Your Grace.” The butler straightened up, went to the door, called a servant inside and gave quiet instructions.
“Ah, yes,” smiled the dying man. The happiest day of my life.”
“But My Lord,” said the coachman through the roof flap to Lord Percival Sanderson. “It’s too dangerous to cross here. The upper bridge would be safer.”
Percival heaved his fat, silk-clad body off the seat and leaned out of the window, his bulging, pale-blue eyes staring out into the dark, his full, petulant lower lip caressed gently by a podgy hand, its fingers liberally adorned with large-stoned rings.
“I see absolutely nothing,” he snapped peevishly at the coachman. “You must have a selfish motive to insist on taking the longer route.”
“No, My Lord,” said the coachman tightly. “My only motive is to protect your noble self.”
“Nonsense,” said Percival. “I know all about you knavish, pious-sounding cut-throats, that’s what you are, always scheming to steal the pennies from a dead man’s eyes.” His bulging eyes swelled outward even further as a thought struck. “Dead man!” he screeched. “Hurry, you worthless churl, I must get to Uncle’s before it is too late. Drive on!”
“Yes, My Lord,” sighed the coachman helplessly. Turning away, he leaned down from his perch to speak with the postilion, who had just returned from a reconnaissance of the bridge, a lantern hanging from his hand, a wide felt hat protecting his face and neck from the torrent. “What’s it be, Jamie boy?” asked the coachman.
“’Tis a mean one, that it is,” said the postilion, shaking his head. “The water’s racin’ down like it’s fleein’ from the devil hisself, and it’s already a good two ‘ands over the bridge.”
“’Is Lordship said to go over it. ‘E ain’t got the time to go by the upper bridge.”
“Well,” said Jamie, pulling his baggy hat further down over his face, “it’ll be God’s own luck if we don’t all end up swimmin’ tonight, so let’s be at it.” He handed up the lantern to the coachman, who hung it back on its hook beside his seat. “Ow do yer want to take it across? Easy as she goes or flat out?”
The coachman pursed his lips, thinking. “Ow do you see it, Jamie boy?” he asked finally.
“I don’t think she’ll ‘old no matter what we do, but goin' flat out will get us further across afore she drops.”
“All right, Jamie boy. We’ll take 'er fiat out.”
While the postilion walked to the near-side lead horse and mounted it, the coachman flexed his fingers, gripped the whip and set, himself more securely on his seat, bracing his feet tightly against the floor. When he saw Jamie dig his heels into the sides of his mount and slap the rump of the off-horse with his crop, he shouted, “Let ‘er go, Jamie boy!” and they both loosened the reins. The horses sprang forward pulling the heavy carriage down the sloping road leading to the bridge as if it were an empty cart, their hooves flinging up mud and water, the vehicle rocking as it dropped in and out of ruts, the postilion and coachman shouting at the top of their lungs, plying the whip and crop furiously, trying desperately to build up all possible speed.
The plopping noises of the horses’ hooves became sharp thuds as they reached the wood planking of the bridge and sped onto it. In moments the thuds were drowned by splashes as they entered water rising to their knees. Seconds later, they slowed almost to a walk as the river rose to their bellies.
Now the coachman could see the peril, a rushing torrent of muddied water sweeping over the middle of the bridge, sending branches, small trees and carcasses of dead sheep smashing against the thin wooden balustrades, the planking under the wheels vibrating and swaying as it shuddered from the battering it was taking from the debris and raging current.
Furiously the two men struck at the horses, urging them on, fighting not only the dangers of the flood and the weakened bridge but also the terror reflected in the animals’ eyes and their snorts of alarm.
Foot by foot they waded through the rampaging waters, now rising to their chests, then barely a hand below their withers, the postilion kicking his feet free of the stirrups to thump his heels high on his mount’s flanks.
They reached the middle of the sagging bridge and started the pull upward, the water lowering a few inches as they made their way laboriously up the slanted planking, the two men shouting encouragement, laying about them with the whip and crop.
Then suddenly, the bridge collapsed, utterly, swiftly, its death knell a sharp crack as the supports gave way, a crack that was almost a sigh of relief at the end of an unequal struggle. The coachman had barely enough time to lift the flap and shout, “My Lord!” as a warning before he was flung into the cold, greedy current.
The postilion clung to his horse as it sank in over its head, kicking and threshing wildly to escape the trap of its harness and the merciless river. The instant they broke water, the postilion jerked out a knife and cut it free, then slid from its back and groped for the other animals and the carriage drifting rapidly downstream. He was swept against his off-side horse, cut it loose, then the current tore them apart. As he couldn’t swim, he drowned within minutes.
Percival Sanderson awakened to the danger only when the horses reached the middle of the bridge and the water rose halfway up his boots. He sat paralyzed, unable to believe that the coachman had been right. Servants never spoke the truth. His mind, seeking to dispel the horror mounting within him, fastened on the punishment he would inflict on that scoundrel once he was safely ashore. The thought of that insolent clod not explaining more emphatically that the bridge really was unsafe was too preposterous to dwell upon.
Then the carriage was overturned and sent rushing on its side down the swollen river, the horses trapped by the twisted harness and kicking vainly to free themselves.
To his final moment Percival never knew how he managed to stand upright in the jolting, jerking, water-filled carriage and push open the upper door. As he clambered out, his saturated cloak caught on an obstruction. Frightened out of his wits, Percival lunged back, ripping the cloak from his shoulders. The momentum carried him off the floating carriage into the dark, savage river.
“Help!” screamed Percival, struggling to keep his head above water. No one answered.
“Help!” screamed Percival again. “I am almost a Duke! Aid to the Duke!”
He heard a whisper behind him and turned his head. His eyes popped out of their sockets when he saw the gigantic form of an uprooted tree bearing down relentlessly on him. He opened his mouth to scream again, but it never came out, for at that instant the trunk of the tree struck him fully in the face, breaking his neck like a rotten twig.
The first indication that something had not gone well with the affairs of Lord Percival Sanderson reached the castle in the form of the coachman, soaked to the bone, reeling with fatigue on one of the horses cut loose by the postilion before he took his final drink of water. Four brief words by the coachman to the doorkeeper flew to each corner of the old stone edifice quicker than a flash of lightning, and to be scrupulously fair to the memory of the departed ‘Almost a Duke’, it must be noted that they drew appreciative chuckles from the servants. The coachman had said, “The shit has drowned.”
The butler heard the news only seconds later from the mouth of the under-butler, who had been blessed several times by Lord Percival for not having brought up wine warm enough or cool enough during his constant attendance on his uncle.
The butler hastened to the chamber of his master and tiptoed over to the bed. The Duke had held his own during the twenty minutes since the solicitors had come, but it was merely a matter of time and everyone in the room knew it.
“Your Grace,” shouted the butler, “the most distressing news has just come. Lord Sanderson has drowned.”
Trembling, the old man raised himself on one elbow. “What!” he screamed.
“Drowned. Dead, Your