Go it, you cripples!”—A model horsekeeper—The coach dines here—Coroner’s inquest—The haunted glen—Lal’s funeral.

The coach which I have selected by way of exemplifying my remarks was the “Warwick Crown Prince,” and, at the time I adopted it, was driven by Jack Everett, who was reckoned in his day to be as good a nurse, and to have fingers as fine, as anybody in the profession.

He took the coach from The Swan with Two Necks, in Ladd Lane, to Dunstable, and there split the work with young Johnson, who, though sixty years of age, had three older brothers on the bench. “Spicy Jack” was the beau ideal of a sporting whip. He was always dressed to the letter, though his personal appearance had been very much marred by two coach accidents, in each of which he fractured a leg. The first one having been hurriedly set a little on the bow, he wished to have the other arranged as much like it as possible; the result being that they grew very much in the form of a horse-collar. These “crook’d legs,” as he called them, reduced his stature to about five feet three inches. He had a clean-shaved face, short black hair, sharp intelligent blue eyes, a very florid complexion, rather portly frame, clad in the taste of the period: A blue coat, buttons very widely apart over the region of the kidneys, looking as if they had taken their places to fight a duel, rather than belonging to the same coat. A large kersey vest of a horsecloth pattern; a startling blue fogle and breast-pin; drab overalls, tightly fitted to the ankle and instep of a Wellington boot, strapped under the foot with a very narrow tan-coloured strap. The whole surmounted by a drab, napless hat, with rather a brim, producing a “slap-up” effect.

When at the local race-meetings, “Spicy Jack” dashed on to the course in a sporting yellow mail-phaeton, his whip perpendicular, his left hand holding the reins just opposite the third button of his waistcoat from the top. Driving a pair of “tits” which, though they had both chipped their knees against their front teeth, and one of them (a white one) worked in suspicious boots, produced such an impression upon the yokels that no one but “Spicy Jack” could come on to a racecourse in such form.[4]

All this appeared like “cheek,” but it was quite the reverse; for in spite of the familiarity which was universally extended to this “sporting whip,” he never forgot his place with a gentleman, and a more respectful man in his avocation did not exist.

“Well, Jack, what are we backing?” was the salutation of a noble lord who had given him a fiver to invest to the best of his judgment.

“Nothing, my lord; we are not in the robbery.”

“How’s that? we shall lose a race.”

“Well, you see, my lord, it was all squared and the plunder divided before I could get on.”

Nobody knew the ropes at Harpenden, Barnet, and St. Albans, when the platers ran to amuse the public, and the public “greased the ropes,” better than the waggoner of the “Crown Prince.”

This is a rest day and the “spare man” works. Let us take a full load away from Ladd Lane. Ten and four with all their luggage; roof piled, boots chock full, besides a few candle-boxes in the cellar.[5] She groans and creaks her way through the city, carefully, yet boldly driven by our artist, and when she leaves her London team at the Hyde and emerges into an open road, she steals away at her natural pace, which, from the evenness of its character, is very hard to beat.

There was one coach, and only one, which could give these fast stage-coaches ten minutes and beat them over a twelve-mile stage!

It was before the legislature forbade the use of dogs as animals of draught, that there dwelt upon the Great North Road, sometimes in one place, sometimes in another, an old pauper who was born without legs, and, being of a sporting turn of mind, had contrived to get built for himself a small simple carriage, or waggon, very light, having nothing but a board for the body, but fitted with springs, lamps, and all necessary appliances.

To this cart he harnessed four fox-hounds, though to perform his quickest time he preferred three abreast. He carried nothing, and lived upon the alms of the passengers by the coaches. His team were cleverly harnessed and well matched in size and pace. His speed was terrific, and as he shot by a coach going ten or twelve miles an hour, he would give a slight cheer of encouragement to his team; but this was done in no spirit of insolence or defiance, merely to urge the hounds to their pace. Arriving at the end of the stage, the passengers would find poor “Old Lal” hopping on his hands to the door of the hostelry, whilst his team, having walked out into the road, would throw themselves down to rest and recover their wind. For many years poor Old Lal continued his amateur competition with some of the fastest and best-appointed coaches on the road; his favourite ground being upon the North Road, between the Peacock at Islington and the Sugarloaf at Dunstable. The latter place was his favourite haven of rest. He had selected it in consequence of a friendship he had formed with one Daniel Sleigh, a double-ground horsekeeper, and the only human being who was in any way enlightened as to the worldly affairs of this poor legless beggar.

