The Highwayman's Footsteps (26 page)

“Think not of that man's words,” said Bess, her voice breaking the dusty silence of the room. “He does not know your heart.”

“His curse seemed strong. Did you not feel its power?”

“You have done nothing wrong. You should feel no shame.”

“Perhaps I shall pay, nevertheless.”

“Perhaps so,” said Bess, startling me. “Perhaps in truth this
is
how you will pay. By taking from your father what is not his, and by returning it to poorer people. By doing what is right. If there is a price to be paid, you will pay it tomorrow. And God will watch over you.”

Would He? Or would the devil win? Would the man's curse hold strong? Which spirits of the night had taken his words and were even now weaving them into a binding spell, to follow me the next day, to haunt my footsteps, to make my arm heavy as I wielded sword or pistol, to dim my eyesight, or to confuse my mind with terror and darkness so that I knew not how to act?

I thought of the old hag and the curse that we had placed on her. I saw how strongly that magic had worked. I tried to tell myself that such things are superstition, that God does not heed such magickings. But that is easy to believe in daylight; in the hours of darkness, demons enter the mind and tangle it in webs of ghoulish deceit.

T
he countryside now became grimly familiar to me. It was not dark like the moors we had left behind, but granite-grey, bleak and cold. The sharp, craggy slopes were peppered with boulders, as though some race of giants had lived here once. A lowering sky threatened rain, rain which we would welcome later but which now would simply serve to chill us to the bone.

As we came closer to my father's lands, some miles from Hexham, around noon, and then reached the crossroads where his road met ours, all my senses were alert to danger.

I knew the place we sought, a little further along the road towards my old home. I had told Bess that I knew a spot to wait and to watch the road, with a shepherd's hut to shelter and hide us. We did not know what time my father's post-chaise would pass by, though we knew it must be before evening. We did not know if it would be my father himself, as it sometimes was, or if his estate keeper would be entrusted on this day, as he often was. I knew only that someone would pass this way, carrying a great deal of money, making for Hexham. My father would often stay overnight in the town after paying the money to the Bank.

To think that I had never before thought of the ugly burden he carried when he made those regular trips! I had seen him return smiling the next day and noticed him bestow on my mother or sisters some small gift or trinket. I had not wondered at our life of comfort, at the fine wines and rare foods that my parents served to guests, at the new gowns my sisters so often had made for them, at my own possessions and the ease with which we lived. I had thought simply that my father was a successful gentleman and that our wealth was no more than we deserved or earned by our position. Now I knew whence it came, and the thought sickened me.

The rain began to fall fast. A heavy mist closed in as we took shelter in the hut, taking the horses inside with us. Bess was shivering as we shook the rain from our faces and hair. Her eyes were dark with tiredness. I think perhaps she had slept less than I the night before. Perhaps she was as afraid as I was.

We took turns to watch the road from a slope just above the hut, under shelter of some trees. I took the first turn, telling Bess to keep as warm as she could. I left her checking the powder in our pistols.

How long would we have to wait? Would they perhaps not come at all? Perhaps my father's routine had changed? Would it be he who came or someone else? Would he be armed? Would he be alert, expecting trouble?

I shivered.

It was on my third turn at the watch, when my eyes were becoming blurred with straining through the mist, when I had begun to think that no one would come, when I thought my fingers would snap with cold and my ears had lost their feeling, that I heard the unmistakable sound of a horse and wheels. I peered through the rain, squeezing my eyes to slits, waiting to see who would come round the corner.

Was it? Surely, it was? It was! My father's carriage, my father's two black horses, one with a white flash on its nose.

With my hearting thudding in my chest, I ran the few yards to the hut and urged Bess to come. “They are here! For certain!”

“Is it your father?”

“I can't tell. But they are his horses.”

As quietly and quickly as we could, we climbed into our saddles and made our way to the place where we had decided to wait. We would have very little time
before the carriage rounded the corner, carrying my father's money, one week's evil takings.

The mist swirled and the rain continued to fall in sheets. I was glad of it.

