CHAPTER XII
STAGE-COACH GUARDS
Not every stage-coach carried a guard, and largely to that omission was due the prevalence of accidents in the last years of coaching. When we find guards first mentioned in old stage-coach advertisements, shortly after the middle of the eighteenth century, they were provided strictly for the purpose their name indicates—to guard the coaches against attack; and when such dangers grew more remote they were generally discontinued on day-coaches. Thus very often, except on long-distance stages, even the smart day-coaches carried no guard, and when they did, his functions were not so much to safeguard the coach in the original sense as to help the coachman by skidding and unskidding down hill, and to look after the way-bill and the passengers’ luggage. It was when no such useful functionary was carried, and when the coachman, combining the parts, descended from his box, and leaving the reins in charge of a passenger, or often merely resting them on the horses’ backs, went to explore the contents of the boots, or alighted for some other necessary business, that the horses often started off on their own accord and wrought disaster to coach and passengers.
In early days, when horses were either not changed at all on a long journey, or went twenty-mile stages, nothing was less likely than that they would bolt. All they wanted to do was to lie down and die. But in the golden age of coaching, when well-kept teams working sometimes only six- or eight-mile stages were usual, that coach-proprietor who, from motives of economy or for any other reason, omitted to provide a guard, should have been made criminally responsible for any accidents caused by that omission.
As a rule the guards of mails and stages went from end to end, being responsible for the contents of the way-bill. These spells of from ten to fifteen hours’ duty were naturally very tiring, and they generally rested the following day, or, if in London, took the opportunity of executing those varied commissions—from the filing of a Bill in Chancery to the matching of silks—of which every guard had plenty always in hand.
An outstanding specimen of a stage-coach guard is the figure of George Young, of the Leeds “Union.” An excellent whip, as well as guard, he was a man of a peculiar versatility of genius, and as an entertainer of company on the roof of a coach was probably unequalled in his day. He transacted business commissions for the better class of jewellers and attorneys, was fond of all kinds of sport, a successful bookmaker, a good shot, went coursing, and at horseracing was as keen as any tyke in broad Yorkshire. Not insensible, either, to the charms of the P. R., he introduced some noted bruisers in his day, and was an intimate friend and companion of Tom Spring. When not actively engaged, he was always ready to take the ribbons for a friend who wanted a holiday or had urgent private affairs to attend to; and the tooling of the teams, no matter how refractory, never suffered in dignity from his manipulation. He was, take him for all in all, perhaps one of the most original and perfect specimens of the old-fashioned, cheery, story-telling, and loquacious sort who ever blew a horn, kissed a pretty barmaid, pulled a sluggish team out of a difficulty, or chaffed a yokel on his way to market.
This paragon among guards met his death in April 1825, dying at the “Red Lion,” Pontefract, of mortification resulting from an accident. It seems that, to make room for an extra passenger, he had given up the guard’s seat, and went to sit beside the coachman, who already had a passenger on the box. In order not to inconvenience the coachman’s driving, he sat on the edge of the seat, with one of his legs dangling over the side, and so when the coach gave a lurch, was thrown off and his thigh broken.
Bob Hadley, guard of the “Unicorn” coach between Manchester and the Potteries, was of the eccentric kind, sporting an odd kind of headgear which went by the name of the “Hadley Tile,” and was as well known in his circle as the “D’Orsay Hat” was in fashionable London. “It resembles,” said a contemporary, “an umbrella in extent, and Bob, as he luxuriates under its broad leaf, looks like an ourang-outang under a banyan-tree. Some of his contemporaries having adopted his taste too closely, he has been under the necessity of extending its brim about four inches, which puts all competition at defiance, and he now presents an unique specimen. To put himself still further beyond the reach of envious competition, he has enclosed his delicate person in a complete suit of plaid, from his thorax to his trotters, and is now as complete an original as is to be found in any zoological collection in the Kingdom.”
It was in the very nature of their work that the “up” and “down” coachmen and guards should never meet, save in that moment of passing one another on the road. Like the little man and woman of the old-fashioned weather-gauge—the one coming out and the other going in, as fine or wet weather willed it—they could not, in the ordinary routine, possibly enjoy one another’s society. An exception was annually made on the Holyhead Road, when a hundred coachmen and guards were bidden to a feast at the “Green Man,” Dunchurch. They managed to find substitutes for their places on the box, or on the guard’s seat, for the occasion, and usually sat down to the half of a fat buck from the Buccleuch estate adjoining that village.
The festival of September 1834 was a memorable one. According to a contemporary, the anticipation of the tuck-out had kept them on the qui vive for a week, and it was not a little amusing to see them nearing the point of attraction on the evening and night before; in some cases two, and even three, being perched on one coach and making the welkin ring with notes of their bugles, in solos, duets, or trios, to the no small interruption of the peaceful slumbers of wayside hamlets, whose inhabitants, from the constant din of “See the Conquering Hero Comes,” fancied the Duke of Wellington, at least, was on the road.
The guards of the Manchester “Red Rover” were particularly on their stilts, and, having met for the first time on the same vehicle in musical fellowship, continued practising every tune they did know and did not know, from the time they quitted Highgate until they entered Dunchurch, at about 3 a.m., when they took leave of the coach with the splendid finale of “We Won’t go Home till Morning,” leaving the harassed passengers with the chance of an odd wink for the remainder of the journey. “We ought,” says the historian of these things, “as faithful reporters, to state that Bob Hadley and his chum on the ‘Rover’ occasionally rested their pipes with a cigar or a song; and in the latter attempt Hadley was certainly second best, for no raven in a chimney-pot could have more barbarously murdered the airs of Rossini—so much to the horror of a lady outside, who was herself a bit of a musician, that she fancied she had by accident got upon the railway, and taken her seat in a cattle train, in one of the private boxes set apart for the accommodation of four-footed squeakers.”