The Untamed

*I'm really proud of this story but as yet have had no success in getting it published. It's set in the same area as my first novel, The Great Absolute. The conflict between the owners of the Mazeppa and the Telegraph is based on real events from the market town of Kingsbridge in Devonshire's South Hams.*

Opinion was divided as to exactly what it was that ran the Mazeppa off the Plymouth road that dark November night. Some said that it was a black dog whilst others maintained that it must have been a wild pony or a stray cow, for no dog ever grew so big. One thing was certain and agreed upon by all those who survived the crash, one moment the four horses were running steadily, the next they were rearing up and panicking at the sudden appearance of the creature on the road before them.
From the wreckage of the coach one woman, a Miss Kitty Fenwick, claimed to have seen the creature vanish before her very eyes, melting into the shadows of the night. Another survivor, Mr. Hugo Kettering, who was thrown some twenty yards by the crash, claimed to see the creature which he described as the bastard offspring of a bear and a wolf. The extent of Mr. Kettering’s injuries were such that he lost consciousness shortly after witnessing the creature being led away from the wreckage of the coach by a young lady.
With so many conflicting accounts of the events of that fateful evening, it will come as no surprise to learn that the authorities chose to believe the most plausible explanation, namely that the driver of the Mazeppa, Mr. John Tucker, was under the influence of alcohol and had driven his coach into a ditch. The resulting accident cost Mr. Tucker both his livelihood and his life and claimed the lives of three of his passengers. The Mazeppa never travelled the Plymouth road again, which suited Robert Foale, the owner of the rival coach, the Telegraph, very well indeed.

To understand the full details of the case, one must go back to the opening of the South Devon railway in 1848. The swift travel between Exeter and Plymouth offered by train put a number of coach drivers who had plied their trade along that route out of business. One such driver was Mr. John Tucker who had come to the town of Thainsbridge that year looking for a new route.
The town of Thainsbridge, however, was already served by Mr. Foale’s Telegraph which ran a twice-weekly service to Plymouth. Being a business-minded gentleman, Tucker decided to run the route thrice-weekly on the days the Telegraph was not travelling, thus providing a valuable service to those who would otherwise have found themselves waiting up to three nights in the quiet market town. As Robert Foale’s custom halved overnight the enmity between the two rival coaches was born.
Mr. Foale would claim that by relocating his business to Thainsbridge it was Mr. Tucker who made the first move. Mr. Tucker would claim that it was Mr. Foale who landed the first foul blow by employing a gang of local children to tear down any advertisements for the Mazeppa around town. Tucker replied in kind by painting the Mazeppa a striking yellow and offering his passengers a free glass of grog to sweeten their journey and ensure their return custom. Both men would attest to the fact that it was Foale who first tried to run Tucker off the road in May of 1849 but Foale would always claim that he did this in retaliation against a vicious rumour spread by Tucker that the Telegraph was so slow it was once overtaken by the local postman on foot.
The feud continued through the summer months when business was at its peak. Both drivers employed underhand tactics to disrupt the passage of the other’s coach. It was in the winter of that year that the Telegraph suffered a broken axle and shattered wheel after driving into a deep pothole that had a suspiciously man-made appearance. Sabotage then became the next stage of the rivalry. Horses were drugged, reins were cut and seats were booby-trapped with hidden needles. So frequent were the mishaps that occurred on both routes that soon the customers began to look upon both coaches with a distrustful eye. By the autumn of 1850 Tucker and Foale had reached an uncomfortable stalemate.

It was on a grey September evening that Robert Foale first became acquainted with the girl. Having returned with the coach to Thainsbridge he spent the twilight hours sitting at his desk and grimacing at the financial records. A sudden gust of wind had blown the door open and lifted a number of papers from the desk. When Foale had finished collecting them by scrabbling around on the floor, there she sat in the chair facing him.
