The Legend of the Phantom Highwayman

by Tom McCaughren

  ‘True, true,’ said Peppi, sucking his pipe. ‘But the word is someone is in it in a big way now, and the police are out to get them. It’s not just a question of the wee still any more, but a big still.’

  Everyone pricked up their ears at the mention of the poteen makers.

  ‘And that’s not all,’ continued Peppi. ‘I hear the ghost of Hugh Rua was seen on the High Road again last night.’

  ‘Ah, would you go on out of that,’ laughed the farmer, waving him away as if to say he had more important things to do than listen to talk like that. ‘Anyway, what’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Oh you may laugh,’ said Peppi, serious all of a sudden. ‘But the way I hear it, when Hugh Rua appears it’s a sure sign there’s a shipment of the quare stuff on the way.’

  * * *

  The combine harvester arrived next morning, but no sooner had it started to cut the barley than a mechanical fault developed, and Tapser and his cousins watched as two men worked to get it going again. Another man, in a white coat, was telling them what to do.

  ‘The one in the white supervising them is Max van Weshal,’ said Cowlick.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ asked Tapser. ‘I thought you said he owned the Castle Spa?’

  ‘He does,’ Rachel told him. ‘But he does a lot more besides. He’s an engineer, and when any of the heavy machinery breaks down he and his men come and fix it.’

  ‘I thought you said people resented him?’

  ‘Some do,’ said Róisín. ‘That’s because he has great ideas and they’re jealous.’

  ‘What sort of ideas?’

  ‘Well, for a start,’ Cowlick told him, ‘he came up with the idea of closing down the hotel and selling water from the spa instead.’

  ‘Selling water?’

  ‘That’s right. He bottles it. They say he even built his own bottling plant.’

  ‘And then there are the lobsters,’ said Rachel. ‘He’s got bigger boats and goes out further and catches more than anyone else.’

  ‘That’s why people resent him,’ said Róisín. ‘He does everything so scientifically.’

  Tapser could well believe it, for even though Max was quite young, his short-cropped fair hair and rimless glasses gave the impression of a man who was both brainy and efficient. ‘And the other two?’

  ‘They’re his fixers,’ said Cowlick. ‘I don’t know their real names, but they’re foreigners too.’

  ‘They also work on the lobster boats,’ said Róisín, ‘so we call the big one with the seaman’s cap Whaler.’

  Tapser smiled. He could see the name was very apt, for the man was very big and heavy, unlike the other, an excitable little man with sallow skin and black greasy hair.

  Rachel giggled. ‘We call the wee one Scamp, because he’s always scampering around doing what Max tells

  him.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think anyone as serious as Max would have a sense of humour,’ Róisín went on. ‘But he has. You should see the sign he has over the shop at the Castle

  Spa.’

  ‘It’s a funny sense of humour if you ask me,’ remarked Rachel.

  ‘He can sing a song too when he’s in the mood,’ said Cowlick. ‘His party piece is the Ballad of Hugh Rua. Come on, I’ll introduce you.’

  With a slight bow of his head, Max shook hands with Tapser and in a faintly foreign accent told him, ‘Perhaps I will see you at the Castle Spa sometime.’ Then he added, ‘When I’m not busy, of course.’

  Tapser didn’t quite know what to make of Max. Nevertheless, he was every bit as efficient as the others had said, and it wasn’t long before he and his men had the combine harvester going again. Soon the giant machine was swallowing up great swathes of barley and spewing the golden grain into big high-sided trailers and lorries.

  Living as he did some distance from the sea, Tapser wanted to go to the beach, so they hitched a lift into town with the first load of barley.

  A short time later as they walked along the sand, they amused themselves by throwing sticks into the sea for Prince to retrieve. The collie was obviously delighted to be at the seaside too. He barked and barked as each stick was thrown and then plunged in after it.

  Searching around for another stick, Tapser picked up a bottle that had floated in on the tide.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Cowlick.

  ‘A bottle of spa water,’ said Tapser, reading the label. ‘Just what we need. I’m parched.’ Unscrewing the cap, he put the bottle to his lips. ‘Ughhh …’ he spluttered, spitting it out. ‘It’s not water at all.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Cowlick, sniffing the bottle. ‘It’s not. It’s poteen!’

