The Accidental Highwayman

by Ben Tripp

  In truth, I cared not jot nor fig for any of them. When the viewing ended, I was pleased to rest my head, and fell asleep until awakened by my gaolers at dawn—that is how resigned I was to my doom. “You’re a cool one,” the bailiff remarked, I think with some little admiration.

  “I was practicing,” said I, thinking of the long sleep ahead.

  * * *

  In the same accounts that describe the last night of the condemned, you may also find descriptions of the last morning. I’ll expend little ink on that here, for I don’t remember much of my own experience between cockcrow and arrival at the village of Tyburn. There were more clergymen about—I think they got a bonus for last-minute repentances—and spectators lined the route all the way from the cell to the horse-drawn tumbril that would bear me to the place of execution.

  That road was a long one. I sat upon a bale of hay, shackled at the ankles and bound with cord at the wrists. The spectators along the way were not too abusive, but most interested; although the mask was in my pocket, there could be no mistaking the costume of Whistling Jack, even without it.

  The tumbril took me to a crossroad, suitably enough, that being the sort of place one meets a highwayman. There stood the Tyburn Tree, the location of which had been the place of public executions for nearly a millennium. All around the intersection, old houses had been converted to viewing platforms, and there were stands erected for the purpose in every house-yard adjacent. The killing ground was a popular attraction for tourists, and a roaring trade was being done in beer, hot buns, and fainting salts.

  As my cart arrived, traffic around the crossroad had become impassable due to the large crowd, and those whose business lay elsewhere were forced to take to the fields, or else find other lanes past the obstruction, miles out of the way. The better classes had brought lunch in hampers, and plenty to drink; in addition to the stands, viewing was done from carriage-top and horseback. It might as well have been a royal coronation.

  The hangman accompanied me in the cart. He was seated beside the driver, who was muffled to the chin, his hat pulled low despite the warm weather—probably to escape identification for his conscience’s sake, as his hand in the business was no less fatal than the executioner himself. The hangman wore no disguise, unlike his forebears in ancient times. He was a cheerful fellow with a cocked hat and ready smile, and described points of interest along the entire route, culminating with the “tree” itself.

  “This ’ere is the himproved gallows, darlin’,” said the hangman, with evident pride, as we arrived. “Had you been captured but a year past, we’d have hung you the same as Cromwell’s rotten carcass and sprightly Duval, by the three-legged tree, and you strugglin’ up a ladder with no ’ands, only ter be kicked off the top in a resoundin’ failure of ’ospitality, like the carpenter in Chaucer’s tale. This ’ere up-to-date happaratus affords ye some dignity. A flight of sound steps, a fine firm floor to stand on, and then we drops a box beneath yer and ye hangs like a gentleman between them two posts. This is a time of hinnovations and marvels of hefficiency.”

  While I admired the handsome new fixtures, the rope was tied in a neat noose, and then a ’prentice hangman climbed a ladder to the top of the tree, which consisted (as the hangman said) not of the original three pillars with a triangle of hanging-bars at the top, but of a pair of posts with a beam between them for the same purpose. It was all erected upon a platform like a stage, surrounded by black baize fabric, swagged and pleated for a neat appearance. On the platform was the fatal step the condemned man would stand upon. The step itself was designed to drop down into a recess, leaving the guilty party suspended by the neck in precisely the manner advertised by my companion. The apprentice tested the mechanism as I waited, and so I was able to see how efficacious was the design.

  There were various bits of official business: the reading of the judgment, then some prayers from a higher-ranking clergyman whose nose was the color of a hanged man’s face, perhaps from grief, or perhaps from drink. What else went on, I did not mind, for I was dwelling upon other matters, chiefmost among them a pair of sparking green eyes. Then the hour was nigh, and between two rough bully-boys I was escorted forward, and my feet guided to the stairs. I was compelled to ascend, readily enough despite my quaking legs and bound hands, to the platform, where the hangman joined me, along with the clergyman and the two bully-boys, who waved at the crowd.

