The Highwayman's Footsteps

by Nicola Morgan

  Bess walked to a nearby farm for eggs and milk and while she was gone I stopped on more than one occasion to breathe in the sweet air and to think quietly of poor Henry Parish. I told myself that he was better in Heaven than down here, where he would be for ever on the run. He had faced terror and death and faced it bravely. And now he was at peace.

  He did not have to endure anything again. We, on the other hand, must surely have many dangers ahead and we could know nothing of what they might be.

  Did I envy Henry Parish? No, I did not. It seems we are born to cling to life until it is dragged from us, and I would cling to mine. Did not one of our poets say, “Hope springs eternal in the human breast”? I think he did, though I do not recall who. And so, I believe hope lives in us until it can live no more.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Even in her skirts, Bess was quick and strong. Not once did she slip on the rocks and pebbles that were strewn across the path. We were clambering our way up the hillside the following day and there was a light in her face, a smile at the world, despite the purpose of our journey.

  With sunlight spearing the trees in front of us, with gulls wheeling and crying overhead, with new grass underfoot, I followed Bess towards the summit. There was a hot pounding in my head and I could speak only with effort. But it was good to run without someone running after me. It was good not to have to look behind me, to wonder where soldiers were. To feel free.

  I stopped, turned, and looked down the hillside, resting my hands on my knees as I gasped for breath.

  “Hurry!” shouted Bess above me.

  “No, wait!” I replied. “Look!” and I pointed towards the east, almost towards the sun. In the distance, like a line of silver thread, was the sea, glinting. Before it, there stretched the gentle slopes of newly enclosed land, in places somewhat like a patchwork, in others more natural. When I looked more closely, I could spy houses, scattered, a shepherd’s hut, the dark shadows of woods and forests. On a twisting road I could see tiny figures of people walking, and a carriage with horses. How small they looked! How unimportant!

  “What is it?” asked Bess impatiently.

  “Everything,” I said. “Everything. All this. We are not important, are we? All this will be here when we are long gone.”

  “You are wrong,” said Bess. “That is why we’re important. Because we’re not on this earth very long. The place is not important. People are important. What we do is important. Nothing else matters.”

  But she stood and looked with me all the same. And I thought about what she’d said. It sounded new and bold and strange. Was she right? All my life I had been taught that we are unimportant – although some are more unimportant than others – and that God will judge.

  But on what will God judge us if we do nothing important?

  Eventually, out of breath, hot-faced, we came to the top of the hill and Bess hurried towards the place she was looking for, gathering up her skirts as she deftly made her way along an almost invisible path. “Here!” she called, and I followed her. I could hear the noise of the waterfall now, could see its silver ribbon falling further down the hillside, but it was only when we scrambled over one final rock that I saw it fully.

  Below me, as if from the cliff face itself, the water dropped from a hidden spring, crashing onto the rocks as it fell before twisting down the hillside. I could feel a fine spray across my face, lifted by the sifting wind. A seagull flew up from a ledge, squawking in anger, and wheeling and circling over the tumbling water.

  Bess pulled my arm. She pointed over to our left and I followed her.

  And there, nestled in a hollow, facing south where the sun would strike first, protected from the wind on three sides, was a patch of royal purple and gold crocuses.

  Now Bess became quiet. I kept my distance, sitting on a rock, watching her, feeling the breeze in my hair, the warmth of the sun on my face, allowing the sound of the waterfall to crash over me. She picked a large handful of the flowers, one by one, slowly, without speaking. Then she walked to the top of the waterfall and I watched her stand there. She paused for a few moments, fingering her father’s locket on the chain around her neck, before she threw the flowers into the torrent.

  Her hair, black and twisting, blew in the wind, like tumbling water itself. I could see her face from the side. She did not look sad. She looked alive. And I thought how fortunate she was to have someone to whom to bid farewell, someone to join one day.

  Bess walked to me, her eyes shining, watering in the sunshine or the wind. “We shall remember Henry, too,” she said. And she bent to pick more flowers. I did likewise. And together we walked to the edge of the waterfall and together we dropped crocuses into the torrent for Henry Parish, to show him that we had not forgotten and that we would never forget. For as long as there were crocuses and for as long as we had breath in our bodies, we would not forget him and why he died.

  As we made our way back to the cottage, talking of this and that, we saw in the distance a long line of soldiers taking a road along the valley. Their red coats marked them for who they were. We stopped and watched them ride.

  “How I hate them,” said Bess, quietly but with bitter venom in her voice.

  I kept my silence. I hated them too, perhaps as much as she did. But it was what we did that was important, was it not, not what they did or even what they did to us?

  Bess and I were better than them, I knew that. And we would do the right thing, whatever that might cost.

  That evening, Bess took a stringed instrument from a heavy chest. A cittern, I knew – and all too well, since I had had to endure the unnatural playing of one of my sisters on many an occasion.