My heart raced, but there was no fear in me now. I was ready for whatever might happen.

We looked at each other, Bess and I. Silently, with my thoughts, I wished her well and I believe her eyes spoke the same thoughts to me.

Together, we pulled up our kerchiefs to cover our mouths and noses.

With a cry, a pistol in one hand and reins in the other, we spurred our horses forward and into the path of the oncoming carriage.

As the driver saw us, I glimpsed his mouth open wide with shock. He hauled on the reins and brought the carriage to a skidding halt, the horses rearing in fright. I pointed my pistol firmly at his head before he had time to reach for his own.

“Do nothing hasty, gentlemen, and you will not be harmed,” shouted Bess, her voice strong, indistinguishable from a man's.

I held my pistol steady, protecting the flint and powder from the rain with my cloak. Only a fool would ignore the maw of a double-barrelled pistol, and the coachman was no fool.

“I should be obliged to see your hands. Place them outside the door, if you would be so kind,” Bess called to the occupant, her horse dancing beneath her. Rain fell in rivulets from the corners of her hat. Not a movement came from within the carriage. “I will not wait long,” she said, calmly but with menace in her voice, “before I shoot your servant. You need him, I fear, to carry you safely home tonight.”

A hand, gloved, appeared at the window. And then the other. They were my father's hands. I knew his gloves. They had been a gift from one of his officers, maroon leather, with great cuffs and a brass button at each wrist.

“Open the door, gentle sir. Touch not your sword, for your own safety. Hold your money before you, while you step down. Take good care where you place your feet – there is a deal of mud underfoot.” Bess kept her horse somewhat behind the door, close to the side of the carriage, so that her victim would not see her until she was sure he carried no pistols. She had explained this to me many times, as we planned every moment of this in the days before.

I kept careful watch on the postillion. His face was white and wet, his eyes wide. A pistol lay on the floor beneath his seat. He would not be able to reach it before I shot him, I knew. But I did not want to shoot him. He was blameless in all this.

The door opened and out climbed my father, slowly, carrying a wooden box. He was wrapped around with a thick winter cloak, clasped at the neck with a familiar jewelled buckle, and beneath his three-cornered hat I could see the waves of his white wig held behind with a scarlet ribbon. His legs were thickly built, strong, encased in white silk stockings above the shiny, buckled shoes. I remembered them all. Hatred flooded through me as I saw his face. I had almost forgotten his face. I had forgotten his eyes. His pale eyes, small, like a fish's. I had forgotten their power.

And yet, was it hatred? Did I not wish, above all, that I could remove the covering from my face and reveal myself to him, tell him that I had shown myself not a coward after all? Yet again, how could I prove this? He would think nothing of my trying to save Henry Parish. There was nothing I had done that he could praise. He would consider none of it bravery.

He watched Bess angrily. How he must wish that he had had his pistols ready! He looked then at the postillion, and his face darkened in scorn. He must wish the man had been more alert, though there was little the poor wretch could have done. I regretted that he would be punished later but I pushed that thought away.

“Open the box. So that I may see. I would not like to have to injure you with this pistol, but I will do so if I believe you hide a weapon in that box,” warned Bess. He obeyed, opening the lid towards her. Would he have acted with such caution if he had known she was a girl? No, he would surely have laughed. Bess nodded, satisfied that there were no weapons inside. She held open her saddle bag. “And now, good gentle sir, place your money in here, if I may trouble you one more time,” she said, keeping the pistol pointing at his head. Though she spoke softly, and calmly, this was the dangerous part, I knew. This was the moment when he might lunge and Bess's horse might be startled. This was the moment when a highwayman must keep his nerve.

And keep her nerve Bess did. Very slowly, my father handed over the bags of money, placing them in her open bag. Very slowly. Why so very slowly? There was something odd in his face, a strange look, a lack of fear, almost the slightest smile at the corner of his mouth. Should he not be afraid? This highwayman could shoot him. Surely he should be moving with greater haste, so as to escape as soon as he might? Surely he should be shaking with fear, anxious to please his robber? Surely at least he should be blustering and arguing? I did not think to see my father acquiescing so easily to a highwayman's demands.

