‘I know that. But Hugh Rua still rides in the glen – or so they say.’
Tapser looked at him. ‘You don’t really believe that, do you? I mean, how could he?’
Mr Stockman was still smiling to himself. When he wasn’t busy on the farm he loved a bit of fun, and enjoyed the sweet run just as much as any of the young people who went with him. ‘Well … the glens have a lot of secrets you know. So have the people.’
‘And what did you say his name was?’
‘Hugh Rua. He had red hair, just like yourself. So he was known as Hugh Rua, or Red Hugh. Probably Hugh of the Red Beard.’
‘That’s a funny sort of name.’
‘Not really. Some highwaymen were known by their own names, like Archer. Or the three O’Haughan brothers, who were highwaymen here in Antrim long before Archer’s time. But sometimes they were given romantic names, like John Mullan of Derry. He was known as Seán Crosagh the outlaw. Then there was Charles Carragher of South Armagh. He was known as Cathal Mór, or Big Charlie. And Charles Dempsey in Laois. He was known as Cahir na gCapall, Charles of the Horses. He was a horse thief.’
‘You seem to know an awful lot about highwaymen,’ said Tapser.
‘That’s because I’ve been reading about them.’
‘Were you trying to find out more about Hugh Rua?’
Mr Stockman glanced over at him. ‘Aren’t you very curious now?’
‘But did you?’ asked Tapser.
‘Did I what?’
‘Did you find out anything more about Hugh Rua?’
‘Not a whole lot,’ Mr Stockman admitted. ‘But don’t worry. You’ll find out plenty about him down in the glen. He’s regarded as a hero there.’
‘How come?’ asked Tapser.
‘Well, legend has it that when the people were very poor, he rode up out of the glen to rob the rich. A sort of Robin Hood. Then he overdid it and stole a coach, so he ended up on the gallows like Archer.’
‘You mean they hanged him?’
‘Aye. They stood for no nonsense in those days. For some crimes, even small ones, it was transportation to Australia. For murder and highway robbery, it was the gallows. But Hugh Rua’s legend is very much alive in the glen. In fact, there’s been a lot of talk of him recently. You see, some people say they’ve seen him on the High Road in the dead of night. Or if it wasn’t him, it was his ghost.’
Tapser was bursting with questions now and Mr Stockman judged it was time for a breathing space, so he promptly told him to reach into the back and get a handful of sweets.
The squat featureless shape of Slemish Mountain loomed large on their right, and as the blue van made its way through the countryside, Mr Stockman turned his attention to the crops. A small man with wispy grey hair, his face was tinged with red from a lifetime spent in the open.
It was a good year, he was thinking, and the barley was standing well – none of it flattened by heavy rain and high winds as so often happened. Now as he relaxed and thought about the harvest, he began to whistle to himself.
‘What’s that?’ asked Tapser, curious to know what the tune was as it had a nice lilt to it.
Mr Stockman smiled and gave him a few bars of the song:
‘Gather up the pots and the oul’ tin can
The mash, the corn, the barley and the bran
Run like the divil from the Excise man
Keep the smoke from rising Barney …’
‘That’s a funny song,’ said Tapser. ‘What’s it about?’
Mr Stockman turned his head slightly and winked. ‘The quare stuff.’
Tapser’s ears pricked up immediately. That’s what they had been talking about the night before – the quare stuff. But what was it?
Seeing he was puzzled, Mr Stockman told him, ‘The quare stuff – poteen.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Poteen,’ said Mr Stockman. ‘Well, I suppose you could say it’s home-made whiskey. It’s the drink of mountain folk – glensfolk too when they can smuggle down a bottle.’
Slemish, which had seemed to keep pace with them for a while, was now beginning to slip away behind them. ‘But why do they have to smuggle it?’ asked Tapser.
‘Because it’s against the law to make it. That’s why the song says, Run like the divil from the Excise man. The Excise men are the Customs officers and they control that sort of thing.’
‘But why are people not allowed to make it?’
‘Because you have to have a licence to make whiskey and then you have to pay so much money or taxes to the Government. The poteen makers do it on the quiet, and, apart from the fact that they don’t pay tax, there’s nobody to check how good or bad it is. And if you get bad stuff it could damage your insides. Maybe even drive you round the bend.’