She was beautiful that much was true. She had smooth olive-tanned skin, long delicate fingers and plump lips. She was wearing a light cotton dress that clung to and revealed much of her slender figure. This beauty, Foale felt, was marred somewhat by a touch of wildness about her. The girl’s straw-coloured hair showed few signs of ever having known a comb. Her fingernails were dirty and cracked in places. Most discomfiting of all were her eyes, which seemed ill-suited to such a fair face, being as cold and grey as the winter skies. Those eyes fixed on Foale and stared at him with an intensity he found unnerving.
“Cain I help you, Miss?” he asked politely, trying to hide his initial shock at her strange appearance in his office.
“You want a driver,” she said plainly in an accent so strange that Foale was unable to determine whether she was asking a question or making a statement.
“I’m sorry, Miss. I don’t quite…”
“You want a driver,” the girl repeated, “To drive the coach to Plymouth and back.”
“I drive the coach to Plymouth,” Foale replied, “And back again. I don’t need another driver.”
“That’s what Tucker said,” the girl replied with a smile which revealed a row of perfect white teeth, “He was wrong. I can drive your coach to Plymouth and back in a day.”
“Impossible!” Foale snorted dismissively, “It can’t be done, not even with a change of horses.”
“I don’t need a change of horses,” the girl countered, “Just need to know how to talk to them right.”
“My dear girl,” Foale sneered as he rose from his chair and led the young woman to the door, “I have been working with horses since long before you were born. What I don’t know about coaching isn’t worth knowing. Now, I’m a busy man so I will bid you good day!”
With that, Foale slammed the door on the young lady and settled back behind his desk to continue his struggle with the finances.
In the mind of Robert Foale that was the end of the matter, or at least it would have been had not one of his horses come up lame on an empty stretch of road halfway to Plymouth and a good distance from anywhere.
“Blast,” he muttered as he clambered down from the driver’s box, “Damn and blast.”
A male passenger hung his head out of the coach to find out why they had stopped.
“Is something wrong?” the man asked wearily.
“No,” Foale lied, “Nothing wrong. The horses need a short rest is all.”
With a sinking heart Foale examined the horse in question and discovered that a sharp stone had found its way past the iron shoe and was sticking out of the hoof. He removed the stone but saw that the horse could go no further that day. Desperately, he looked around the empty moor for some sign of help. A cold wind blew through him and he buttoned up his long travelling coat.
“I can help,” a familiar voice spoke.
Turning round, Foale saw the strange girl standing by the lame horse running her hands through its mane.
“Where did you come from?”
“I can help,” the girl repeated, ignoring his question, “I can fix up the hoof if you’ll let me ride with you.”
Seeing no-one else around who could offer assistance Foale reluctantly accepted. The girl carried a small wicker basket from which she removed a bunch of wild flowers and a pestle and mortar. She smiled as she held the bowl to his lips.
“Spit,” she instructed him.
Suspiciously, Foale dribbled a little into the bottom of the clay vessel. The girl looked at it and shook her head.
“That won’t do,” she chuckled, “More.”
Foale spat into the bowl until his mouth was dry and he watched the strange girl break the heads off the wildflowers. Taking the bowl from him, she added the heads and used the pestle to grind the contents into a fragrant paste. As she did so, she hummed a tune to herself, whilst unfamiliar to Foale it served to calm his nerves and left him feeling very relaxed given his situation.
By now the passengers were eager to set off again and a few had become quite vocal in their protestations. Foale assured them that they would be resuming their journey shortly whilst the girl applied the tincture to the injured horse’s hoof. At first the horse whinnied and snorted its disapproval but after a few minutes it settled and was able to rest its weight on the hoof as before.
Silently impressed with the strange young woman’s handiwork, Foale made room for her next to him on the driver’s box. Once seated, he cracked the whip and the coach resumed its journey along the Plymouth road.
Aware that the unexpected stop had cost him valuable time, Foale used the riding whip unsparingly. The wounded horse kept up with the pace of the others without difficulty. Most interestingly, it was the other horses who appeared to tire first. With each crack of the whip the girl flinched, as though she shared the beasts’ discomfort.