  I was propelled toward the solitary step, and mounted it. The hemp was placed around my neck. It prickled and squeezed in just the way promised by Captain Sterne, whom I spied smiling in the crowd. He was in the company of the kind lady he so jealously guarded, yet so unpleasantly misused. She looked very unhappy. Both of them were on foot; perhaps the brown horse had no taste for hangings.

  There I stood, and shivered, and looked upon the crowd for what seemed an eternity—perhaps because eternity was so near at hand. I might not have cared any longer for my life, but no man yearns to die, least of all with a knot at his ear.

  Then I chanced to look down at the tumbril which had brought me there. I saw at last the driver’s face, previously concealed: it was Mr. Scratch, the postilion of the enchanted coach. He touched his whip to his hat by way of greeting, and grinned. The scene lacked only Prudence Fingers and her henchman to be complete, but I did not see them. My attention returned to the eternal.

  “Have you any last words to bestow upon us?” the purple-nosed clergyman asked.

  “Say something bonny,” said the hangman. “They likes a good last word.”

  “No obscene language, however,” added the clergyman.

  As it happens, I did have something I wished to say, so I said it. I had to start twice, however, because my voice was exceedingly faint upon the first attempt. On my next try, I imitated Uncle Cornelius’s method of speaking, and this proved satisfactory.

  “Fellow Englishmen,” said I. “Ladies and gentlemen. You gather here to see a live man become a dead one, and for my part you shall have satisfaction. But I would offer you a moral lesson to commemorate my passing; otherwise it might as well be bullbaiting you witness here today. However: I shall not deliver a warning that crime does not pay, for it pays very well; nor that a life of drink and debauchery leads inevitably to destruction, for I haven’t led such a life.”

  Well, that got the attention of the crowd, and ceased its cheers and taunts entirely. They lent me their ears.

  I continued, “Here’s what this little life of mine has taught me. There is only one reason to live, and there is only one reason to die, and that is love. If you have not known love, you have not lived. But if, when death comes to take your soul, you have loved someone dearly, then your soul is safe; for it lives in the bosom of your sweetheart, and death can make no claim upon it. That is all I know, and it is enough. Farewell.”

  The onlookers remained subdued after my words; some wept. Perhaps there were a few who knew the kind of love of which I spoke. I was not content, but had some peace, for I understood a great mystery. In any case, that was that. The clergyman was disappointed at my lack of contrition, but the hangman wrung my hand with as much sincerity as if it were my neck.

  “A fine speech,” said he. “They’ll write songs about it.”

  I refused the nightcap he offered to put over my head, then squared my shoulders and awaited the rap of the latch beneath my feet that would signal the end.

  There was little left to do but hang. The apprentice grasped the lever at his side, and upon the hangman’s word, drew it back; I looked into the sky and saw only clouds. There was a thump as the latch was released, and for an instant I was falling into space, the noose leaping upward upon my throat.

  But then I continued to fall. I plunged entirely beneath the floor, and out of view of the crowd, into the stuffy darkness beneath the hanging stage. With a painful crash I landed on my side in a heap of old ale jugs, my arms being still bound behind me. The air was knocked out of me. This is the problem with Britain, I thought. Nobody cares about
quality workmanship anymore. But then exceedingly small hands were cutting my bonds with fox-tooth knives, and a faint green light sprang up. Willum and Gruntle were with me now, and with them were a dozen other feyín I hadn’t met before.

  “We got your bee,” said one of the strangers. “Sorry to be so last minute.”

  “I told yer I’d return your kindness some day, sir,” said Gruntle.

  “The revolution has begun,” Willum said. “Go get the Princess Morgana.”

  I tore the noose from around my neck and saw it had been severed a few inches above the knot. The rope end was burnt, so it must have been Willum’s fire caprizel that parted the strands. The Faeries were a cunning race, and knew how to shape their comprimaunts into both tools and weapons. My gratitude was beyond words, so I didn’t use any.

  “Now for them spectulators out there,” Gruntle said.