‘And why do you call it the quare stuff?’
‘Well, I suppose because it’s made in queer circumstances and it can have a queer effect on you. They also call it mountain dew, because unlike whiskey it’s as clear as the dew on the grass. Or “wee still” because it’s made in small stills. In America they call it moonshine. But it’s the same thing. They say a drop of it can cure you; too much can kill you.’
‘You mentioned barley in the song. What’s that got to do with poteen?’
‘Man dear,’ said Mr Stockman, using one of his favourite phrases of affection, ‘isn’t that what they make it with.’
‘Barley? I thought that was used for making flour.’
‘Not at all,’ said Mr Stockman, at a loss to understand how Tapser could have spent so many summers on his farm and not know what barley was used for. ‘Flour is made from wheat. Barley is used for making feeding stuff for livestock or for making whiskey. And, as I say, they also use it to make a wee drop of poteen when the police aren’t looking.’
Who ‘they’ were, Tapser couldn’t imagine, but he hoped it was something he might find out during his visit.
They were now approaching the mountains that would lead them to the glen and at a remote crossroads they stopped at a small shop to deliver sweets. Before leaving, Mr Stockman struck up a conversation with a local man and was pleased to learn that a corncrake had been heard in the area in spite of the fact that they had almost been wiped out by the continual cutting of grass for silage. Larks, which were suffering the same fate, had also been seen further up the hill, he was told.
The man was telling no lie, for when a short time later they stopped at the top of the glen and got out to admire the view, they could hear the unmistakeable song of a lark as it fluttered high in the sky. Here and there the sides of the glen were aglow with the red berries of the rowan tree or mountain ash. Lower down, fields of barley formed a patchwork quilt with various shades of green and gold. And beyond lay the blue expanse of the sea.
Tapser shaded his eyes with his hand and asked, ‘Is that Rathlin Island?’
Mr Stockman shaded his eyes too and told him, ‘No, that’s Scotland. Rathlin’s further up the coast, near Ballycastle.’
Tapser tried to take it all in, and when he could strain his eyes no further than the hazy blue outline on the horizon, he switched his gaze back in towards the shore. Fishermen in small boats were tending to their lobster pots and nets. In the little harbour, a ship was unloading cargo.
Mr Stockman pointed to a building that rose up out of the scrub on the left side of the glen. It was white and glistened brightly in the sun.
‘That’s the Castle Spa Hotel down on the Low Road.’
‘What’s a spa?’ asked Tapser.
‘A spring well,’ said Mr Stockman. ‘The one there is supposed to have been blessed by St Patrick, and they say the water has great healing power. As a slave, Patrick herded swine on the slopes of Slemish, you know. And over there on the right, beside the High Road, you’ll find a memorial to Hugh Rua. That’s where they hanged him.’
As the van freewheeled its way down into the glen, Tapser couldn’t help wondering about Hugh Rua and what Mr Stockman had said about the people of th
e glen. Did they really have a lot of secrets? And was the Legend of the Phantom Highwayman one of them?
2. THE SPIRIT OF THE GLEN
When the van pulled into the yard, Cowlick’s mother and father gave Mr Stockman and Tapser a hearty welcome. A few minutes later Cowlick rushed around the end of the house to greet them too. He was followed by the farm’s two sheepdogs, which pranced around, resenting Prince, but finally accepted the bigger male collie with a submissive lowering of their tails.
It was dinner time, and the two visitors were ushered into the kitchen. It was a typical farmhouse, big and warm and smelling of boiled potatoes and freshly baked soda bread. Cowlick’s mother, a plump homely woman, had already laid the table, and when they had taken their places she filled their plates with lavish helpings of bacon and cabbage.
Unlike Mr Stockman, Cowlick’s father was a big burly man. He had a ruddy complexion, sparse sandy hair and a hearty laugh, and as they peeled their potatoes he told Mr Stockman he was waiting for the combine harvester to arrive in the morning.