“Must you lash them so?” she asked after a time.
“We’re late,” Foale muttered grimly, “I’m never late.”
Dissatisfied with his answer, the girl snatched the whip out of his hands and stowed it away behind the driver’s box.
“Making them suffer won’t encourage them. You just need to talk to them right.”
Foale allowed himself to smile and shook his head. The girl was right, the coach would arrive at Plymouth an hour later than predicted at most, something not unheard of in the winter months. Besides which, he reflected, without her help the coach would still be stranded in the middle of the moor.
“You’re an odd character,” Foale said, keeping his eyes on the road ahead, “I don’t even know your name.”
“Wilda,” the girl answered.
“The accent, I can’t place it... Where are you from?”
“Oh, here and there,” Wilda replied vaguely.
“Well, you’re not from these parts, I know that much.”
The girl looked at him quizzically so he continued,
“A pretty young thing such as you would be married off by now if you were.”
The girl coloured, not out of flattery but anger.
“No man will have me,” she scowled, “I will marry no man.”
Aware that the conversation had strayed onto sensitive matters, Foale returned his attentions to the road ahead and occupied his mouth by whistling. Shortly the girl began to hum to herself as she had done before when using the pestle and mortar. Noticing that Wilda’s tune was infinitely superior to his own, Foale fell silent and listened with reverence to the young woman’s song. Whilst the girl spoke no words the tune itself seemed to tell a story of love and loss, mourning and heartache. It gripped Foale from within and held his attention such that he barely drew breath until the song was completed.
“That was beautiful,” he said quietly, “Where was it from?”
“My home,” she answered plainly.
“Will you sing another?”
Wilda smiled bashfully as she began another song. Foale recognised it as the same one that she had hummed when making the tincture only this time she sung openly in a tongue which Foale did not recognise but seemed as old as the earth itself.
The song was gentle and its sweet cadences were soothing but Foale had the strange feeling that relaxation was being forced upon him, as though one had been plunged into a warm bath and force-fed a mug of sweet cocoa. As the song continued, Foale felt his eyelids grow heavy and without his realising they began to droop shut. It was only a matter of moments before Foale was fast asleep, his head resting on Wilda’s shoulder. She took the reins from him and the coach continued into the gently spreading night.

Foale woke feeling disorientated. The last thing he could remember was being on the Plymouth road. Now he lay fully clothed in his bed in Thainsbridge. He scrambled from beneath the covers and headed downstairs. A fire was lit in the hearth and Wilda sat before it stirring a blackened pot filled with a rich broth.
“I was beginning to think you’d never wake up,” she smiled, her eyes sparkling with that same wild quality which had unsettled him on their first meeting.
“What happened?” Foale asked as he shook his head to clear it of the lingering grogginess.
“You fell asleep on the road to Plymouth,” Wilda answered, “I took the reins for the rest of the journey. And the one back.”
“The one back?” Foale gasped, “How did you manage that? The horses would have been exhausted. What time is it?”
As if to answer his question the grandfather clock which stood in the hallway struck ten.
“Impossible,” he muttered, “We could never have returned so quickly, not even if the horses had galloped the whole way.”
He paused as a thought struck him,
“It is still Saturday, isn’t it?”
“Calm yourself,” Wilda said soothingly as she thrust a bowl of broth into his hands and pushed him into a seat, “It is still Saturday and the horses are fine, I stabled them myself. Getting them to go that distance isn’t impossible. As I said before, you just need to know how to speak to them right.”
Foale nodded his head silently, his mind spinning with the day’s events. He sipped the broth and felt invigorated, its heat coursing through his body and filling the empty void in his stomach. He drained the contents of the bowl and watched hungrily as Wilda took it from him and refilled it.
“If what you say is true,” Foale said as he slurped the soup, “And you can make the journey to Plymouth and back in one day then we can offer a service Tucker never could...”
Wilda smiled as she seated herself before him.
