Up and around the bleak waste of Bodmin Moor he had seen a few ragged, scarecrow figures still hanging at the roadside.

Left to rot and the ravages of the crows as a warning to any would-be robber or highwayman. But there would always be some one.

He saw the coachman raise his fist. Nothing more. No more was necessary.

Another stretch of broken track. He swore under his breath.

Somebody should get the convicts out of their warm cells to repair it. There were no longer any French prisoners of war for such work. Waterloo was almost four years ago, becoming nothing more than a memory to those who had been spared the risk and the pain.

He banged on the roof. " 'old on below!"

One of the passengers was a young woman. The violent motion of the coach, despite its new springs, had made her vomit several times. It had meant stopping, much to the annoyance of the man with her, her father. She was with child.

Lucky to have got this far, the guard thought. The horses were slowing their pace, ears twitching, waiting for a word or a whistle. He saw some farm gates, one sagging into the ground.

Did the farmer not know, or care? He loosened the case containing the long horn, to announce their approach. The last leg

There was a frantic tapping on the roof. She was going to be sick again.

The horses were getting back into their stride, the wheels running more smoothly on the next piece of road. They would be thinking of their stables. The tapping had stopped.

He raised the horn and moistened it with his tongue. It was like ice.

Inside the coach it was not much warmer, despite the sealed windows and the blue leather cushions. There were blankets too, although with the motion it had been hard to keep them in place.