  His sisters also sniffed the bottle and confirmed that that was what it was.

  ‘Maybe Peppi was right then,’ Tapser exclaimed. ‘Maybe the smugglers are on the move again!’

  3. THE RAID

  The sun was high in the sky now and it was warm. The four sat down at the foot of the rocks to talk about their strange find.

  ‘But if poteen is being smuggled down from the mountains,’ said Cowlick, ‘what’s it doing in the sea?’

  ‘And in a bottle from the Castle Spa,’ said Tapser.

  ‘Sure you get poteen in any sort of bottle,’ argued Róisín. ‘Daddy always keeps a drop of it in the house, and it’s in a 7UP bottle.’

  ‘What does he keep it for?’ asked Tapser.

  ‘Some of it goes into the plum pudding at Christmas,’ Rachel told him. ‘And if we’ve a sick calf, a dash of it in the milk can be a great help.’

  ‘But I thought it was illegal?’

  ‘So it is,’ said Cowlick. ‘But we’re only talking about a wee drop of it for emergencies. Peppi was talking about a big shipment, and that’s definitely against the law.’

  Tapser broke a stalk of seaweed and threw the stump away for Prince to fetch. Suddenly he said, ‘How about going up to the Castle Spa? I’ve an idea.’

  ‘If you’re thinking of taking up Max’s invitation, forget it,’ Rachel advised him. ‘When he says “Come when I’m not busy,” he means don’t come. He’s always busy.’

  ‘It’s not him I want to see,’ Tapser replied. ‘Come on.’

  On the way they stopped at the little harbour. Fishing boats rested idly by the quayside and a small cargo ship was taking on crates of spa water. American visitors were finding the harbour very ‘quaint’ and asking each other to hold their bottles of spa water while they got photographs taken of themselves with the harbour in the background.

  ‘You know what I was wondering?’ said Tapser. ‘Who’s to say what’s in those bottles?’

  ‘Do you mean it might be poteen?’ whispered Rachel.

  ‘Why not? Doesn’t it look just like water?’

  They all studied the posing tourists and the bottles they clutched in their arms. Then they looked at each other.

  ‘I suppose it could be poteen,’ said Cowlick, and the others nodded.

  ‘But why?’ asked Rachel. ‘Why should it be poteen?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear Peppi say the police can’t find out how it’s getting out of the glen?’ said Tapser. ‘Isn’t that the ideal way to do it … openly, as spa water. Nobody would know the difference.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Róisín agreed. ‘They could take it out by the bus-load.’

  ‘All right,’ said Cowlick. ‘It’s worth investigating. Let’s go up to the Castle Spa and see what we can find out.’

  It was a short, steep climb up from the Low Road and all of them, including Prince, were panting when they got to the forecourt of the Castle Spa. There they joined the tourists queuing for the shop where the water was sold. As they moved forward, Cowlick pointed out the sign. It said: ‘Maxwell’s Well Makes Well’.

  Tapser smiled. ‘He has a funny sense of humour all right.’ He looked up at the tall, turreted building that rose high above the shop out of the side of the glen. The castle itself was marked ‘Private’ and two big Alsatian dogs roamed the grounds b
ehind a high wire fence. ‘And it’s a funny sort of hotel. I don’t see any guests.’

  ‘That’s because Max doesn’t run it as an hotel any more,’ said Cowlick. ‘I told you that.’

  They were in the shop now, and while the tourists bought their bottles of water the four of them edged up to where the supplies were stacked on shelves like large bottles of white lemonade.

  When he thought no one was looking, Tapser took down a bottle and unscrewed the cap, but before he could sniff it, a strong hand clamped on his shoulder and a man with a foreign accent enquired if he was going to buy it.

  ‘I … I’d like to,’ replied Tapser somewhat nervously.

  ‘But we haven’t got the money,’ said Róisín, coming to his aid.

  ‘Then you have no business in here,’ growled the man.

  ‘But Mr van Weshal said we could come,’ Tapser protested.

  The man ignored him and marched them towards the door. There they met Prince and, sensing that the man was being distinctly unfriendly to his young master, the collie bared his teeth in a snarl.

