The Highwayman Revisited

Stars lit the sky overhead, illuminating the moor with a murky light that fought to break through the night clouds and the rustling leaves of the overhanging trees. The white cobblestone road shone in the dark, the full moon's reflecting light a stark contrast to the drab grass and low shrubs that edged the route on either side. The picked-over remnants of blackberry bushes liberally covered the small open meadow that marked the edge of the nearby village, the brambles a strong encouragement for local traffic to use the winding road rather than forge through the dense foliage. All seemed still, as the village was unremarkable and the hour was late - the moon had nearly reached its zenith - and the howling wind nearly covered the sound of an iron-shod horse on the stones of the highway. Only an especially watchful person would have noticed the mounted figure guiding his steed cautiously down the road, his eyes alert under his French tricorne hat, his riding posture seemingly casual while his elaborate flintlock pistols were kept loose and primed in their holsters.

The tall rider picked up speed as he approached the town, noting the lack of any sentries or other signs of imminent danger. He pulled his coat in tightly, an extravagant affair of claret velvet and silver brocade, seemingly to ward off the chill of the late October breeze, and also to shield the ornate handles of his pistol butts from any peering eyes. It was largely a futile gesture anyway; there was no hiding the elegant scabbard hanging from his saddle, the silver pommel twinkling in the crisp moonlit night. Nor did he really wish to, for that matter. The man exuded an aura of expensive tastes, his clothing and traveling gear offering a teasing glimpse of money that boggled the minds of the common folk. Most who saw him took him for a roving merchant, albeit a slightly courageous one to travel so openly with no hired protection or carriage. Others simply assumed him another well-to-do useless nobleman with nothing better to do with his time than frolic around the countryside, showing off his wealth while the working classes actually had to do something productive with their lives. Few of them had the courage to meet his cold stare, to look past the jeweled rapier hilt and the gold filigree and notice the scars and calluses that marked his hands, or to see that his soft doe-skin breeches were well-worn after long days of hard riding.

After a final look around, the man urged his chestnut Shire down the cobblestone road, coming alongside the weather-beaten inn on the outskirts of the little town. The inn was closed up for the night, the landlord asleep in bed behind the shuttered windows and barred front door. The highwayman stopped beneath a particular ledge on the second floor of the inn, and rapped his crop against the shutters, whistling a quiet melody as he did so. A few long moments of silence passed before the shutters were pushed open and a woman's face appeared in the opening, a wide smile hiding her anxiety at the covert rendezvous. A teasing wave of perfume wafted out the open window as she leaned down toward the rider, her long, black braid tumbling over the casement. The man on the horse gazed up with relief and adoration at the innkeeper's daughter, Bess, with her dark hair and eyes to match, and met her smile with a grin of his own.

The highwayman was not the only one who looked on Bess with yearning in his eyes. Unknown to either of the clandestine lovers, a third party was also present that fateful night. From the shadows under the inn-yard's stables, Tim, the innkeeper's white-haired old ostler, watched the meeting unfold with pangs of intense jealousy. It was through no act of intended espionage that he saw the innkeeper's daughter and the stranger on horseback at that moment; he was convinced that his straw pallet in the back room was infested with fleas, and had chosen to try his luck at sleeping among the inn's horses that evening. Keeping to the pools of inky blackness along the walls of the stable, he crept closer to the mounted man, eager to hear what he could of their conversation. His stomach churning, he drew near enough to smell a faint hint of perfume on the air before the sound of the stranger's quiet yet firm voice froze him in his tracks.

"Only time for a kiss tonight, my dear," he heard the rider say. "A prize awaits me to the west, a caravan simply waiting to be plucked like a berry from your bushes." He looked back along the route from which he'd come,  as if imagining the riches waiting to be plundered from the traveling merchants before whipping his head back around to his beloved. "If all goes well, I'll return by morning's light with a stash of gold you cannot imagine!"

Bess smiled down at him, asking, "And if all doesn't go well, my love?"

The highwayman laughed under his breath, as if this were an absurd notion. "If I'm pursued, I'll do as I must, but I will be back at this window under tomorrow's moonlight. Hell itself could not keep me from you."

At this, he stood upright in his stirrups and took her briefly by the hand, blowing her a kiss through the perfumed night air. She giggled, and he quickly dropped back down to the saddle and spurred his horse quickly on to the west, casting a parting wave back in the direction of the inn. Two pairs of eyes watched him go, one gazing after him with desire, the other staring daggers into his back. The galloping figure grew small in the clear moonlight, the autumn wind once again muffling the sound of hooves on the paving stones, until he vanished entirely.

Tim the stable-hand remained rooted firmly in place, not daring to move, hardly daring to breathe, for several long minutes after the mysterious rider had departed, even after he heard the shutters quietly close and the distinct metallic sound of the window latch being thrown. Scarcely believing what he'd just witnessed, he deftly saddled a horse and tore out of the stables, charging into the east toward the nearest city large enough to warrant a proper military barracks. The innkeeper's daughter was already asleep and dreaming of her valorous rider; no one in the sleepy little village noticed his flight.

