The Shadow of Great Britain

Moreover, although private carriage drivers earn less annually than taxi drivers on paper, that’s only a surface comparison. The uniforms, riding boots, and top hats provided by the employers—aren’t they also a form of remuneration? In addition, generous employers offer medical allowances and holiday bonuses, which means that when everything is calculated, a private carriage driver’s actual yearly income is often 40% to 50% higher than the nominal income.

If one also considers the room and board that Sir Arthur provides—three meals a day plus the use of a private room for free, especially factoring in the savings on substantial winter heating costs—the actual remuneration for this job easily exceeds 120 pounds. You must know, even among the upper class, such a salary is only offered to experienced ”chief drivers.”

Every time Whickriff thought of this, he felt an unending vigor all over his body.

After all, he was no longer the Thomas who could be summoned or ordered around; he was now Mr. Whickriff, the private carriage driver for Sir Arthur Hastings, the Secretary-General of the Police Commissioner Committee.

In the little courtyard outside the stables, he began to fetch water for the horses and prepare the morning feed, performing his actions as usual. He let the horses drink a small amount of warm water to moisten their throats before feeding them oats and hay, to avoid the horses suffering from stomach cramps due to drinking excessively cold water. The sound of the two horses chewing was gentle yet steady, a rhythm that reassured Thomas. He then moved around to the carriage, checking the axles, lubricating the hubs, and wiping the moisture off the carriage body.

The fog in London always rose earlier than people.

When he led the carriage to the center of the courtyard, it was just dawning. He stood by the carriage, his hands folded behind his back, waiting for any sounds from inside the house. He knew that Sir Arthur usually came downstairs around six forty-five and did not allow the servants to knock early as a reminder.

Sure enough, after a while, there were soft footsteps coming from inside the house.

A moment later, the copper lock on the door made a light sound.

When Sir Arthur stepped out the door, he already wore the dark morning coat he often wore over his shoulders.

”Have you eaten?”

Whickriff immediately bowed and removed his hat: ”I have eaten, Sir, thank you for your concern.”

Arthur nodded slightly and prepared to get into the carriage but paused just before stepping onto the footboard. It seemed he asked casually, yet was intentionally observing his newly employed driver: ”What did you eat?”

Whickriff was evidently unprepared for Sir Arthur’s detailed inquiry, yet quickly replied, not daring to let his hesitation seem like disrespect: ”This morning’s breakfast was toast, with some smoked haddock drizzled with lemon juice, Sir.” Whickriff spoke carefully and even complimented the maid Becky: ”It was all made by Miss Becky. Her cooking is excellent; the toast was perfectly done, and the fish wasn’t fishy.”

Arthur nodded slightly, tapping his cane lightly on the floor: ”Good appetite. Let’s get on the carriage, Thomas.”

”At your command, Your Excellency.” Thomas swiftly opened the carriage door: ”Are we not waiting for Mr. Carter today?”

”Mr. Carter?” Arthur settled into his seat and gently leaned back against it: ”He is ill today and is resting at home.”

Thomas was taken aback: ”Mr. Carter is sick again? This is the third time he’s been sick this week, isn’t it?”

Upon hearing this, Arthur gave him a glance: ”Thomas.”

”Sir?”

”Matters of the Navy Department are not for you to inquire into.”

”At your command, Your Excellency.”

Whickriff didn’t think much more of it. He closed the carriage door securely, then hopped onto the driver’s seat, shaking the reins to get the carriage moving smoothly.

The streets remained damp, with the lingering scent of gas lamps burning lingering in the air.

Arthur sat inside the carriage, with the curtains half-drawn, his gaze focused on the gradually awakening streets of London.

Perhaps in a good mood, or maybe his thoughts from the night before had not entirely left him, Arthur suddenly asked as they reached Mayfair: ”Thomas, how long have you been in this line of work?”

”Twelve years, Sir, I’ve been doing this since I was seventeen.”

”I recall you previously drove a hansom cab?”

”I did, but I originally started with stagecoaches.” Whickriff gave the reins a shake and said: ”I know everyone now prefers to take the train, but over a decade ago, travelers could only take stagecoaches for long distances. I still remember in those days, the deadlines for my stagecoach runs were always tight, and any lateness would incur a five pound fine for the driver. So often, just as I drove the carriage into the inn yard, the clock would sound exactly on time. Week after week, month after month, year after year, I would cover 162 miles in 27 hours.”

”27 hours to cover 162 miles?” Arthur raised his eyebrows slightly, seemingly calculating: ”Was that the Bristol line or the Exeter line?”

”Exeter line, Sir.” Whickriff straightened up a bit, with a trace of unintentional pride in his voice: ”In those days, the road wasn’t as smooth as it is now, and in bad weather, the wheels often got stuck in potholes. But the rules were rules, and any delay was the driver’s fault, with a five pound fine—who could afford that? Of course, I wasn’t even the fastest stagecoach driver; the fastest was Mr. Stevenson’s ’Era’ which could run between London and Plymouth at 11 miles an hour, typically speeding around the square by the fifth chime. I’ve heard from others that Stevenson never stopped for meals midway, instead having inn servants prepare sandwiches and a glass of sherry for passengers in advance, which he would hand through the carriage window the moment he arrived at a stop.”