  The man released Tapser and ordered, ‘Get out, all of you. And take that dog with you. It is not hygienic to have animals in a shop. And do not come back in here unless you wish to buy something.’

  Outside, Tapser pulled his jacket back into place and remarked, ‘They’re not very friendly, are they?’

  ‘They’re like that,’ Cowlick told him. ‘Max is the same. It’s all business and they don’t stand for any nonsense.’

  ‘No, they sure don’t, do they?’ said a tourist who had seen what happened. She had pink hair and matching glasses, and it was obvious she was an American.

  Her husband gave Tapser’s red hair a friendly wigging and said, ‘I thought all you Irishmen had black curly hair.’

  ‘Hugh Rua had red hair too,’ said Tapser defensively.

  ‘Oh yeah, Red Hugh, the Highwayman of the Glen,’ said the man. ‘We read about him in our guide book. Well, maybe it’s the red-haired ones that are wild. Say, why did that guy throw you out anyhow?’

  Tapser shrugged. ‘Because we were looking at the bottles.’

  ‘You mean to say he threw you out just because of that?’ said the woman. ‘Well, here, have one of ours. You’re more than welcome.’

  They all protested, but the woman added, ‘Go on, why not for goodness sakes. After all, it’s only water.’

  So it was, as they found when they tested the bottle on the way back into town.

  ‘So much for that idea,’ remarked Róisín.

  ‘Well it could have been poteen,’ said Tapser. ‘And Max could have been smuggling it out that way. After all, there was poteen in the other bottle we found.’

  ‘Well if Max isn’t using his bottles to smuggle poteen, who is?’ asked Cowlick.

  ‘And where is it coming from?’ wondered Róisín.

  ‘Peppi seems to think there’s a big still hidden away somewhere up in the mountains, and that’s where it’s coming from,’ said Rachel.

  ‘But how come one of the bottles ended up in the sea?’ said Cowlick. ‘That’s the funny part of it.’

  ‘What do you really think of Peppi?’ Tapser asked.

  ‘We like him,’ replied Rachel.

  ‘But we sometimes wonder about him,’ said Róisín.

  ‘You mean the woollen gloves?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Róisín.

  ‘You don’t think he’s bringing the poteen down from the mountains, do you?’

  Cowlick laughed. ‘Tapser, would you give over. A minute ago you were saying Max was the smuggler. Now it’s poor oul’ Peppi.’

  ‘Still,’ said Tapser, ‘he would be in an ideal position to smuggle it, wouldn’t he? I mean, he could collect it without raising any suspicion.’

  ‘He does seem to know an awful lot about poteen,’ Róisín agreed.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Rachel. ‘You heard him saying that whenever Hugh Rua is supposed to be seen, it means there’s a shipment on the way.’

  ‘It’s a funny business that about Hugh Rua,’ said Tapser. ‘I wonder where we could find out more about him?’

  ‘What for?’ asked Cowlick.

  ‘Well, if Peppi was right about the poteen smugglers being on the move, maybe he was right about the phantom too.’

  ‘Mr Stephenson could probably tell us more about him,’ Róisín suggested. ‘He owns The Highwayman Inn.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Rachel. ‘He has a coach he displays every year at the show. But we better go home for our dinner first.’

  * * *

  After dinner they made their way back into town and out to where the High Road sloped down to the sea. On the corner where the two roads met, stood The Highwayman public house.

  ‘Talk of the devil,’ exclaimed Tapser. ‘There’s Peppi.’

  ‘And there’s a police car parked outside,’ said Cowlick. ‘I wonder what’s going on?’

  Peppi had put a nosebag on his horse and was casually watching the comings and goings.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked them.

  ‘We thought Mr Stephenson could tell us more about Hugh Rua,’ Tapser told him.

  ‘You’re not the only ones,’ said Peppi.

  ‘Why, what’s going on?’ asked Róisín.

  ‘It’s a raid. The police seem to think Sam knows something about this phantom business. They’re in there now talking to him and Blind Jack.’

  ‘Blind Jack?’ asked Tapser. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Jack’s his handyman,’ Cowlick told him. ‘He minds the coach and that sort of thing.’