  The Faeries peeped beneath the baize skirt of the platform. Above us, visible through the trapdoor, the hangman and the minister were looking down to see what had befallen me, or rather, how be it I fell. Willum caused a great cloud of black smoke to issue up through the hole, which had the salutary effects of driving back the men atop the platform and of frightening the crowd. Half of them thought it was a fire, and they’d be burned alive, and the other half thought it was brimstone, and the devil was under the gallows.

  Meanwhile, the other feyín were casting every manner of caprizel about—horses went mad, tree limbs fell, and spectator platforms collapsed; bottles of wine exploded into vinegar, cheeses ripened and burst like grenadoes, and a flock of sheep from a nearby field became as savage as wolves, charging into the panicked crowd and bleating ferociously.

  A few moments into the frenzy, the curtains were flung aside and Willum cried, “Magda’s by the mill! Get you to her!” and I was running like the rest of the crowd, pell-mell, with no idea where the mill was to be found.

  I had been relieved of my hat by the hangman up above, but there was not much need of concealment in that mêlée. I saw Mr. Scratch tumble from the driver’s bench of the wain, his features a rictus of fury. In all the struggling crowd, only Captain Sterne recognized my face, and drew his sword to cut me down. His lady was nowhere to be found. I had no avenue of escape, and no weapon to defend myself.

  “Better than hanging,” he cried. “I’ll do you myself!”

  As he rushed at me, a great wooly sheep propelled itself between his knees, so that he lost both his sword and his footing, and was seated upon the beast’s back; the sheep ran onward, and the captain was lost beneath a writhing mass of humanity extricating itself from an overturned wagon. I took up his sword and ran for freedom.

  On I raced, and not alone; spectators were running in all directions, many pursued by rampaging ducks and geese. But I saw the mill, fair enough, across a field of lettuces. There was a wheel at its side, turning over the water of a swift little stream. I dashed through the vegetables, made a circuit around the mill, and there found Magda.

  “You never used me wishing tooth, boyo,” she said.

  “I know not what it’s for,” said I, using the sword as a crutch and panting for breath.

  “Ye may yet sort it out,” she said. “I brung ’ee this, little good as it’s been.”

  She handed me a soiled and creased fold of paper—my master’s will, the borigium.

  “I shan’t look at it,” I insisted. “Not until I’m sure the hanged man isn’t there any longer.”

  “Time a-wastin’ be,” Magda spat. “Whistle up that horse of yourn, for I brung him also. He’s enchanted fair enough, but only nor three hours. Arter that, ’ee’s but a fine horse again, and nothing more. The Princess is at Hampton Court Palace—in the Haunted Gallery. You can get there in a minute or two, but the weddin’ is in five, so don’t takes yer time.”

  “But that’s miles from here,” I protested—to the empty air. Magda had vanished.

  So I whistled, which took about ten tries; my lips were not at my command, nor was my mouth possessed of even a single drop of the requisite moisture for such a feat. At last, I got a weak chirp out, and immediately heard my beloved Midnight’s answering whinny—not from behind a hedge or wall, but from above me.

  I looked up, and there he was, his great black wings shining like silk, the feathers outspread to slow his descent. His hooves pawed the air as if it was a field of grass.

  “Midnight, bless your soul!” I cried, then sheathed the sword in my boot-top. I hurled myself onto Midnight’s back as he trotted up to me. There was enough room between shoulder and wing that I could sit securely without a saddle. But without reins, I could only tell him where I wanted to go, and hope he understood. I named the destination, he kicked his hooves into the soil and sprang aloft, and the world fell away as we rose into the sky.

  [ “I Looked Up, and There He Was” ]

  Birds must grow accustomed to it; I didn’t have time. I’d never been up so high without something firm underfoot, and my head spun with the void all around. At a certain height, higher than the tallest building I had ever looked out from, or the tallest hill I’d ever ascended, the distance from the ground ceased to be frightening, for it no longer looked as though we were getting higher in the air; rather, it looked as though the world were getting smaller, and if I should wish to step off Midnight’s back, my boot could flatten an entire village.

