Work Text:
The 1990s - When isn’t important
The train stood still under the bright sun of a high noon. It was hot but calm, the perfect day to stay inside, out of the elements.
The engine certainly thought so - he was a four-coupled design, old as dirt by modern standards, but polished and cared for; still useful. He blew impatient smoke rings into the clear summer sky - he wanted to be somewhere else.
His crew felt the same, baking in their uniforms as they tended to their charge. The fire was hot in the best weather, and the best weather this was not. They were considering stripping to their undershirts, or beyond, just to cool down.
Behind them, a mixed train stretched back - short by some standards, but long for them: nine cars - one dry goods van, a trio of open hoppers that were riding empty (except for some loose straw), a trio of flatcars as empty as the hoppers, and then two coaches tacked onto the end - one for the mail, the other a baggage/coach combination. An odd train for sure, but this line was always a little old fashioned.
The signal was at danger, and so they sat there, in the middle of the fields, surrounded by nothing but high grass…
-
The horses emerged over the crest of the nearest hill.
There it is! The lead rider bellowed. He adjusted his white coat, dug in his spurs, and his white stallion took off with a will, galloping down towards the train.
One after another, his fellows trailed behind him, until a fourteen horse gang was charging down the embankment towards the train.
CLUNK
The signal dropped, and the engine set off with a roar of impatience.
The train jolted into movement, and the riders had to push their horses to keep pace. Soon the train was pulling away, and the riders slowly fell back, galloping down the center of the rails to keep their horses from falling to exhaustion.
The tracks abruptly split underneath them, a long passing loop opening up to the right of the train. One rider, a small man on a huge chestnut mare, took his chance. Gaining speed, he pulled right alongside the train, slowly working his way along the coaches, looking for anywhere that he could hop on.
The train did not oblige, and its speed began to slowly increase again, in varying steps. Sometimes the horse was faster, other times it was the iron horse. The rider was undeterred, even as his mare worked up a lather.
A second set of hooves joined his, pounding against the rails of the loop. The lead rider pulled alongside. His stallion was longer in the legs, and he managed to pull ahead. The rest of the group slowly followed, trying to gain ground.
It was slow going, but they’d have them eventually. All they had to do was make the flatbeds…
HONK-HONK!
A two-tone note split the air, and the riders scattered as a huge diesel locomotive raced towards them on the loop. Half of them went right, spilling off the track and onto the embankment alongside, while the others slowed down, pulling in behind the train once again.
The diesel grew larger by the second as the riders on the right-hand side spurred their horses on for another sprint. To the right of them, off the tracks entirely, was an earthen embankment that carried the road. Ahead of them, arcing over the tracks, was the bridge that took the road to the next town…
One rider, wearing black clothes and on a black stallion, took the charge, his horse almost flying up the side of the embankment, hooves pounding the road’s surface. Up here, he could almost gain on the steamer, and he raced onto the bridge just as the diesel slipped underneath in a streak of green.
The road turned to cross the tracks, but the stallion didn’t.
With a yell from its Rider, the black horse took a flying leap and cleared the bridge’s brick sides, soaring through the air in a perfect arc.
Steel horseshoes sparked off the roof of the diesel as the horse landed mid-gallop, charging down the length of the passing train, against the direction of travel.
The Rider looked to his left, mentally juggling three different speeds in his head as the steam train whizzed by on the other track. There went the hoppers, then the flatbeds…
The end of the diesel’s passenger coaches were quickly approaching…
Coaches, there.
With a swift command from the Rider, the horse jumped from one train to the other, landing atop the first coach with sure-footed ease. Seconds later, the white stallion of the Leader landed atop the second coach with a thonk.
Looking back, the rest of the group, now led by the young gun with the chestnut mare, continued down the road. Once it straightened out, they steeplechased their way across the lineside hedges and rejoined their fellows on the tracks in record time.
Now then, onto the real prize. The two riders looked at each other, and spurred their horses on yet again, moving forward up the train.
Reaching the end of the two coaches, they took a jump, and landed on the third flatcar with a bang.
There! It was the Young Gun, pointing further up the train. Third hopper!
The two riders turned as one, and started up the train, their horses jumping the gaps between cars with practiced ease.
The Young Gun watched them from the line. They’d find it, he was sure of that.
HEY! His head whipped around. There, standing in the doorway of the coach, was a hired Guard. He took one big step out the coach, and onto the first flatbed.
He wielded a shotgun.
The Young Gun didn’t even think. With one shout to his associates, he stood up on the saddle of his mare, judged the gap, and leaped for the train.
The Guard didn’t hear him coming, and he tackled the man to the deck of the flatbed. The gun went skittering off the side of the train car, falling away to the lineside.