Daniel Sleigh, as the sequel will prove, richly deserved the confidence so unreservedly placed in him—a confidence far exceeding the mutual sympathies of ordinary friendship; and Daniel Sleigh became Old Lal’s banker, sworn to secrecy.

Years went on, during which the glossy coats of Lal’s team on a bright December morning—to say nothing of their condition—would have humbled the pride of some of the crack kennel huntsmen of the shires. When asked how he fed his hounds, he was wont to say: “I never feed them at all. They know all the hog-tubs down the road, and it is hard if they can’t satisfy themselves with somebody else’s leavings.” Where they slept was another affair; but it would seem that they went out foraging in couples, as Old Lal declared that there were always two on duty with the waggon.[6]

When the poor old man required the use of his hands, it was a matter of some difficulty to keep his perpendicular, his nether being shaped like the fag-end of a farthing rushlight; and he was constantly propped up against a wall to polish the brass fittings of his harness. In this particular his turnout did him infinite credit. Of course his most intimate, and indeed only friend, Dan Sleigh, supplied him with oil and rotten-stone when he quartered at Dunstable; and brass, when once cleaned and kept in daily use, does not require much elbow-grease. Lal’s travelling attire was simplicity itself. His wardrobe consisted of nothing but waistcoats, and these garments, having no peg whereon to hang except the poor old man’s shoulders, he usually wore five or six, of various hues; the whole topped by a long scarlet livery waistcoat. These, with a spotted shawl round his neck, and an old velvet hunting-cap upon his head, completed his costume.

The seat of Lal’s waggon was like an inverted beehive. It would have puzzled a man with legs to be the companion of his daily journeys. These generally consisted of an eight-mile stage and back, or, more frequently, two consecutive stages of eight and ten miles.

An interval of several years elapsed, during which I did not visit the Great North Road. When at length I did so, I hastened to inquire for my old friends, many of whom I found had disappeared from the scene—coachmen changed, retired, or dead; horsekeepers whom I had known from my boyhood, shifted, discharged, or dead.

Under any other circumstances than driving a coach rapidly through the air of a fine brisk autumnal morning, at the rate of eleven miles an hour, including stoppages, the answers to my inquiries would have been most depressing.

Dunstable was the extent of my work for that day, which afforded me the opportunity of working back on the following morning.

Arrived at The Sugarloaf, gradually slackening my pace and unbuckling my reins, I pulled up within an inch of the place whence I had so often watched every minute particular in the actions of the finished professionals.

D—— was the place at which the coach dined, and, being somewhat sharp set, I determined to dine with the coach, though I should have to spend the evening in one of the dullest provincial towns in England.

I had brought a full load down. The coaches dined in those days upon the fat of the land. Always one hot joint (if not two) awaited the arrival of the coach, and the twenty minutes allotted for the refreshment of the inward passenger were thoroughly utilised.

A boiled round of beef, a roast loin of pork, a roast aitchbone of beef, and a boiled hand of pork with peas-pudding and parsnips, a roast goose and a boiled leg of mutton, frequently composed a menu well calculated to amuse a hungry passenger for the short space allotted him.

The repast concluded and the coach reloaded, I watched her ascend the hill at a steady jog till she became a mere black spot in the road. I then directed my steps to the bottom of the long range of red-brick buildings used as coach-stables, where I found old Daniel Sleigh still busily engaged in what he called “Setting his ’osses fair.”

This implied the washing legs, drying flanks, and rubbing heads and ears of the team I had brought in half-an-hour ago. Although the old man looked after the “in-and-out” horses, he always designated the last arrival as “My ’osses,” and they consequently enjoyed the largest share of Dan’s attention: “Bill the Brewer,” “Betsy Mare,” “Old Giles,” and “The Doctor.”

Dan Sleigh was a specimen of the old-fashioned horsekeeper, a race which has now become obsolete. He had lived with Mrs. Nelson, who was one of the largest coach proprietors of the period, for thirty-nine years, always having charge of a double team. He rarely conversed with anybody but “his ’osses,” with whom, between the h—i—ss—e—s which accompanied every action of his life, he carried on a sotto voce conversation, asking questions as to what they did with them, at the other end, and agreeing with himself as to the iniquitous system of taking them out of the coach and riding them into the horsepond, then leaving them to dry whilst Ben Ball—the other horsekeeper—went round to the tap to have half-a-pint of beer. O tempora! O mores!