  Tapser was studying the sign above the door portraying Hugh Rua’s celebrated coach robbery, when the police suddenly emerged and drove off. Mr Stephenson, a big burly man with rolled-up shirt sleeves and a white apron, came to the door a moment later.

  ‘What’s the matter, Sam?’ inquired Peppi. ‘Are you in trouble?’

  ‘It would take more than a visit by the polis to get me into trouble,’ laughed Mr Stephenson. ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’

  ‘Can I show them the coach?’

  ‘Sure why not? There’s not a soul in the place now – not after that carry-on.’

  Out in the back yard, they found that Mr Stephenson was something of a collector. He had a pony-trap, a jaunting car and various other horse-drawn vehicles, but the pride of his collection was a coach that was being polished by a man in a leather apron.

  ‘That,’ said Mr Stephenson with a wave of his hand, ‘is the Londonderry Mail. She went all the way from Belfast to Derry.’

  It was a really magnificent coach. Its wheels and central shaft were painted red, while the lower part of the body was yellow and the top part black. These, Mr Stephenson informed them, were the coaching colours of the day.

  ‘You also had the Southern mail coach running between Dublin and Cork, and the Northern mail coach between Dublin and Belfast,’ he told them. ‘And a lot more.’

  ‘Why did they call them mail coaches?’ Rachel asked him.

  ‘Because they carried the mail as well as passengers – you know, letters and things. And believe it or not, that made a big difference in their timekeeping.’

  ‘How come?’ asked Cowlick.

  Mr Stephenson scratched his head as if wondering how to explain it. ‘Well, prior to that the stagecoaches were notorious for their bad timekeeping. The roads were bad, and sometimes the coaches would get stuck in the mud or break a wheel. Apart from that, there were often long delays at the coaching inns when some of the passengers, and maybe even the coachmen, overstayed their welcome.’

  ‘You mean drinking,’ said Róisín, who thought that as a publican Mr Stephenson might be avoiding the word.

  ‘Mmm … more a case of drinking to excess I’d say, and to the exclusion of the feelings of other passengers who were anxious to be on their way. Then, in 1784 a separate Post Office was established for Ireland, and four or five years later mail coaches, like the ones they had in Engl
and, began to operate in addition to the stagecoaches.’

  ‘How did that improve things?’ asked Cowlick.

  ‘Part of the new scheme was that the mail should be timed at each stage,’ said Mr Stephenson. ‘That meant the mail coaches didn’t delay, or if they did they had to make it up before the next stage.’ He was staring straight ahead now as if he was seeing it all in his mind’s eye. ‘Somehow I’d say there was great competition between them and the stagecoaches. You can just imagine them racing each other … maybe four or six horses to each coach, galloping madly as the drivers urged them on, people hanging on by their fingernails to the seats on the roofs of the swaying coaches. Aye, them were the days. The golden age of the stagecoach.’

  Somehow Rachel couldn’t help thinking that travelling by coach must have been a very uncomfortable experience, even if they did arrive at their destination on time. ‘But what about the Londonderry Mail?’ she asked him. ‘Can you tell us more about it?’

  Mr Stephenson eased his large frame down onto an aluminium beer barrel, and looking at his own coach, continued, ‘At first the mail coaches only operated between Dublin and Cork and Dublin and Belfast, but gradually they spread out. By 1805 they were going down to Waterford, over to Sligo and up as far as Derry. It wasn’t long before they were operating out of Belfast to Antrim, Ballymena, Ballymoney and Coleraine, then on to Derry that way. That was the route of the Londonderry Mail.’

  ‘How many horses would it have had?’ asked Tapser, who was trying to imagine it going up the Old Coach Road near his home at Ballymena.

  ‘Probably four. From the information I’ve been able to dig up, it was expected to travel between five and six miles an hour. The average fare was three old pence per mile if you were sitting on top; five old pence if you were inside. The journey to Derry took seventeen hours in 1811, and the timetable was arranged so that the local merchants had seven hours in which to reply to incoming mail before the coach returned to Belfast.’

  ‘And what about highwaymen?’ asked Tapser. ‘Mr Stockman says there were a lot of them.’

  ‘Indeed there were,’ agreed Mr Stephenson. ‘That’s why the coaches had to have armed guards.’