“Does this mean you’re hiring me?” she asked.
Foale grasped her by the hand and shook it energetically as he spoke.
“Indeed! You can have your own room here if you need it and I’ll have a uniform made for you. We’ll run the service four days a week, there and back again. Oh yes,” he beamed, “I can see a bright future for the Telegraph!”

Needless to say, the loose-lipped gossips of Thainsbridge were kept busy over the next few weeks as the new driver of Foale’s Telegraph was revealed to be a woman. As if employing a female driver was not enough to set tongues wagging, it was the fact that Foale had hired such a beauty that really caused a stir. A few malicious folk labelled the girl as his mistress whilst others rightly dismissed such rumours outright, Robert Foale’s dedication to the memory of his late wife being well known around town. One thing was certain, from the moment Wilda appeared in her smart riding jacket of twilight blue and took her seat on the driver’s box the Telegraph became the talk of the town. The fact that the Telegraph, under the skillful command of the girl, was now able to make the journey to Plymouth and back in one day only served to boost business even further. The customers were thrilled with such efficient transportation, Wilda seemed very content when tending to the horses and Foale spent his time counting profits which he had hitherto accrued in his dreams. The one person who was not pleased with the Telegraph’s new found success was John Tucker who watched with horror as his regular custom all but dried up in the space of a few weeks.
“It’s a bloody disgrace, it is!” Tucker raged to all those who would listen as he propped up the bar of the Farmer’s Flail Inn, “A woman? Driving a coach? Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“Come now, John,” Ashford Brookes said, laying a placating hand on his arm, “Folks are saying that the girl can handle a team of horses better than any man they’ve seen. Now stop drinking before you make more of a fool of yourself.”
But John Tucker did not stop drinking that night. With reckless abandon he continued pouring ale down his throat until the landlord Godfrey Trull called time. Even then it took three men to carry Tucker outside. By that point he was in such a state of intoxication that he could barely stand, let alone walk in a straight line. Refusing all offers of help returning to his rooms, Tucker staggered into the night, roaring curses and tripping over his own feet.
After spending several hours stalking the darkened streets, a slightly more sober but no less angry John Tucker found himself standing before the stables where Robert Foale kept his horses. Curious as to what the secret of their unbelievable stamina was, Tucker opened the door and crept inside. The horses were each housed in a stall of their own. They drank ordinary water from a communal trough (Tucker tried a mouthful just to be sure) and were fed what appeared to be an ordinary mixture of hay, oats and barley. Tucker gazed around the gloom of the stables trying to fathom what their secret might be.
Returning to the stable door having given up all hope of solving the mystery, he spotted something lying on a pile of hay in a far corner. Closer inspection revealed it to be the strange girl, curled up like a cat and fast asleep. Such was Tucker’s shock at the unexpected sight he was unable to stifle a cry of surprise. As so often happens when one is snapped back into consciousness, Wilda panicked and tried to run for the door. Though drunk, Tucker moved quickly and blocked her way.
“Well well,” he slurred triumphantly, “What have we got here? Foale’s little bitch, are you not?”
“I’m nobody’s woman,” the girl hissed defiantly.
“Got you sleeping in the stables, has he?” Tucker leered.
Wilda wrinkled her nose as she smelled the fumes of alcohol on the man’s breath.
“I like it here,” she replied, “I have a room in the house but I prefer to sleep here with the animals.”
“Do you indeed?” Tucker said, moving closer to the girl who despite the dim light of the stables seemed more beautiful than Tucker had previously thought.
Wilda tried to move away, uncomfortable with the drunken man’s proximity. A lascivious smile plastered on his face, Tucker matched each step she took backwards with one of his own. Soon she found herself with her back pressed against a wall and John Tucker before her, his bloodshot eyes shamelessly devouring her shapely body.
“Come on girl,” he rasped, “What’s a pretty thing like yourself doing sharing a bed with beasts? Wouldn’t you rather share it with a real man?”