*

The rising sun broke the eastern horizon, burning away the lingering mist from the treetops. The highwayman had not yet returned to the inn. Bess awoke with a start and went about her daily routine, keeping an eye always to the western road, hoping against hope that her charming rider would come galloping along and into town, canvas sacks heavy with gold bars and coins weighing down his saddlebags. Midday came and went, the sun moving slowly across the sky, and still she had yet to hear the burnished Shire's hooves rapping along the worn cobblestones outside the inn. As the afternoon hours dragged on maddeningly without sign, Bess concluded with a soft sigh that she would not see him until nightfall; surely, if he were still out in the broad light of day, he'd be lying low, not charging at full speed back to her little hamlet. She steadfastly refused to imagine the notion of her heroic highwayman lying in a pool of his own blood on some desolate stretch of road, his horse wandering riderless and without direction  through the brisk English countryside.

The sun continued its westward trek and finally began to set, the fiery orange light casting long shadows across the floor of the common room, and the aromas of roast venison stew and baking bread permeated the inn as the cook prepared dinner. Patrons started flowing into the inn, seeking out open spaces at the long oak tables that filled the dining area, and eagerly passing the time with liberal amounts of ale and gossip. Before long, the air in the dimly lit room was full of half-informed talk of the labor riots in Lancashire and unlikely rumors of impending war with the American colonies. Bess heard none of it as she drifted through the day in a half-hearted daze, her anxiety growing with each passing hour until the sun was only a sliver of light emanating from the western sky.

As dusk was settling over the moor and shrouding the town in darkness, the customers paid their bills and either migrated back to their own houses and wives, or stumbled back to their rented rooms to sleep off that evening's ale. The night wind was picking up again in strength, wailing loudly enough to mask the approaching footsteps of the dozen men making their way unerringly toward the inn on the east side of town. None who saw them had sufficient nerve to ask about their business as King George's men marched through the center of town in their woolen scarlet coats, scuffed black boots, and with muskets at their shoulders; they would not have answered even if one had. They closed on the inn without delay and entered the nearly-vacant common room without comment, offering pointed stares at the few remaining patrons until they decided wisely that it was time to depart.

The room seemed to nearly shrink in on itself under the menacing surveillance of the soldiers, tables and chairs knocked about and left where they lay. The innkeeper was seized immediately after the initial search and escorted to his quarters, barricaded inside by a dining table. The majority of the redcoats took up seats at the bar, breaking open the inn's ale kegs and helping themselves to mugs to help pass the time. Three others made their way to the upper floor, barging into Bess's room and promptly binding her wrists and ankles without explanation. Her protests were answered with a gag and mocking laughter as they dragged her bed before the window and tied her legs to the frame; one of the men surrendered his musket and bound it vertically before her, the muzzle lodged beneath her breast, her hands tied firmly over the mechanism, forcing her to watch out the same window she'd gazed through after her highwayman the night before. The two armed soldiers took up positions at the casement, eyes on the cobblestone road, while their fellows found similar spots on the ground floor, ale passing among them freely as dusk moved into true night.

Bess could not help but recall the highwayman's last words to her the night before. I will be back at this window under tomorrow's moonlight, he'd promised. Hell itself could not keep me from you. From her perspective, Hell was indeed trying its best at the time.

The small clock on her wall announced the passing of each hour with a low chime. What began as a sharp and precise ambush deteriorated with time and alcohol, the soldiers slowly becoming less intent on the pale, winding road through the trees and more focused on their drinking and jesting. By the ten o'clock chime, the redcoats were sufficiently bored that Bess began working her wrists slowly, testing the knots, confidant that the inebriated soldiers would not notice her efforts. Slowly, painstakingly slowly, she rubbed her wrists against the rough ropes, freezing solid every time one of the damned soldiers looked in her direction with a dazed expression. She could not escape; she knew this and accepted it, even if she managed to free her hands entirely she'd be overcome immediately by the men in the cramped confines of her small room. Freedom was not possible, and was not her intention.

Eleven o'clock chimed past and still the highwayman had not come around. The redcoats before her were now fully occupied with a high-stakes game of dice, one of the three occasionally looking out the window and relying on the sound of iron-shod hooves to alert them to their target's approach. Bess's fingers were slick with blood, the coarse ropes having lacerated her wrists during her efforts at shifting her hands lower and lower on the musket. In the darkness, her work continued unnoticed and she kept on, ignoring the pain and the mind-numbing horror that was growing steadily as the hours passed without a sign of him. Outside, the wind continued to howl, the open shutters banging against the wood panels of the inn, propped open by a pair of military muskets that had no one behind them. Bess could hear occasional shouts of laughter and accusations of cheating emanating from down the stairs, and wagered that the scene in the common room looked much like the one before her eyes. Evidently, it was hard to stay focused on a night-long surveillance for an elusive highwayman who may have only existed in the imagination of a rambling and exhausted old ostler.

