Chapter 4 Chapter 2 The Mail Car

On a Friday night in late November, Dover Avenue stretched in front of the first of several people connected with this history.Dover Avenue was to this man on the other side of the Dover Mail.At this time, the mail truck was rumbling and climbing hard towards the Archer Mountain.The man was walking uphill through the mud with the mail car and other passengers.Not because the passengers had any preference for exercise on foot, but because the hill, the harness, the mud, and the mail were so taxing on the horses that they stood still three times, and once dragged the mail across the road, To mutiny, drag the car back to Blackmoor.Fortunately, the joint action of reins, whips, coachmen and guards is like reading a war document.That document prohibits unauthorized action, as it can greatly contribute to the theory that savage animals have minds too.So this set of horses bowed their heads and surrendered, and turned around to perform the task.

Several horses lowered their heads and wagged their tails, stepping forward in the deep mud, sometimes leaning and sometimes staggering, as if they were about to disperse from their big joints.Every time the coachman stopped several horses to rest and gave a warning, "Whoah! Soho, let's go!" The leading horse around him would violently shake its head and everything on it.The horse seemed so serious that he did not believe that the mail car could go up the slope.Whenever the horse rattles and shakes in this way, the traveler is startled, as all nervous travelers are, always a little frightened.

The valleys on all sides were dense with mist, and surged desolately towards the top of the mountain, as if an evil spirit was looking for a resting place, but could not find it.The fog was sticky and icy cold, slowly rolling in waves in the air, one wave after another was clearly visible, and then like dirty sea waves, they infiltrated each other and merged into one piece.The fog was so thick that the headlights could only see the rolling fog and the road for a few yards, but nothing else.The stench of the working horses also evaporated into the mist, as if all the mist emanated from them.

In addition to the man just now, there were two other people who were also struggling beside the mail car.All three were wrapped up to the cheekbones and ears, and all wore high boots that came down to the knees, and each could not be discerned from the other's appearance.All three of them covered themselves with as many obstacles as possible, preventing the soul and body eyes of fellow travelers from seeing their traces.Passengers at that time were very vigilant and never confided in others easily, because anyone on the road might be a robber or have a collusion with a robber.The latter was quite probable, because at that time every post station, every Mai tavern probably had someone who "took the boss's money," from the boss to the most inexplicable people in the worst stables, such Tricks are very possible.Such was the thought of the escort of the Dover mail-carriage on that Friday night at the end of November, 1775.He was climbing Archer Hill with the rumbling mail truck.He stood on his own special step at the back of the mail car, stomping his feet, looking at the weapons box in front of him from time to time, and resting his hands on it.There was a loaded blunderbuss in the chest, six or eight loaded carbine guns underneath, and a cutlass at the bottom.

The Dover mail coach was "happy and friendly" as usual: the escorts were not at ease with the passengers, the passengers were not at ease with each other, they were not at ease with the escort, they were not at ease with anyone, and the driver was not at ease with anyone, he was at ease Only horses.He could swear on the Bible with a clear conscience that he believed the set of horses was not fit for the carriage. "Oho!" said the driver. "Come on! It's the top in a little more, and you can go to hell! I've had enough of driving you up the hill, Joe!" "Ah!" replied the guard.

"It's one o'clock, you reckon, Joe?" "Ten past eleven, yes." "Fuck!" yelled the driver, distracted, "Haven't climbed Archer's Hill yet! Speech! Yo, pull!" As soon as the serious leader made a movement to express his resolute disapproval, he was whipped back, and had to struggle to pull it up, and the other three followed suit.The Dover mail coach struggled upward again.Passengers' boots clattered in the mud beside the mail car.They had stopped when the mail stopped just now, and they were always with it.If any one of the three had the audacity to suggest to the other that he should go a few steps forward into the mist and darkness, he would be shot at once as a robber.

A final struggle brought the mail up to the crest of the hill.The horses stopped to catch their breath, the escort came down and braked the wheels, and then opened the door to let the passengers get on. "Listen, Joe!" cried the driver, looking down from his seat, in a tone of alarm. "What did you say, Tom?" Both listen. "I see a horse trotting along." "I'd say there's a horse coming at a gallop, Tom," answered the guard.He let go of the door and jumped nimbly on to the running board. "Gentlemen: In the name of the king, attention!"

With a hasty cry, he opened the noses of several large-caliber short guns and prepared for defense. The passenger described in this story has stepped on the steps of the mail car and is about to board, and the other two passengers have followed closely, preparing to follow in.Then the man stood still on the pedal--he was half in the mail, half outside, and the two men stopped in the road behind him.All three looked from the coachman to the guard, and from the guard to the coachman, and they were all listening.The coachman looked back, the guard looked back, and even the earnest horse pricked up its ears, looked back, and did not protest.