I looked at his face through the grey air, while still trying to guard the driver. There was a fleeting flicker of … knowledge. My father knew something, something to his advantage. But what? Did he have a pistol in his belt? Was someone else inside the carriage? I strained all my senses, narrowed my eyes, tightened my muscles.

That was when I heard it, just as I saw my father glance almost imperceptibly over Bess's shoulder. Through the pattering rain, I heard it. Unmistakably. A horse's galloping hoofs.

My father had known! This was why he had moved slowly! He was waiting for a rider to catch up. A rider whom he had expected.

I was about to open my mouth to speak, but I could see that Bess had heard it too. I saw it in the flicker of her eyes above the kerchief.

Without warning, the postillion dived for his pistol. Instantly, I fired mine, without pausing to think. I did not hit him, I know – and for that I was glad even then – but his horses reared in fright and he was thrown hard to the ground, landing with a terrible scream, and rolling over. He stayed on the ground, moaning in agony and clutching his shoulder. The rain spattered onto him as he lay there, and splashed into the mud around him.

The sound of the galloping hoofs came ever nearer and now I could make out the vague shape through the mist. The rider was shouting at the horse, his voice coarse with anger.

“Ride!” shouted Bess to me. Still she kept her pistol aimed at my father, but she was wheeling her horse around in the mud. She had the money. We had won! We could escape now and there was little chance that a lone horseman would give chase. Not when we were armed with pistols, and there were two of us.

My father stood foolishly, powerless to stop us, the rain now soaking his leather gloves, running in rivulets from his hat and his cloak. His hair was in thin strands, like mice's tails, plastered onto the sides of his face, his sideburns straggly too. “God damn you! God damn you to Hell!” he cried, furiously, his cheeks tight with anger, his eyes blazing. But now he shouted to the approaching rider. “Damn you! Hurry, man!”

With a sudden desperate and foolhardy movement, seeming to care little for the pistol pointing towards him, he lunged towards Bess, grabbing hold of her leg. She struggled to free herself, but my father is a large and strong man and fury added to his strength. Would she shoot him? But as she pulled her arm back to angle her pistol at him, he made a wild grab towards her hand, knocking the pistol aside. It flew from her gloved fingers and spun through the air. He dived towards where it lay in the mud, and picked it up, pointing it towards her with a terrible smile on his face.

In a moment of horror, in which I was frozen, powerless except to scream, “No!” I saw her eyes open wide. Then my father, still smiling, cocked the pistol expertly with his thumb and fired.

She did not have time to move.

N
othing happened, no flash, no sound other than a dull click. Had I had time to think, perhaps I should have known that the mud and rain must surely enter the powder box, but a pistol is a fearsome weapon to face, even in those conditions. I was thankful once more for the rain now, which fell ever more heavily.

Yet I too held a pistol, and mine would almost certainly be useless too. I could not waste time in finding out, so I thrust it into my belt. I still had my sword. But I would not need it: my father was powerless, his postillion injured, no weapons to hand. We should escape now and they would not catch us.

But now the rider was almost upon us, sliding to a halt, calling to my father, trying to grasp the scene before him though the rain.

“Come!” cried Bess to me. “We have what we came for,” and with that she swung her horse around and spurred him into action. She did not stop to wonder why I did not follow.

There was a reason I stayed. The rider was riding my own horse, Blackfoot. I could never mistake him, his gentle and brave eyes, his white flash. I did not like the way he was being ridden. His sides were bloody from sharp spurs and the rider had been lashing his flesh with a stick as they galloped towards us. My horse's nostrils were wide with fear and exhaustion.

The rider was my brother.

I
did not call Bess back but she must have sensed that something was amiss. I thought of nothing other than my horse and my hatred for my brother. And if what I felt for my father was perhaps not pure hatred, what I felt for my brother was exactly that. Deep and dangerous and raw as a recent wound.