The clock chimed twelve just before Bess finally reached her goal. Her hands were half-numb through exertion and poor circulation, but she could clearly feel the cold trigger of the musket beneath her fingertips. Elated by her success, she stopped, daring not to try any further for fear of discovery. The soldiers at the window showed no sign of concern; Bess was fairly sure that one of them was asleep next to his gun while the other two simply talked in low tones about the sort of things two bored soldiers will always find to complain about on a long, boring mission posting. She had nearly come to the conclusion that he would not come to her this night at all when the highwayman chose to prove her wrong. Off in the distance, on the cobblestone road so brightly lit under the starry night sky and the full moon, Bess could make out the familiar silhouette of a man on horseback, a very familiar tricorne hat sitting atop his head. She imagined she could see the protrusion of his rapier hilt, his pistol butts twinkling in the moonlight, but knew he was too far away yet for such detail. She watched in agony as he approached the town, guiding his chestnut mount cautiously down the winding route, passing the blackberry bushes that lined the northern edge of the paving stones, branches swaying over his head in the October breeze. All lights were out in the inn; he surely could not see the danger that waited at every window. The wind ebbed momentarily and the rapping of horse hooves echoed quietly along the moor. Two of the redcoats at her window perked up and looked out the window, seeing him clearly in the light of the full moon, slapping their snoozing comrade awake before shouldering their muskets and sighting down the barrels. The distance was still too great for their smoothbore weapons; they could not risk firing so soon.

Closer, the shadowy figure came, ever closer to the inn. Bess could now see the faint glimmer of light on the silver hilt of his rapier, the light tapping of hooves on the cobblestones growing louder with each passing moment. Soon, she thought, they would have to fire. If he grew too close before they took their shots, he could make out the thin barrels of the muskets protruding from the dark threshold of each window.

Still closer, by now deciding that the local watch was not waiting for him, that word had not been sent ahead from his last sighting that a rogue highwayman was looking for sanctuary somewhere down the road. Bess saw him pull his wine-red velvet coat in close, deciding that his pistols would not be needed and instead fighting off the brisk late October wind. She saw the soldiers tense, not just watching down their barrels but actually aiming now. He was out of time. They were both out of time.

Bess drew in one final breath and squeezed the trigger of the musket for which she'd worked so damnably hard. The blast was deafening in the deathly silence of the little room, sounding less like a musket and more like a cannon on some distant battlefield. A paying boarder screamed in her nearby room, her cry dwarfed by the ringing gunshot. Bess felt a moment of jarring shock as the ball fired into her chest, shattering her ribs and piercing her heart, ribbons of warm dark blood instantly drenching her rough-spun dress and spattering across the backs of the shocked soldiers as powder smoke drifted up lazily from her red-soaked muzzle. She managed one last, sorrowful look out the window, seeing the dark rider instantly turn and spur his mount hard back to the east, musket balls flying all around him without effect, before she gave in to the darkness that rushed in to claim her.

*

The rising sun again broke on the eastern horizon, in much the same manner as it had the day before, and most days before that. Even at that early hour, the gossip was already moving along the highway in full force, as fresh gossip tends to do. A striking man in a claret velvet coat, his saddlebags heavy with coins and a rapier slung from his hip, was leading his russet Shire through the morning pastry market, hoping some sort of breakfast would help offset not having slept in over a day of hard riding, when the news spread through the crowd like wildfire. The King's men had waited in ambush for a villainous highwayman, it was said, holding his own beloved as a hostage while lying in wait for his eventual return. What exactly went wrong, no one could say with any authority; all that was known was the highwayman was sighted, a shot rang out, and the innkeeper's daughter was no more.  

Upon hearing the news, the man screamed aloud, knowing instantly what had happened, what Bess had done, and why she had done it. He mounted his horse and tore out of the market, dodging stalls and carts and people, his pastry falling forgotten to the flagstones still damp with morning mist. He charged back to the west, exhausting his horse, galloping straight through the little town without pause and continuing out the other side. He knew in his heart that the rumors were true, that his Bess was gone, taken from him. He had no need to stop, knowing that if he did, he would not have the strength of will to leave the inn once more.

His chestnut horse raced down the highway, hooves clattering on the pale cobblestones, the group of thwarted redcoats appearing in the distance, heading back from where they'd come. The highwayman let out a passionate cry for vengeance and drew his rapier, thrusting it into the sky, the duelist's blade gleaming under the midday sun. The King's men hurriedly shouldered their muskets, closed ranks in a panic, and fired a thunderous volley at the enraged rider, the impact of the musket balls knocking him clear off his high mount to land in the highway. His exquisite velvet coat was pierced numerous times, his creamy lace cravat and brocade shirt instantly stained with pools of blood blossoming from beneath. The rapier was still clenched firmly in his deathly grasp as the highwayman tumbled to a stop on the worn stones.

*

It's said that on a chilly autumn night, when leaves rustle in the wind and the full moon lights the night sky, iron-shod hooves can be heard on the cobblestones approaching the old inn, and a scent of perfume and a melody linger in the air.