Just then, Cowlick’s sisters, Róisín and Rachel, burst in and dumped a bucket beside the kitchen sink. They had been picking blackberries up the side of the glen and had run all the way down. The berries were for making jam but, as their mother observed, it was plain to see they had been eating them too. As a result they had to contain their excitement until they rushed upstairs and gave their hands and faces a quick wash.
When the dinner was over, the two men went off to look at some livestock in the back yard, and Cowlick and his sisters showed Tapser where he would be sleeping. An old rambling farmhouse, it had a big unused sitting room with old-fashioned pictures of lone stags in mountain settings, other smaller rooms here and there, narrow corridors, steep stairs, and what seemed like a lot of bedrooms.
Tapser was delighted to learn he wouldn’t be sleeping on his own, but would be sharing a room with Cowlick. He had just brought up his case when they were told Mr Stockman was leaving, so they all rushed down to say goodbye.
Mr Stockman told them he would be going to the Lammas Fair at Ballycastle the following Monday and would call and collect Tapser on his way home. He gave each of them a handful of sweets and with a wave left to make the rest of his deliveries.
When the blue van had disappeared from their view, the others asked Tapser what he would like to do. Of course, after the drive with Mr Stockman, the only things he had on his mind were poteen makers and Hugh Rua. Poteen-makers they’d never find his cousins told him, but if he wanted to find out more about Hugh Rua, why not? So they immediately set off for the High Road and the site of the memorial to the highwayman.
Prince explored a variety of scents as they climbed up through the thick scrub on the side of the glen. Here and there a small stream cascaded over the edge and fell in a long thin waterfall. Currents of air carried a fine spray back up like a wisp of smoke, and plucked at the girls’ long blonde hair when they reached the top.
Tapser found that the High Road ran between the edge of the glen and a bog, curling out of the mountains and disappearing down to the sea. Just beside it, on a prominent patch of rocky ground overlooking the glen, was the memorial to Hugh Rua.
The memorial was about three feet high and in the form of a bronze horse and rider. The horse was rearing up and its rider, masked and with a flowing cape, held a blunderbuss in his right hand. Tapser ran his fingers over the plaque on the granite base, and read the inscription aloud:
‘ERECTED TO THE MEMORY OF HUGH RUA
HIGHWAYMAN AND FRIEND OF THE GLEN.
CAPTURED BY THE KING’S DRAGOONS AND HANGED ON THIS SPOT
IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1813
‘And look,’ said Tapser. ‘Down here it says, “HIS SPIRIT STILL RIDES IN THE GLEN”. That’s from the ballad, isn’t it? What does it mean? His ghost?’
‘Well, there has been talk about that sort of thing recently,’ said Róisín, flicking away hair that had blown across her face. ‘But there’s more to it than that.’
‘That’s right,’ said Cowlick. ‘But you’d need to know the people down here to understand what they mean.’
‘For goodness sake,’ Rachel chipped in impatiently, ‘there’s no mystery about it. The people here in the glen, well, they’re different. They’re very independent, and in the days of Hugh Rua they were very poor and they felt they were being neglected. The stagecoaches were going into other areas, but not the glen as the roads were too bad.’
‘That’s right,’ said Róisín, taking up the story. ‘The people felt that if they had proper roads the stagecoaches would come through, it would open up the glen and they would be more prosperous.’
‘So one day,’ continued Rachel, ‘Hugh Rua, who had often ridden up out of the glen to rob the coach from Belfast, actually stole a coach and four horses on their way to Derry and brought them to the glen.’
‘The Londonderry Mail,’ said Róisín.
‘He took it just to draw attention to the problem,’ ex-plained Cowlick, who had been nodding in agreement.
‘But then they caught him,’ said Róisín, ‘and hanged him for highway robbery up here in full view of the whole glen so that everyone would see it and learn their lesson.’
‘So now you know,’ said Cowlick, ‘why people here consider Hugh Rua to be a sort of hero, even if he was a highwayman.’
As Tapser thought about what they had said and looked at the bronze horse and rider, he could visualise it coming to life at night to haunt the High Road. Then he read the last line on the plaque:
‘ERECTED BY THE PEOPLE OF THE GLEN
WITH THE GENEROUS ASSISTANCE OF
THE CASTLE SPA
‘How come?’ he asked.