  We flew at terrific speed, the wind beating our faces. Midnight clearly enjoyed it as much as possible, while I clung to his mane and tried not to fall off. Horses run so fast because their souls were born to fly, I think. The landscape beneath us slipped past with such swiftness that we covered the distance from the Tyburn Tree to Hampton Court Palace—a span of more than three leagues, about ten miles—in as little time as it takes to spend a farthing in a sweetshop.

  There were the royal gardens, spread below us like an intricate Persian carpet, and there the roofs of lead and clay, bristling with twisted brick chimney pipes. I saw a stream of elegantly dressed people entering the palace. They resembled small, gaudy dolls from above, their toy carriages circling the drive. Then Midnight bore me among the rooftops and we were searching for a place to set down.

  Chapter 34

  THE ROYAL WEDDING

  THE WEDDING was intended to be, as I was later to discover, a small affair, attended by only the few personages required to make the event legally binding. Apparently the alliance was a state secret. The nuptials would be followed directly by a great costumed ball—guests to which I had seen in the forecourt—which would allow the Faerie emissaries to mingle at court without detection. There was some other pretext for the ball, Midsummer Night’s Eve or the like.

  Midnight had landed us upon the roof of Hampton Court—or, to be precise about it, upon one of the many roofs. Never in my life had I seen such a vast construction, all to one purpose. But the great horse seemed to know what he was about, for he pawed the red clay tiles and ducked his head, as if to say, “Straight below.”

  I had less than a minute and a half to reach my destination, at best. So I did not question his wisdom, but flung myself over the nearest parapet and dropped to a balcony on the floor below. I entered by way of an unlocked window; there was no need to worry about intruders up here, after all.

  Captain Sterne’s sword in hand, I raced down a scuffed brown hallway in what must have been the servants’ quarters beneath the roof, with apartments on each side for threescore people; before me was a stone stair spiraling through the floor. I leapt down it three steps at a time.

  Everything I did there was at absolutely full tilt, never walking a step that could be run, and I spared not a moment for thought nor caution. Was I not already dead? Did not my throat still chafe from the embrace of the noose? Should any creature stand between me and Morgana in her peril, it would be to their peril. I hoped.

  At the bottom of the stair, to my immeasurable relief, was the Haunted Gallery. It didn’t appear haunted at that time, but rather, crowded with wigged and po
wdered servants in livery, King’s Guards, and men-in-waiting. Nearly everyone carried swords at their belts, not to mention pikes and lances. I was at last inspired to adopt a little caution, and ducked out of sight. I bound the highwayman’s mask about my eyes. Perhaps they would mistake me for a costumed party guest, should I be discovered. It might also hide the terror on my face.

  Captain Sterne’s sword seemed familiar to me as I renewed my grip upon it. Then I recognized the weapon—’twas the very sword I had lost in my struggle with Mr. Scratch and Mr. Bufo! My master’s own weapon. This gave me courage, for some nonsensical reason. Upon the blade, in freshly engraved floral script, was this message: Captured from the Highwayman Whistling Jacques, and the date of my apprehension, several weeks after I lost it. What I was most pleased to see was the golden hilt.

  All of this happened in a twinkling—I had the damp mud from the mill yard yet on my boots, and between parting from Magda and the moment I hefted the sword in my fist, no more than three minutes had elapsed. If the royal wedding was taking place in the room around which the guards were gathered, I had all of two minutes to enact some plan of rescue, assuming the Chaplain of the Household spoke slowly.

  The trouble was—and I find in life this is often the situation—I couldn’t think of what to do. Between me and Morgana were three dozen armed men, besides whomever she was with inside that room, some of whom would surely be magical persons, and possibly goblings.

  I must think of something! was all my mind could invent. A case-clock against the wall ridiculed me with its incessant ticking. Nearly another minute had passed.

  A mad fugue of anxiety quite overtook me. It was time to act, and if I died, Morgana would surely know I tried my best, and perchance suspect what was in my heart, and forgive me for my incompetence and brusqueness where she was concerned.