The struggle and rumbling of the mail car ceased, and the ensuing silence made the night all the more peaceful, still, and soundless.The horse panted and gave the mail car a slight tremor, which seemed to stir up the mail car, and even the heartbeat of the passengers could be heard.But at the end of the day, there was also the panting, breath-holding, nervousness, and racing heartbeats of people waiting for something to appear in that quiet nap. A fast and fierce sound of hooves came up the slope. "Soo ho!" the guard yelled with all his might. "People over there, stop! Or I'll shoot!"

The sound of horseshoes stopped abruptly, and after a burst of thumping and thumping, a man's voice came from the fog, "Is the Dover mail in front?" "Never mind what it is!" retorted the guard. "Who are you?" "Are you the Dover Mail?" "Why are you asking?" "If it's a mail coach, I'm looking for a passenger." "What passenger?" "Mr. Jarvis Lorry." The traveler we mentioned immediately said that was his name.The escort, the driver, and the two drivers looked at him distrustfully. "Stand still," said the guard to the voice in the fog. "If I make a mistake, you will never be able to correct it. Who is Rory, please answer at once."

"What's the matter?" the passenger asked, and then asked with a little trembling, "Who is looking for me? Is it Jerry?" ("I don't like the voice of Jerry, if that's Jerry," the guard grumbles to himself. "It's so hoarse. I don't like this Jerry.") "Yes, Mr. Lorry." "What's up?" "There's an urgent mail for you over there. Company T." "I know the messenger, guard," said Mr. Lorry, stepping down the road -- and the two passengers helped him out of the car hurriedly, not necessarily out of politeness, from behind, and got into the car at once, closing the door and pulling the door. windows. "You can have him come over and it'll be no problem." "I hope it's all right, but I'm damn worried," the guard said gruffly to himself. "Hello, that one!" "Well, hello!" Jerry said, his voice even hoarse than before. "Come slowly, don't you mind. If you have a holster on your saddle, don't let me see your hand near it. I'm a man who can miss like hell, and every time I miss, it's bullets. .Now let's see you." The figure of a man on horseback slowly emerged from the swirling mist to where the passenger stood by the mail-coach.The rider bent down, but raised his eyes to look at the guard, and handed the traveler a small folded piece of paper.His horse was panting, and the man and the horse were splashed with mud from the horse's hooves to the hat on his head. "Guards!" said the traveler calmly, in a businesslike and confiding tone. The guard full of vigilance grasped the raised large-caliber short gun with his right hand, held the barrel with his left hand, fixed his eyes on the rider, and replied briefly, "Sir." "There's nothing to be afraid of. I'm Tellson's - Tellson's, London, as you must know. I'm going to Paris on a business trip. This crown will buy you a drink. May I read this letter?" "Yes, but hurry up, sir." He opened the letter and read it by the light on the side of the carriage--he read it himself first, then read it aloud: "'Waiting for Miss at Dover.' It's not long, you see, guard. Jerry and tell them my answer: the dead are raised." Jerry froze for a moment in the saddle. "The answer is too strange," he said, his voice hoarse to the extreme. "Take this back, and they will know that I have received the letter, as if I wrote a reply. Be careful on the road, good night." Having said these few words, the passenger opened the door of the mail car and got in.None of his traveling companions helped him this time.They had hastily stuffed their watches and wallets into their boots and were now pretending to be asleep.They no longer have any definite intentions, but want to avoid all dangers that may lead to other activities. The mail car rumbled on again, wreathed in a thicker fog as it descended.The guard immediately put the blunderbuss back into the weapon box, then looked at the other guns in the box, at the spare pistol hanging on the belt, and at a small box under the seat. Blacksmith's tools, two or three torches, and a firebox.He was well equipped, and if the lights of the mail-car were blown out by wind or storm (which was often the case), he had only to get in and keep the flint sparks from falling on the grass, and he could be in five minutes. It is easy to ignite the headlights inside, and it is quite safe. "Tom!" came a soft voice from the roof of the carriage. "Hello, Joe." "Did you hear the news?" "Yes, Joe." "What do you think of it, Tom?" "Not at all, Joe." "That's also a coincidence," the guard said thoughtfully, "because I don't have any opinion either." Jerry was left alone in the fog in the dark.Now he dismounted, let his tired horse relax, wiped the muddy water off his face, and shook the water off the brim of his hat, which probably contained half a gallon of water.He let the reins rest on his mud-spattered arms, and stood for a while, until the sound of the wheels could no longer be heard, and the night was very still, before he turned and walked down the hill. "After the run from the Law Society to here, my old lady, I'm not sure about your front legs. I have to calm you down first," the gritty messenger glanced at his mare. ,Say. "The Dead Are Risen!" That's a very strange news, and it's too bad for you, Jerry!I say Jerry!You're in for some bad luck if the resurrection of the dead catches on, Jerry!