The Young Gun was fast on his feet, and tried to pin the Guard to the deck. Unfortunately he was built like a string bean, while the Guard’s muscles strained out of his shirt. With one move he was halfway across the flatbed, while the Guard looked for his weapon.
Finding it gone, he reached for his belt. With a vicious look, he grabbed a small object and flicked it. The man exuded an aura that said he didn’t need a gun. An extendable baton would do the trick.
The Young Gun was momentarily at a loss, before a shout from his fellows drew his attention. One of his associates tossed something his way.
A mallet.
The Young Gun suddenly felt more confident. This, he could work with.
The two men stared each other down, waiting for the other to flinch.
A shout rose up from the hoppers. They’d found what they were looking for!
At the exact same moment, a cry of What is going on? emerged from the open door of the coach.
The two men realized that it was now or never.
They readied their weapons
They charged.
----------------------------------
A few minutes later
“I’m sorry,” Said the police constable, not for the first time. “But you’re going to need to take this from the start.”
“Polo is our game!” Said the man on the left. He held the reins of the white horse.
“Polo,” The constable repeated. “The sport on horseback?”
“That’s right!”
“And…” The constable held onto his pen and notepad like a lifeline. “What exactly does polo have to do with chasing down a train?”
The man on the right, the one dressed in all black, spoke up. He at least had the good graces to look slightly aware of the situation’s ludicrous nature. “It’s the gentleman’s rules of polo.” he said quickly.
“The… Gentleman’s Rules.”
“Yeah.”
“Would you mind elaborating on that a touch?” The pen, it has to be a lifeline.
“Well,” the white-dressed man started, before his black-suited companion stopped him.
“Clancy. Please.” He looked to the heavens for support. “that's the rules of our game. One ball, no out of bounds. Play doesn’t stop until the horses tire or the ball is destroyed.”
Oh no. Things were starting to make sense. “And would I be right in assuming that you hit the ball onto the train?”
“You would be.”
“So, you were chasing it down to retrieve your ball?”
“Yes.” The one in black was looking more and more chagrined. The one in white was suitably oblivious.
“Did it, at any point, occur to you that it might be wiser to treat the ball as lost?” They’re going to say no, because this island is full of nutters. Why did he accept the transfer from London? Was it the lie about peaceful country life, or the lie about Sodor being boring?
The white-dressed one puffed himself up. “We are not cowards! What’s a spirited ride down the railway line to a skilled group of horsemen like us?” He gestured broadly to the group of polo players, who were all being interviewed by what had to have been every police officer in Suddery.
“Aside from him being a skilled instigator,” The black dressed man said with a hangdog expression. “We didn’t bring another ball.”
“I see.” The constable made a few notes out of sheer desperation. Somehow he knew that the other side of the story was going to be just as implausible.
“Now then,” He turned slightly, and addressed the private security guard, who looked ready to explode. “What’s your side of this whole business?”
“I-” The man started. “We. Are from Securicor. You know, the security firm? We are escorting a highly valuable shipment from Brendam to Newcastle. I am doing my job-”
The man was turning puce, and the constable cut him off. “Yes, yes, I’m aware. Cash transport on behalf of Northern Rock. We are kept in the loop on this sort of thing.”
“Then you know how valuable this shipment is!” The burly man continued, waving his arms around. “And so I hardly see why I am being questioned about how I did my job and protected my shipment from- from- from a group of bandits on horseback!”
Here we go. “You’re being questioned primarily so that I may have a full understanding of what transpired, but also because you drew a firearm on these two men right here, and then proceeded to get into a fight with another whilst on a moving train.”
“A fight that he lost, I daresay.” The white-dressed rider spoke up again. His black-dressed compatriot put his head in his hands.
“They jumped onto a moving train!” The guard protested. “What was I supposed to do?!”
“Win the fight, I might say.” said the white-dressed man.
“Why you-!” The guard turned a different color, and looked like he needed to be restrained.
“Oi!” The constable cut in. “Leave it! No more of this instigating while I’m right here.”
“Oh fine.” The white-dressed man said calmly. “It’s all the better that he lost, anyway. We’d have never gotten the ball if young McColl hadn’t distracted him.”
He produced a small white ball that helpfully said “POLO” on it.
The Securicor guard went several colors at once. “All that, for that?!” He bellowed, and lunged for the ball. It took all of the constable’s strength, plus several other men, to wrestle him to the ground.
-
Several hundred feet away, Edward watched the rapidly unfolding calamity with bemusement. “I say,” he wondered aloud to the Chief Inspector for Suddery. “Isn’t that the new man that London sent up?”
“A-yup. ‘E’s been here ‘bout a week.” The inspector said as a group of men restrained the security guard.
“How has he been fitting in?”
The guard broke free, and the new constable had to tackle him to the ground.
“I think he still needs to get used to the place. Not used to the country life, I think.”
“Few are.”