The Highwayman's Footsteps (28 page)

Bess turned to me, her face covered in tears.

“We can write them again, Bess,” I said.

She shook her head, whether in disagreement or despair I could not tell. “Did they mind so much? Did they care so much about the theft of a few bags of flour?”

There was no answer.

Suddenly, a chill swept down my back. I sensed a quick darkening of the sun, and a whisper of wind in the trees. I glanced towards the woods. Did I see a shadow there? A figure moving and then vanishing? I do not know. I shall never know. If Bess's father watched us, how could he help us now?

Then she spoke, her voice low and small. “I shall write more, many more. I shall tell everyone.” There was soot across her cheek, smudged from her hand.

“Bess, we must go. The redcoats may come back. Do you know somewhere we can go? Somewhere safe, someone you trust?”

“If they come back, I will kill them!” The venom in her voice was quiet but deadly. I knew she would do as she said, even though she might die doing so.

I took her arm and gently pulled her away. “Bess, we have to find somewhere to go. You must think. We can decide what to do tomorrow.”

“I cannot leave! This is my home!” Her face was shocked, white, wet with tears. But her eyes were blazing, with fury as well as desperation. Without thinking, she touched the locket round her neck, her fingers fluttering.

I pulled her gently again and she allowed me to lead her away. “We cannot give up, Bess! We have both lost our homes now. We have nothing but our horses and each other but we need nothing more. You cannot give up! It is what we do that matters – you have said that to me and you were right!” I made her look at me, to listen to me.

She nodded, numbly. “I know where we can go,” she said, though with no strength in her voice. “I know a place where we can take refuge for the night. They were friends of my father. We can trust them.” As we walked slowly away, her voice grew stronger. “I will never forgive this. I will never forgive them.”

She did not look back, not once. But I did. I stopped and turned and as I looked one last time, I recalled all that had happened there, in that sad heap of stones: how I had been led by the ghostly horseman; how I had met and fought with Henry Parish; how I had despised what seemed like his weakness; how I had wished for him to go and to take his troubles with him. I remembered sitting by the fire as Bess had recounted her story, the tale of her parents' death and her own struggle. I thought with anger of the intrusion of the redcoats, how they had misused Bess and her home and how, finally, they had destroyed it through spite and brute force. And then I recalled Henry Parish's bravery and how we had watched him die, shot dead, down like a dog on the hillside. I recalled friendship and anger, love, loyalty and shame, brutality and honour.

And I knew in my heart, knew as I looked at that smouldering ruin, and then as I turned and saw Bess's straight, strong back riding before me, I knew that somehow, right would win, goodness would prevail, and God would look in kindly fashion on us.

We would never rest while men like those redcoats and men like my father and men like my brother believed that their lives were worth more than the lives of others. We would not rest until the redcoats had paid for their cruel deeds.

We would have to leave this place for ever, I knew. We would finish Henry Parish's journey for him, taking the money we had won with honour to his family, and we would relate to his mother how her son had died bravely. Then we would go far away, to some place where no one would know us or follow us. But wherever we went, however hard the struggle, we would be on the side of right and goodness.

Why? Because one truth I had learned: it is not only what we do that is important.

It is also why we do it.

This story came about during a conversation with my editor. “Why don't you do historical adventure again, something really dramatic?” she said. “What, you mean perhaps something about a highwayman?” I said. That afternoon, I wrote the first chapter.

As soon as I started thinking about highwaymen, I was drawn towards my favourite poem, perhaps my favourite piece of writing anywhere:
The Highwayman
, by Alfred Noyes. For me it is perfect – emotional and dramatic. I
still
can't read it without feeling a catch in my voice and a tugging at my heart. It's just SO beautifully tragic!

I don't know if you will love it as much as I do. Maybe you won't at first – maybe it will grow on you. The best thing is to listen to an actor or someone with a beautiful voice reciting it. Here it is:

T
HE
H
IGHWAYMAN

PART ONE

THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding—

Riding—riding—

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.

They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.

And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,

His pistol butts a-twinkle,

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.

And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,

Bess, the landlord's daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked

Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,

But he loved the landlord's daughter,

The landlord's red-lipped daughter.

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;

Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,

Then look for me by moonlight,

Watch for me by moonlight,

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,

But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;

And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,

(O, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)

Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

PART TWO

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;

And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,

When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,

A red-coat troop came marching—

Marching—marching—

King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.

But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.

Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!

There was death at every window;

And hell at one dark window;

For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that
he
would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.

They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!

“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say—

Look for me by moonlight;

Watch for me by moonlight;

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!

She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,

Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,

Cold, on the stroke of midnight,

The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.

Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.

She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;

For the road lay bare in the moonlight;

Blank and bare in the moonlight;

And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!
Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;

Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot
, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,

The highwayman came riding—

Riding—riding—

The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot
, in the frosty silence!
Tlot-tlot
, in the echoing night!

Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.

Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,

Then her finger moved in the moonlight,

Her musket shattered the moonlight,

Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood

Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!

Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear

How Bess, the landlord's daughter,

The landlord's black-eyed daughter,

Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,

With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.

Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;

When they shot him down on the highway,

Down like a dog on the highway,

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

* * *

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

A highwayman comes riding—

Riding—riding—

A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.

He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,

Bess, the landlord's daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

A
LFRED
N
OYES
1880–1958

Lots of teachers use this poem to teach creative writing. I did that myself when I was a teacher. We talk about the sounds of the words, the rhythm, the repeated phrases. But what I remember as a reader are sheer passion, drama, excitement and tear-wrenching sadness but rightness of the ending.

So, when I knew I was going to write a dramatic story about a girl who was a highwayman, I immediately knew she had to be connected with that brave couple. So I decided that Bess, the landlord's black-eyed daughter, and her lover had had a baby and that the story of their deaths would affect that child as she grew up. I knew that the young Bess would be brave and beautiful like them, but human and real too, with problems and depth and character.

Of course, the thing about the poem is that it's the things teachers talk about – sounds of the words, the rhythm, the repeated phrases – that help tug at our hearts. As with all good writing, it's not just the story: it's how you tell it.

When I write, I always try to manipulate the reader with the sounds and rhythms of language, with precise word choice to influence your emotions. The tragic death of Henry Parish is supposed to make you feel just as I still feel when I read
The Highwayman
. Henry's death echoes the poem, with phrases like “down like a dog on the hillside”.

But there's a difference between the deaths in the poem and the brutal killing of Henry Parish: Henry is based on a real soldier. There are different versions of the story but his cruel execution in 1795, during a time of hunger and poverty, caused great anger amongst the public, who then called on the army to change its policy of whitening soldiers' hair with flour.

And so, just as Will and Bess vow to remember Henry Parish and his death, so do I. I hope you will remember it too. There are people whose lives are short and tragic but have meaning and they should be remembered. The lives and deaths of people in stories and poems, whether true or not, make us think about the world and – perhaps, if we are brave enough – change it.

With thanks to:

Elizabeth Roy, my agent, for her calm wisdom and for always fighting my corner with steely charm.

And Chris Kloet, my editor, for consistently and enthusiastically battering my books into shape, for generously sharing her knowledge and for being great fun to work with.

Elizabeth and Chris have been with me since my first novel. I owe them huge gratitude. This book is for them, though by now they will have read it more times than they would want.

Not forgetting the wonderful people at Walker Books, who make me feel so welcome – thank you ALL!

Questions you often ask about
The Highwayman's Footsteps

Q:
Why did you base the book on the poem
The Highwayman
by Alfred Noyes?