Many of his old friends had fallen victims to this cruel treatment. A recent case had occurred in the death of old Blind Sal, who had worked over the same ground for thirteen years, and never required a hand put to her, either from the stable to the coach or from the coach to the stable. She caught a chill in the horsepond, and died of acute inflammation.

When I interrupted old Dan he was just “hissing” out his final touches, and beginning to sponge the dirt off his harness. He recognised me with a smile—a shilling smile—and the following dialogue ensued.

Daniel Sleigh was a man who, to use his own words, “kep’ ’isself to ’isself.” He never went to “no public ’ouses, nor yet no churches.” He had never altered his time of getting up or going to bed for forty years; and, except when he lay in the “horsepital” six weeks, through a kick from a young horse, he had never been beyond the smithy for eleven years. In any other grade of life he would have been a “recluse.”

His personal appearance was not engaging—high cheek-bones, small gray sunken eyes, a large mouth, and long wiry neck, with broad shoulders, a little curved by the anno domini; clothed always in one style, namely, a long plush vest, which might have been blue once; a pair of drab nethers, well veneered with blacking and harness paste; from which was suspended a pair of black leather leggings, meeting some thin ankle-jacks. This, with a no-coloured string, which had once been a necktie, and a catskin cap, completed his attire. My attention had been attracted to an old hound—a fox-hound—reclining at full length on his side on the pathway leading to the stables, his slumbers broken by sudden jerks of his body and twitches of his limbs, accompanied by almost inaudible little screams; leading me to suppose that this poor old hound was reviewing in his slumbers some of the scenes of his early life, and dreaming of bygone November days when he had taken part in the pursuit of some good straight-necked fox in the Oakley or the Grafton country.

“What is that hound?” I asked. “He looks like one of poor Old Lal’s team.”

“Ah, that’s the last on ’em. They are all gone now but poor old Trojan, and he gets very weak and old.”

When I noticed him he slowly rose, and sauntered across the yard towards a large open coachhouse, used as a receptacle for hearses and mourning-coaches. He did not respond to my advances, except by standing still and looking me in the face with the most wobegone expression possible, his deep brow almost concealing his red eyes. He was very poor, his long staring coat barely covering his protruding hips and ribs. There he stood, motionless, as if listening intently to the sad tale Daniel Sleigh was graphically relating.

“And what has become of poor Old Lal?” I asked.

“Oh, he’s left this two years or more.”

“Whither is he gone?”

“I don’t know as he’s gone anywheres; they took him up to the churchyard to be left till called for. You see, sir, he never ’ad no kins nor directors (executors), or anybody as cared whether they ever see him again or not. He was an honest man though a wagrant; which he never robbed nobody, nor ever had any parish relief. What money he had I used to take care of for him; and when he went away he had a matter of sixteen pounds twelve and twopence, which I kep’ for him, only as he wanted now and again tenpence or a shilling to give a treat to his hounds.”

“Where did he die?”

“Ah, that’s what nobody knows nothing about. You see, sir, it was as this: He’d been on the road a-many years; but as he had no house in particular, nobody noticed when he came and when he went; when he laid here o’ nights, he used to sleep in the hay-house. The boys in the town would come down and harness up his team and set him fair for the day. He would go away with one of the up-coaches, and not be here again for a week (perhaps more). Well, there was one time, it was two years agone last March, I hadn’t seen nothing of Lal not for three weeks or a month; the weather was terrible rough, there was snow and hice; and the storm blowed down a-many big trees, and them as stood used to ’oller and grunt up in the Pine Bottom, so that I’ve heerd folks say that the fir-trees a-rubbing theirselves against one another, made noises a nights like a pack of hounds howling; and people were afraid to go down the Pine Bottom for weeks, and are now, for a matter of that. For they do say as poor Old Lal drives down there very often in the winter nights. Well, one Sunday afternoon I had just four-o’clocked my ’osses, and was a-popping a sack over my shoulders to go down to my cottage; it was sleeting and raining, and piercing cold, when who should I meet but poor old Trojan. He come up, rubbed my hand with his nose, and seemed quite silly with pleasure at seeing me. Now, though I’ve known him on and off this five or six year, I never knew him do the like before. He had a part of his harness on, which set me a thinking that he had cut and run, and perhaps left Old Lal in trouble.