Though Wilda struggled to escape, Tucker held her fast as he pressed his reeking mouth to hers. She raked her nails down his cheeks leaving swollen red marks but even this did not deter his advances. When she tried to call out for help, Tucker clamped a filthy hand over her mouth and continued his vile attack. Afterwards, Wilda lay whimpering amongst the hay and her torn clothes, unable to look her attacker in the face. Tucker dressed quickly and left without a word.
The next day was grey and overcast, heavy clouds perpetually threatening rain. Robert Foale woke as normal and, as was his habit, prepared breakfast for himself and Wilda. When she did not answer his call he checked her room, only to find it empty. Thinking she must have spent another night in the stables, Foale hurried outside to discover them inhabited only by the horses. The girl appeared to have vanished. Enquiries around the town did not solve the mystery of her disappearance and it was with a heavy heart that Foale realised his business had lost its best asset. After two days of searching he resignedly dusted off his old riding coat and climbed back onto the driver’s box of the Telegraph, whip in hand.
John Tucker was not surprised by the girl’s disappearance but relieved nonetheless that his drunken attack had not attracted the attentions of the magistrates. A week or so after the wild rumours regarding Wilda’s departure had stopped circulating, the locals of Thainsbridge watched with interest as the old rivalry between the Telegraph and the Mazeppa was resumed. The real talking point became the days when both coaches made the journey to Plymouth, leaving Thainsbridge mere minutes apart. Despite having to return to the old system of taking a full day to travel in each direction, Foale had continued to run the service six days a week which proved popular with his customers, though less popular with his horses. On such days the locals would line the sides of the roads for up to half a mile out of the town and cheer as the coaches jostled for the lead position. Bets were taken and money changed hands over the outcome of these races. More often than not, it was Foale’s team of overworked horses who would be forced to breathe the dust left in the Mazeppa’s wake.
As the weeks passed Foale spent more time despairing over his financial losses and less time tending to his horses. Inevitably, one of the poor beasts fell sick from exhaustion and died. Having little money, Foale was unable to replace the horse and could only watch with grim resignation as the Mazeppa stole his few remaining customers. When Tucker offered to buy his horses Foale had just enough self-respect remaining to decline, but knew that without some kind of miracle he would eventually be forced to sell both coach and horses.

The miracle came in the form of a strange visitation one night. Feeling unwell, Foale had retired early to bed with a medicinal glass of brandy to read a ghastly gothic novel by candlelight. Without warning a peculiar breeze blew through the room and extinguished the candle. Foale cursed quietly as he fumbled with the matches but screamed aloud once the candle was relit, its illumination revealing a familiar but unexpected visitor sitting at the end of his bed.
“Wilda!” Foale gasped, “What on earth are you doing here? How did you...”
He stopped speaking when his eyes adjusted to the dim light and he began to see the girl more clearly. She wore the same twilight blue riding jacket he had bought for her though in its current state it took a few seconds for him to recognise it. When he had last seen the coat it was in pristine condition whereas it now hung in tatters about her slender frame. Her hair was wild and unkempt, small twigs and leaves trapped within its matted tangles. Her pale skin was filthy, coated with so much mud and grime that it gave her fair countenance a feral aspect which chilled Foale as he gazed upon her.
“Hush,” she whispered, “I’m not staying long so listen carefully.”
“Wilda, you must come back,” he begged, “Tucker is ruining me. I’ve lost a horse and its only a matter of time before the moneylenders come and collect. It’ll be the debtors’ prison for me! Oh, you must help!”
“Tucker is a bad man and he’ll get his just deserts,” the girl said quietly as she looked at Foale. He shivered as he gazed into those cold grey eyes and saw the unmistakeable taint of madness.
“Two nights from now,” she continued solemnly, “There will be a crash on the Plymouth road as it runs across the moor. Don’t travel the road that night, whatever you do. The barghest cannot tell one coach from another.”
“The barghest?” Foale spluttered, “What on earth are you talking about, girl?”
