The Christmas mail coach

The coachman shortened his reins a little and pulled hard on the brake as the London to Dover mail coach started to descend a steep hill not far from Rochester. It was just a few days before Christmas, and it had been snowing hard. Snow was piled high on each side of the road and lay several inches deep on the rutted surface itself.

Fortunately for Oliver, some sort of heavy cart had travelled the road a short time before, and its wheels had etched a path through the new layer of snow.

Oliver, who had travelled this road many times before, followed as best he could. It was still snowing, but the falling snow had not frozen, so there was less risk of sliding when the brake or drag shoe was applied. Oliver, however, was cautious and kept the brake half on, holding the horses to a steady walk so that the coach would not slip as they descended the hill.

He was more anxious than usual. The coach was full, both inside and on top, and it was a heavy load with the passengers, their bags, and their chattels. It was bitterly cold. He pulled his hat down hard on his head, tightened his muffler around his neck, and tucked it into the top of his coat.

It was a full moon, and the valley below sparkled as moonlight struck the frost and snow, and the River Medway snaked its way through the landscape beneath him. He imagined Rochester Castle by the bridge that would take him over the river to the Bull Inn, where his passengers would soon be warming themselves by a roaring log fire and toasting themselves with hot toddies.

Below him, he could see the road winding around the hill like a long white S. He could see the top of the S, but not the bottom, as the road was obscured by part of the hill and a copse of trees that appeared heavily laden with snow.

He estimated that he had about a mile to go to the bottom of the hill; then it would be another five miles to Rochester. He just had to take it easy. He took his eyes off the road momentarily and looked at Will, who was sitting on the box beside him. Some trainee coachman he was – he had used his belt to strap himself to the handrail on the side of the box so he would not fall off. He was fast asleep.

Oliver turned his attention back to the road and the bends he had yet to negotiate. At the furthest bend, walking uphill, was a figure. As the coach drew nearer, Oliver could see that it was a tall man wearing a stovepipe hat. He appeared to walk with a limp and carried what looked to be a stick in his left hand. In his outstretched right hand, he carried a lantern that cast a flickering light before him.

Strange, thought Oliver. It was nearly two in the morning and very late for someone to be negotiating the road, especially in such snowy conditions. He decided that when they met, he would stop and check that all was well with both the coach and the nocturnal traveller before the final descent into Rochester.

He looped the reins for the first bend. The descent was steeper than he remembered, though perhaps that was because it was snow-covered and he was being more cautious than usual. He could see the man more clearly now. No doubt the man could see the coach lights and hear the rattling of the bars and the creak of the coach, for he appeared to lift his left hand and stick in salute.

Then the figure was obscured by the hill as the coach made the second turn. Oliver was very close to the copse of trees, and silhouetted against the moon was a barn owl, which tooted at the coach before swooping over Oliver’s head.

Oliver then began to make the final turn. He was looking forward to seeing the man again. As he came round the hill, the valley once more lay before him. Now he could see, here and there, lights from cottages and from the town itself. He could even see Rochester Castle in the moonlight. What he could not see was the man who had been walking towards him. He saw no one. He pulled the horses to a stop. He was in open country now, with just a small hedgerow on one side and an open field on the other. In the field, a white hare watched his every move before darting off into the distance.

Oliver woke Will, handed him the reins, and climbed down from the box. Will asked what the matter was, and a passenger leaned out of a window to enquire what the trouble might be. Oliver told them both that there was no trouble and that he was merely checking the coach and looking for a traveller he had seen on the road before the final descent into Rochester.

“I don’t see anyone,” said Will.

“Neither do I,” replied Oliver, as he scoured the snow for any sign of footprints. He spotted where the hare had crossed the road into the field, but of human footprints there were none.

Gusts of wind sent snow swirling around the coach as another passenger – a rather rotund man wearing a top hat – leaned out of the window, enquiring when the coach would be moving. He was looking forward to his supper and a warm room and did not appreciate being delayed for seemingly no reason, especially as the wind was rising and neither he nor the other passengers had any desire to spend the night in a snowdrift.

Oliver said that the coach would move once he had completed his checks. He walked around the coach, inspecting the harness, wheels, and horses. All was well, but there was still no sign of footprints.

Finally, he climbed back onto the box. Will asked if everything was all right, and Oliver replied that all was well with the coach and its passengers, but that there was still no sign of the stranger.

Will retorted that Oliver had probably imagined the whole thing, and that his sighting of a traveller on the road was likely due to having over-imbibed at the Bull Inn in Dartford after a difficult descent down West Hill, having taken one too many tots of rum.

Oliver told him to watch his tongue and reminded him that coachmen in charge of a mail coach did not over-indulge. He set the coach in motion, and down the hill they went towards Rochester.

Just over half an hour later, they clattered into the yard at the Bull Hotel, the second Bull Inn of the evening. Servants came to take the luggage from the coach and usher the passengers to supper. Ostlers came to take away the horses, and Oliver sent Will with them to ensure all was well.

There was much revelry in the coaching inn. Every room was full, supper was being served in several dining rooms, and other coaches and carriages stood in the yard. It was a busy scene, and Oliver made his way to a settle by a large fire in one corner of the inn.

A young girl was adding logs to the fire as Oliver sat down and ordered a double tot of rum and a mutton pie, which the landlord – who had run the inn for several years – brought a few minutes later.

Jack Sparke was a former coachman who had come into money and purchased the inn some years before, and he knew Oliver well. He sat down beside him, and they both lit their pipes.

“You look tired,” said Jack.

“A little,” replied Oliver, before telling Jack that something strange had happened on the road a few miles outside town. Oliver described the traveller he had seen. Jack puffed on his pipe and stared into the fire.

“That sounds like old Barnaby, who used to drive the Dover Mail years ago. He lives at a farm just half a mile off the London Road.”

“Well, that’s all right then,” said Oliver. “I must have just missed him somehow.”

“Well, it would be,” replied Jack, “but Barnaby was sitting in that very seat just before midnight, having his usual tot, when he suddenly dropped down dead.”

They looked at each other.

Could Oliver have seen the ghost of old Barnaby, walking the road back to his farmhouse along the very route he had driven for so many years? We shall never know.