”You see, sir, what a quiet sullen dog he is. Always like that, never moves hisself quickly. Still, when he come to me that Sunday, he was quite different; he kep’ trotting along the road, and stopping a bit, then he’d look round, then come and lay hold of the sack and lead me along by it.

“The next day there was another of poor Old Lal’s team come to our place (Rocket), and he had part of his breast-collar fastened to him. They were both pretty nigh starved to death. Trojan he went on with these manoeuvres, always trying to ’tice me down to the road leading to the Pine Bottom. Word was sent up and down the road by the guards and coachmen to inquire where Old Lal had been last seen. No tidings could be got, and strange tales got abroad. Some said the hounds had killed and eaten him! Some that he had been robbed and murdered! No tidings could be got. Still old Trojan seemed always to point the same way, and would look pleased and excited if I would only go a little way down the road towards the Pine Bottom with him.

”Many men joined together and agreed to make a search, but nothing could be found in connection with the poor old man; so they gave it up. One morning after my coach had gone, I determined to follow old Trojan. The poor old dog was overjoyed, and led me right down to the Pine Bottom. I followed him pretty near a mile through the trees and that, until at last we come upon poor Old Lal’s waggon. There was his seat, there was part of the harness, and there lay, stone-dead, one of the hounds.

“No trace could be found of the poor old man, and folks were more puzzled than ever about his whereabouts.

”It seemed as though the waggon had got set fast between the trees, and Trojan and Rocket had bitten themselves free, the third, a light-coloured one (a yellow one), had died.

“The finding of the waggon set all the country up to search for poor Old Lal, but it wasn’t for more’n a week after finding the waggon, that Trojan and Rocket pointed out by their action where to go and look for the poor old man. And he was found, but it was a long ways off from his waggon. There he lay, quite comfortable, by the side of a bank. The crowner said the hounds had given chase to something (maybe a fox crossed ’em) and clashed off the road, throw’d the poor old man off—perhaps stunned with the fall—and the hounds had persevered through the wood till the waggon got locked up in the trees. And there the poor things lay and would have died if they had not gnawed themselves out of their harness.”

“And what was the verdict?”

“Oh, there was no verdic’! They never found that.”

“There must have been some opinion given.”

“Jury said he was a pauper wagrant, that he had committed accidental death, and the crowner sentenced him to be buried in the parish in which he was last seen alive.”

“Had he any friends or relatives?”

“No; he said he never had any. He had no name, only Lal. Old Trojan has been with me ever since we followed a short square box up to the churchyard, containing the body of poor Old Lal, where we left it. There was nobody attended the funeral only we two. If the old dog ever wanders away for a day or two, he allers comes back more gloomier like than he looks now.”

The old hound had been standing in the same attitude, apparently a most attentive listener to this sad tale, and when I attempted a pat of sympathy he turned round and threaded his way through the crowd of mourning-coaches; and Daniel Sleigh informed me that the wreck of poor Old Lal’s waggon had been stowed away at the back of this melancholy group. Upon this the old hound usually lay.

“And what about Rocket?”

“He was a younger and more ramblier dog. He never settled nowhere. The last I heerd of him, he had joined a pack of harriers (a trencher pack) at Luton. He was kinder master of them, frequently collecting the whole pack and going a-hunting with them by hisself. He was allers wonderful fond of sport. I mind one time when a lot of boys had bolted a hotter just above the mill, and was a-hunting him with all manner of dogs, Old Lal happened to come along with his waggon. The whole team bolted down to the water’s edge, and just at that moment the hotter gave them a view. The hue-gaze[7] was too much for Rocket. He plunged in, taking with him the waggon and the other two hounds. Poor Old Lal bobbed up and down like a fishing-float, always keeping his head up, though before he could be poked out he was as nigh drownded as possible. And this is what makes me think Rocket was the instigator of the poor old man’s death. He must have caught a view of a fox, perhaps, or, at any rate, have crossed a line of scent, and bolted off the road and up through the wood, and after they had throwed the poor old man, continued the chase till the waggon got hung fast to a tree and tied them all up.”

“Was there any wound or fracture about poor Old Lal’s body which might have caused his death?”

“None whatever; no mark, no sign of violence which could have caused his death. They do say he is often heerd ’ollering for help o’ nights since he has been buried. There’s a-many people won’t go through the Pine Bottom after dark to save their lives.”