The Highwayman's Footsteps
Page 22
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:
THE HIGHWAYMAN
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.
ALFRED NOYES 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 manipu
late 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?
A: Just because I love the tragic, exciting story in that poem! In some ways, it doesn’t make any difference that it was a poem, but actually the poem has such an amazing rhythm that it seems to make it extra emotional.
Q: Were Bess’s parents real?
A: They were invented by the poet, Alfred Noyes. In his poem, the highwayman and the landlord’s blackeyed daughter never had a child, but I decided to imagine that they had.
Q: How come you were allowed to do that, if another writer had invented them?
A: Because the poet’s daughter, who looks after his works (he died in the 1958) said I could! And she said I could reproduce the poem at the end of the book.
Q: Did you say you went to stay in his house?
A: Yes! My account of that amazing experience is here: bit.ly/zwidXc.
Q: Apart from Henry Parish, were any other characters or events real?
A: The Hexham Massacre, yes. You can find information on the Northumberland and Durham Family History Society website (bit.ly/xJWG5u), and on the England’s North East website (bit.ly/yGdVML). It was an example of how poor people seemed to have no laws to protect them and the rich could do whatever they wanted. That second link contains the story I used about the old man being executed and how it was later discovered he hadn’t even been there.
Q: Do you like writing stories from the past?
A: Yes! There are lots of ways I can make them really exciting because in past times there were so many dangerous things that children got up to and much less protection. So it makes it easy to think of dramatic adventures. The research is hard work but interesting.
Q: Which period of history would you like to have lived in?
A: None! I honestly wouldn’t have liked to live in any other time. For one thing, I don’t like the sound of women’s lives in any historical period. Medicine is so much better now and most of us (but not all of us) have much more comfort than people in previous centuries.
Q: Were you good at history at school?
A: No! I couldn’t remember dates and names, and my teachers got cross with me about that. It was only when I started researching my first historical novel, Fleshmarket (bit.ly/FPTtRW), that I realized history isn’t about dates: it’s about people and what they do to each other.
Other interesting information about The Highwayman’s Footsteps
I blogged about seeing the first copies here: bit.ly/ FPH6nO.
There’s a list of songs and stories which have used the same poem as inspiration here: bit.ly/FPBxB3. And here is my own website page for both books, where you will find lots of reviews and other information: bit.ly/wCE46O.
If you enjoy this galloping adventure, do try The Highwayman’s Curse, where Will and Bess face very different dangers and their lives change for ever. Read it if you dare!
If you’d like me to visit your school to talk about the highwayman books or my other books for young people, do ask your school librarian or teacher to contact me. My email address is on the contact page of my website, www.nicolamorgan.com. I always love to hear from readers, schools or anyone else interested in my books!
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously.
First published 2006 by Walker Books Ltd
87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ
Text © 2006 Nicola Morgan Cover illustration
© 2006 Christian Birmingham
Full text and quotations from The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes by permission of The Society of Authors as the Literary Representative of the Estate of Alfred Noyes
The right of Nicola Morgan to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, taping and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data: a catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-4063-4246-8 (ePub)
www.walkerbooks.co.uk