‘Max put up the money for it – to help the people commemorate what Hugh Rua had done for them,’ Róisín told him.
‘Max van Weshal,’ explained Cowlick and, nodding towards the big white building on the far side of the glen added, ‘He owns the Castle Spa.’
‘Apart from giving money towards the memorial,’ said Tapser, ‘I don’t suppose he’d know any more about Hugh Rua than you do?’
‘Hardly,’ said Cowlick. ‘He probably only contributed to the memorial to keep in with the local people. There was a lot of resentment when he came here and bought the Castle Spa.’
‘You know what country people are like,’ explained Róisín. ‘They won’t buy something themselves but they don’t want anyone else to buy it, especially a foreigner. It’s the same everywhere, that’s what mammy says any-
way.’
‘Look,’ cried Rachel, pointing down at the farmhouse. ‘There’s Peppi. Come on.’
‘Who’s Peppi?’ Tapser asked Cowlick as they followed at a trot.
‘He’s the eggman. Well, he’s more than an eggman really. He’s a peddler. That’s his caravan pulling into the yard. He buys eggs and sells almost everything and he sharpens almost anything on a contraption he has at the back. He’s great fun.’
Tapser could see that Peppi was very popular, as there was great competition to see who could get down to the yard first. The girls had got a head start and were there before them.
‘Where did he get a name like Peppi?’ asked Tapser.
‘Oh, from the girls,’ replied Cowlick, as if to say, wouldn’t you know. ‘It comes from the first letters of the sign on his caravan.’
When they rounded the corner of the house, Tapser saw what he meant. Peppi’s caravan was parked in the yard. Drawn by a single brown horse, it was a high, rectangular affair, with four red-spoked wheels. It had a covering of faded green canvas, and an almost flat top that stuck out in front to give shelter to the driver. Painted on the side was the sign:
PANDORA & CO.
EGGS COLLECTED
POTS AND
PANS FOR SALE
IN EXCHANGE FOR GOODS OR CASH
There was a small chimney sticking up through the roof at the front, and towards the back, which was open, hung a variety of pots and pans,
hurricane lamps, saws and coils of wire, as well as some antique fire-irons and other brasses. Above these was another sign, which said: PANDORA’S BOX.
Having danced around with the girls and given them an affectionate hug, Peppi hopped up into the back of the caravan and came back out with a particular type of thread they had asked him to get. It was a thread they needed for school, and their mother hadn’t been able to get it for them.
Cowlick introduced Tapser. ‘Just call me Peppi,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Everyone else does.’
Peppi was indeed a very likeable person, as Cowlick had suggested. He was quite a young man, with black wavy hair and a happy face. He smoked a curly pipe and wore woollen gloves cut off at the fingers.
Tapser thought he looked like the type of young man who, rather than accept unemployment in the town, had struck out on his own and was depending on goodwill and sheer energy to make a living. For there he was now, peddling the contraption at the back of the caravan and sharpening a variety of kitchen knives that the girls had fetched from the house. Then he was busily storing eggs safely into the caravan and counting out the money to their mother.
‘What do you make of him?’ asked Cowlick as Peppi and his father exchanged a few words.
‘Seems a nice person,’ said Tapser. ‘Why?’
‘We all like him. But the girls think it’s suspicious the way he always wears those woollen gloves. I think it’s just because of all the work he does with his hands. But the girls think there’s some other reason.’
As they looked at the woollen gloves again, Cowlick’s father was saying, ‘Any chance of a drop of poteen in there?’ nodding to the caravan.
‘Ah, you never know,’ laughed Peppi. Then, in a somewhat confidential tone, ‘I hear there’s a lot of it coming down from the mountains these days, and neither the police nor the customs can stop it getting out.’
‘Do you tell me now,’ said Cowlick’s father. ‘But sure, what’s new about that? Aren’t they forever making it up there. The Widow Mulqueen always has a few bottles coming along. They don’t call her the Queen of the Mountain Dew for nothing you know.’
The Legend of the Phantom Highwayman Page 2