  Bess held the cittern easily against her body and began to draw her fingers softly across the strings, turning the pegs at the end until it made the sounds she wanted. I could not tell which notes were the right ones – I had no skill in music-making. Without strangeness, though smiling to me in acknowledgement that what she did was for me to hear, she began to sing. The words were not familiar to me, but then I had not heard ballads sung before. And as she sang, I saw that there was another reason I could not know the words – this ballad told of Henry Parish and these were Bess’s own words. As she sang, sometimes repeating or changing fragments so that they might better fit the rhythm, I marvelled at this skill: to put a man’s life and death into words and to reach a listener’s heart. That is an art indeed.

  Her voice was light and strong, soft at the edges, a voice of gentle warmth. It was like nothing I had heard, but then I suppose I had only heard my sisters’ thin and wavery voices. Perhaps I had never before heard anyone sing from the heart. But soon I found myself thinking not of Bess or her voice, but only of Henry Parish. How surprised he would have been to be immortalized like this. And, perhaps, how proud.

  I recall her words:

  ’Tis of a fearless soldier-boy

  A story I will tell

  His name was Henry Parish-o

  In England did he dwell.

  ’Twas for the King he stood so bold

  ’Twas for the King he dressed in red

  ’Twas for honour he lived so true

  ’Tis for honour he lies cold dead.

  Ten years and four had Henry breathed,

  A mother’s only boy.

  Hear, hear ye now his sorry tale

  And judge ye then her joy!

  ’Twas for the King he stood so bold

  ’Twas for the King he dressed in red

  ’Twas for honour he lived so true

  ’Tis for honour he lies cold dead.

  As Henry fought for King and truth,

  His mother lay near death,

  His sister too, for lack of flour,

  How close her dying breath!

  ’Twas for the King he stood so bold

  ’Twas for the King he dressed in red

  ’Twas for honour he lived so true

  ’Tis for honour he lies cold dead.

  He could not see h
is sister die

  So Henry took his share,

  But the flour which our poor must eat

  Men need to white their hair.

  ’Twas for the King he stood so bold

  ’Twas for the King he dressed in red

  ’Twas for honour he lived so true

  ’Tis for honour he lies cold dead.

  How raged the soldiers’ fury then!

  How cruel their steely eyes!

  How cold their hearts, how true their aim

  How fast poor Henry flies!

  ’Twas for the King he stood so bold

  ’Twas for the King he dressed in red

  ’Twas for honour he lived so true

  ’Tis for honour he lies cold dead.

  And so upon the wintry moors,

  The redcoats closed around.

  As Henry stood there, brave and true,

  They felled him to the ground.

  ’Twas for the King he stood so bold

  ’Twas for the King he dressed in red

  ’Twas for honour he lived so true

  ’Tis for honour he lies cold dead.

  Where spilled his blood there is no sign,

  No mark of his last breath,

  But in our hearts he lives on still:

  Remember ye his death.

  It was through hearing the Ballad of Henry Parish that I did, at last, begin to remember him well. I understood now his life and his death.

  Chapter Fifty

  A little over a week later found us in Scarborough once more. This time the horses were not with us: Sapphire’s injury was healing but she was not fit to ride many miles and Merlin, too, needed to rest, so Bess decided we should walk to the road and hope for a horse and cart to pass and take us to the town. Why we must go to Scarborough I did not know – it seemed too far and my memory of what had happened there last time was all too fresh. But Bess had something on her mind and when Bess had something on her mind there was little I could do about it, as I was coming to learn.

  She had said we would find a cart to take us, and this is indeed what happened. And so, shaken, sickened and cold, we soon found ourselves breathing in the sea air once more. We climbed down gratefully, thanking the carter, and I followed Bess towards the tavern where One-legged Jack lived. This time, I was permitted to follow Bess inside.

  I was assailed by noise and heat and the roar and shouting of men, the smell of ale and gin, the air thick with fire smoke and roasting meat and tobacco. Several dogs lay beside their masters, one of them gnawing on a hollow bone. But the men seemed scarcely to notice us. I felt my arm being pulled – it was Bess. I had not heard her calling to me. She guided me through the crush of bodies, and through a doorway, into another room. She dragged the door closed behind us.

  Here, one man only sat, by the fire, smoking a thick cigar, one leg before him, the other leg no more than a stump sticking straight out. Seeing Bess, he lowered his tankard with a crash which splashed dark beer onto the table. Placing his cigar on a plate, he held out his arms towards her and she went to him and let him kiss her hand. While they greeted each other I had time to examine this man, One-legged Jack, as I assumed him to be.

  I could not decipher his position in society. His face was coarsened by dark stubble, yet the line of his jaw and his cheeks were strong. His jacket, though long and well cut, was tired, its claret colour now dull and somewhat dusty, yet a stiff lace collar, as white as I had ever seen, garnished his throat. Two large gold rings sat upon his fingers, and the embroidery on his waistcoat was ornate, but his hair was undressed, hanging almost to his shoulders, not quite straight, neither bewigged nor curled nor even tied in a pigtail. His voice, however, was strong and mellow and spoke of education and good birth.

