Aunt Deb wrote and despatched her letter, and the rest of the morning was employed in making preparations for the journey. Ned had to give up one of his jackets and waistcoats, which exactly fitted me, and my other things were quickly packed in a small chest. I also unrigged and did up the cutter which Roger Riddle had given me, as I fancied I should have an opportunity of sailing it at Liverpool. I made Ned also promise to go and call on the old man, and to tell him how sorry I was to hear that Mark had been sent off to sea, and how much I regretted not being able to wish him good-bye before I went.
We had some distance to drive before we reached the town at which the coach stopped. My father at once sent off for a postchaise, and old Thomas went on the box, armed as before with a blunderbuss and a couple of horse-pistols. As we drove through the village Aunt Deb made me sit back, while she leant forward as if there was no one else inside. Whether or not this precaution was necessary I don’t know; but at all events we reached our destination without being stopped by highwaymen.
There were two places vacant in the coach, and although I should have preferred going outside, Aunt Deb insisted on my remaining with her. The other passengers were fat old women, who eat apples and drank gin-and-water for supper, and then snored, and sneezed, and groaned all night long. I know that I wished myself anywhere but where I was. The old ladies talked of highwaymen, coaches stopped, and passengers murdered, till they talked themselves into a state of nervous fear. One or the other was constantly poking her head out of the window, and declaring that she saw a man galloping after the coach with a blunderbuss over his shoulder. However, as the guard gave no signal, I was very sure that their imaginations had conjured up the robber.
“Pray, ladies, do sit quiet,” at length exclaimed Aunt Deb, who being a strong-minded woman was not influenced by similar fears. “It will be time enough to cry out if a highwayman does come to demand our purses, and we’ll hope that the guard will shoot him dead before he has had time to open the door.”
“Oh! How dreadful!” shrieked out one of the ladies. “I would sooner let him have everything he asked for than see a handsome highwayman shot.”
“Fiddle-de-dee about a handsome highwayman,” said Aunt Deb, in a scornful tone. “They’re ugly ruffians, and miserable arrant cowards to boot. If one does venture to stop the coach, I’ll not give him any of my property as long as I have hands to defend it.”
Notwithstanding Aunt Deb’s remarks, our fellow-travellers continued in the same state of alarm the greater part of the night, and to comfort themselves took further sips of gin; until, becoming perfectly fuddled, they dropped off to sleep.
I almost wished that a highwayman would appear, to see how Aunt Deb would behave; but morning at length dawned, and I fell asleep, nor did I wake till the coach stopped for breakfast. We travelled on all day with the same unpleasant companions, and I was glad to find that we were to go no farther that night. I remember that I dropped off to sleep before supper was over, and was very unwilling to get up the next morning when Aunt Deb called me. The fear of offending her, notwithstanding, made me jump out of bed and hurry on my clothes, and I was in time to take my seat in the coach, which came up soon after breakfast. She still refused to let me go outside, and I had to endure another day’s misery, shut up with her and a lady and a fat gentleman, who took snuff and snored, and nearly tumbled over me in his sleep, and a young woman with a baby, who at intervals kept up a chorus of squalls, which considerably aggravated my respected aunt; and I really thought that, if she had given way to her feelings, she would have tossed it out of the window.
As sublunary troubles always do, the journey came to an end, and the coach deposited us at the door of Mr Butterfield, Aunt Deb’s cousin. The worthy merchant—a bald-headed, rosy-faced gentleman, of large proportions, who wore brown cloth knee-breeches, large silver buckles, a flowered waistcoat of ample length, with a snowy neckcloth, and a frilled shirt, a coat of the same hue as his unmentionables—received us, as he descended the steps, with a cordiality I little expected.
“Glad to see you, Cousin Deb, though times have changed since you and I played hide-and-seek in our great-aunt’s garden. You have shot up in one direction and I have grown in the other considerably. And this is John Cheveley’s boy, is he? You are welcome to Liverpool, lad. We’ll see what we can make of you here. Plant you on a high stool, and set you quill-driving. Are you a good hand at figuring? We don’t value the Latin and Greek most lads have crammed into their heads to the exclusion of all other useful knowledge. Pounds, shillings, and pence are what we have to do with in our commercial city.”