The Shadow of Great Britain

At five in the morning, the first rays of light in London had yet to climb onto the red brick rooftops of Bayswater, and Thomas Whickriff was already awake.

The stable still retained the dampness and smell of hay from the previous night; as a coachman, Whickriff’s every dawn began like this, gray, cold, silent, yet everywhere imbued with the atmosphere of labor.

Thomas donned his brand new coat, polished to a shine, and pushed open the door to the stable.

The two black horses he had cared for less than a week raised their heads slightly at the sound of footsteps, breathing out puffs of white air.

Whickriff first lifted his hand to stroke the neck of the older stallion, then pressed his thumb against its shoulder and the roots of its mane to test the muscular firmness, before bowing his head to check if the horseshoes were loose. The winter mud of London was cold and hard, like stones easily stuck in horses’ hooves. To ensure the comfort and safety of his employer riding today, he had to clean out those lumps of mud before dawn.

Whickriff struck a match to light the small lamp, tightened the reins. He knew Sir Arthur had an extremely strict demand for timing, and such strictness was not expressed in words but rather emanated from a natural rhythm of bureaucracy and political figures where ”things must be done before being considered.”

Whickriff did not complain; he had been in this line of work for twelve years and knew which people to stay away from and which masters were worth serving, and Sir Arthur Hastings was evidently the former.

Perhaps Sir Arthur’s demands were a bit strict, but he was equally straightforward in paying salaries.

Most importantly, as Miss Becky the maid said, the Hastings family salary was never delayed. This was not common among London employers, as many coachmen complained that their masters were generous when financially affluent but would dock wages during an economic downturn or failed investment. Especially those respectable, eloquent middle-class patrons, who are always accustomed to saying ”settle next week.”

But Sir Arthur was completely different.

In fact, on Whickriff’s very first day of employment, Sir Arthur had intentionally sent Becky with a small pouch of half-month’s advance salary, along with a brief note attached – ”I don’t like those who work for me to worry about basic necessities.”

Most noble employers would make a few convoluted gestures even if they wanted to show sympathy to servants, as if directly giving money would tarnish their status. But Sir Arthur never takes detours, his simplicity and directness instead give a sense of peace.

Fixed annual salary of 50 pounds, plus full room and board, when Whickriff learned from Sir Arthur of the Hastings family’s basic terms for coachmen, he once thought he had heard it wrong.

In London, this is the kind of premium only a few grand mansions can offer, even though Whickriff previously earned between eighty and one hundred pounds running hired carriages each year. But the hired carriage industry was, after all, dependent on fortune, besides having to pay a daily fee of 10 shillings, and also bear the cost of horse feed and stable expenses himself. Luckily, the license fee was covered by the carriage company, otherwise he’d have to pay an extra 5 pounds each year.

After deducting costs, on good days, Whickriff could earn between 8 to 12 shillings a day, while on bad harvest days it was just 2 to 5 shillings. Of course, if particularly unlucky, there’s even a risk of running a loss or going empty for a day.

And as a private coachman?

It’s an entirely different industry.

Firstly, there’s stability.

Working in a private mansion doesn’t entail waking to find horses battered unstable by the previous night’s hail, nor worrying about the stable being suddenly rented out by the owner. Unlike hired carriage drivers, who helplessly watch customers bypass them from Piccadilly or scatter from Hyde Park gates only to grit teeth until midnight for just a few more shillings to cover that daunting daily fee.

Moreover, a private coachman’s job has rhythm, scope, and fixed routes.

Unlike hired carriage drivers taking people across the Thames to Southwark one day, and the next running to Paddington’s shanty zone. Sometimes even the driver worries on the road, worrying about encountering drunks, those unable to pay, or run-ins with violent gangs raiding the city. Stories of ”pulling coachmen off at night and unsaddling the horses” aren’t rare tales in hired carriage schools but real incidents often occurring.

But a private coachman doesn’t fret over these things; he serves a fixed master, drives a fixed vehicle, cares for fixed horses, and often traverses areas with good security like White Hall, Bloomsbury, and Mayfair.

Next is dignity.

No matter how capable a hired carriage driver, it’s just a street livelihood.

Standing at Regent Street waiting for guests, no one remembers your name nor casts even a semblance of courtesy while crossing your carriage footboard. On rainy days they mostly just frown and remind you: ”Don’t splash mud on my new coat.”

But private coachmen differ.

You’re dressed in clean attire, donning specially tailored tall hat, having employer’s silver buttons on your collar, driving into estates laid with cobblestones. Maids greet at the carriage door and, at some dignified households, even dispatch someone to hold an umbrella for the coachman upon alighting.