Wilda silenced him with a look. Whilst he had seen the wildness in her, lurking below the surface in their past encounters, now he saw that this untameable part of her nature had broken its bonds and was running rampant.
“I have warned you, Mister Foale. A deal more notice than Tucker will get!”
With these words the girl sprang to her feet and left the darkened room before Foale had the chance to respond. By the time he had composed himself and set about searching the house she had vanished once more into the night.
Despite her strange appearance that night, something in Wilda’s earnest tone led Robert Foale to pay heed to her warning. He avoided the Plymouth road for the next few nights and when news of the Mazeppa’s fate reached him he was unable to dismiss it as a mere accident, knowing that the strange girl had played some sinister part in it.

As was his habit, John Tucker had been swigging from a flask of brandy on the night in question. He claimed the strong spirit kept the wind off his bones and his eyes bright in the darkness. The evening was cold and overcast. What little light the thin sliver of moon provided was supplemented by the lanterns that swung at the front and rear of the coach. Tucker wore a heavy coat over his riding jacket and had raised the collar as high as possible to keep the biting wind off his ears.
The coach was little more than half full. It was often that way on the return journey from Plymouth. Tucker could hardly complain – a half-full coach was better business than he had done during the time Foale’s girl had been driving. Now she was gone he was at least able to make a living. He felt no remorse for his actions on that drunken night. After all, he had managed to scare off the girl and claw his business back from the brink of bankruptcy. His thoughts began to drift to the memory of her pale skin writhing in the moonlight and he felt a stirring in his loins. Before his imagination was able to recreate more lurid details, a piercing howl ripped through the tranquillity of night.
The baying of the creature was like nothing he had ever heard before. A wolf? Impossible. A dog? What manner of fearsome hound could create such a spine-chilling noise? Icy cold fingers closed around his heart and with shaking hands he cracked the reins and urged the horses into a gallop. Having heard the fearful call themselves the horses needed little prompting. The coach picked up speed and bounced along the desolate road. Tucker was aware of the vast expanse of moorland stretching out into the darkness on either side of him. Within those pitch black depths was the beast whose howl filled him with terror. These thoughts running amok in his head, Tucker reached for the whip and with a lash from its vicious tongue coaxed more speed from the horses.
Over the thundering of hooves on frosty ground and the creaking and groaning of the coach and its ageing suspension, Tucker became aware of another sound. Amongst the familiar noises he perceived an unfamiliar panting, far deeper and more guttural than the accustomed gasps and snorts of his team of horses. The sound was that of another large creature and soon Tucker could hear the dull thud of its footfall on the road behind them. His heart pounding, he cracked the whip again, hoping to drive the horses even faster. However, the poor beasts were already galloping as fast as they could and were beginning to tire.
Movement in the darkness made Tucker turn his head and within the gloom he saw a creature so terrible that a shrill scream of dread escaped his lips. It ran alongside the coach on all fours. Though cloaked in shadows, its sleek black fur glistened in the pale moonlight. The creature was large, far larger than any dog he had seen before. Long white teeth showed in its substantial mouth and a pair of yellow eyes glowed with supernatural brilliance in contrast with the darkness surrounding them.
Sensing the presence of the terrible beast, the horses’ previously measured strides became more agitated and erratic. Though the sight of it twisted his insides with fear and made him scream like a frightened child Tucker was unable to draw his eyes away from the creature. A sound much like laughter broke the spell and he redirected his gaze to the road before them, only to screech with alarm and jerk the reins as he saw the smiling figure of Wilda standing mere feet away from the lead horses.
Led by the panic-stricken beasts the coach veered to the side, left the road and plunged into the ditch that ran alongside. Horses, coach and passengers were thrown about as the momentum carried them tumbling down before coming to a sudden, shattering halt.
His body broken by the fall, John Tucker lay dying beneath the darkened sky. His last few ragged breaths wheezed and rattled above the eerie silence following the impact. A cold wind blew and the faint sound of singing was carried on the breeze to echo across the desolate moor.