  “And whom do we have here? This must surely be the lad of whom you spoke?” He gazed directly at me, his green eyes bright and inquiring. He looked me up and down, slowly.

  “Yes, this is Will,” said Bess. “You can trust him. He has proved himself true.”

  “You did not tell me that fortune had smiled when she made his face. That his eyes were dark and steady, his nose and jaw strong and straight. Is it possible that this had escaped your notice? Are you not your father’s daughter? He had an eye for beauty.”

  I blushed under such comments and know not what showed on Bess’s face.

  “It matters only that he can be trusted,” she said, with perhaps a certain sharpness.

  One-legged Jack still looked at me and I stared straight back, though trying not to look insolent. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” I said, holding out my hand, which he took. It was a firm grip, which lingered while he looked into my eyes before letting my hand go.

  “Who is your father? Bess told me that you are well-born, which I can see for myself and she told me that you are a runaway. Where are you from?”

  “He will not say,” Bess answered for me.

  “He shall say now,” said One-legged Jack.

  “I am from near Hexham. Beyond Durham,” I added, unnecessarily, somewhat flustered by his questions.

  “Yes, I am aware of the whereabouts of Hexham. But you did not answer my other question. Who is your father?”

  I paused, just slightly, before answering. I did not wish to tell them. Had I not left that life behind? And yet, I knew that I must say.

  I took a deep breath.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  “My father is Charles de Lacey.”

  A gasp came from Bess. One-legged Jack became very still of a sudden, his eyes narrowing. He looked at Bess. “You should have asked.”

  “I did ask. He would not tell me. I did not think… I could not have thought’”

  “You should have thought. Remember what your father taught you: knowledge is all.”

  “What do you know of my father?” I asked, confused, startled by their manner on hearing his name.

  “He is a High Sheriff, is he not?” When I nodded, he continued. “But your father is not all he seems. He is also the Member for Parliament, of course. A popular man, then, you would attest?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know of such things.” I could not imagine my father being popular. Nor could I imagine him caring for such things as popularity – although of course, he would wish for the necessary votes. I had never thought on it. I simply knew my father was the Member for Parliament and that the absences that this caused were the happier parts of my life.

  “He is indeed a popular man. More popular than a man of his corruption should be.” The man was looking at me, judging my reaction. I did not rightly know how to react. I did not understand what I was hearing. He continued. “Do you know what we mean by a pocket borough?” I shook my head. “It is where the constituency is in the pocket of the Member for Parliament. To be precise, he buys the votes, generously giving money to those who vote for him. As for those who choose to vote for another, he might throw them off their land. His land – because it is, of course, all his land.”

  Why did I feel such shame? Why did I care so when I heard what my father had done? Had I not already decided I was no son of his? You might think I should be pleased to find good reason to despise him, but I can assure you it gave me no pleasure at all. I was of his blood and his shame was my shame.

  Bess was looking down at her hands. She knew all this already – but she had not known that this man was my father. What did she think of me now?

  One-legged Jack was still speaking. “But there is more. There are people whom I know. People who will tell me things. And then I tell the people I trust, people who will carry on the work that I can no longer do.” He gestured towards his leg before continuing. “Seeking out corruption and fighting it in the only way we know. We have heard tell of many men, wealthy men and men of the middling sort, lawyers, magistrates and the like” – his mouth twisted in distaste as he said this – “who use their positions to rob from the poor, storing up ill-gotten rewards for themselves. We merely work to redress that balance. A
nd your father, the honourable Charles de Lacey, High Sheriff, is only one of many men who have come to our attention in recent months. And my people have told me more about him. Do you wish to know what we have discovered?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I do.”

  One-legged Jack looked at me for a long moment, and I made my shoulders as strong and tall as I could, set my jaw as firmly as was possible, waiting for whatever I might be told.

  “You will perhaps not know, in a position of such privilege, of the taxes that ordinary people must pay? You will not know, I venture, that the high prices of soap, of wool, of spirits, of sugar, even of flour, and many other necessities, are caused not by scarcity of those goods but by the taxes set on them by our government. The government want our money, and they prefer to take it not from the wealthy but from the poor.”

  “Is this my father’s fault?”

  “No, but those who collect the taxes are in his pay. We have heard rumours, stronger now than ever, that he keeps part of the taxes they collect, to fund his militia and to buy his votes. And we have heard more.” Now he turned to Bess. “I told you of our suspicions when last we met – now I know them to be true. I have sworn evidence from four men. He has been giving pardons to convicted felons – for a high price, of course. And once they are freed, he has them arrested again on another charge in another county. His net is wide, his accomplices as corrupt as he.”

  Jack and Bess looked at me. Anger and shame struggled inside my heart.

  I had not known! Not even a small suspicion of his greed and dishonour had I had. Should I not have known? Should I not have questioned how he could afford to fund his militia? But I did not know or think of such things. They had not been my concern. I had thought only of my own feelings.