Edward Noyes, “The Highwayman”

I first heard this poem at a Forest Folk Club (Forest of Dean folk night), recognising Noyes as a one time Island resident (he had a house on the island, Lisle Combe, on the Undercliff, from 1929).

My thinking? We can probably pull an interesting ghost story from it…

Alfred Noyesm The Highwayman, 1906

Blackwood’s Magazine, August, 1906, pp. 244-7.

THE HIGHWAYMAN.
PART ONE.

I.

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.

II.

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.

III.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clanged 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.

IV.

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 —

V.

“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!”

VI.

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i’ 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
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

PART TWO.

I.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o’ the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon,
When the road was a gipsy’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.

II.

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.

III.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel 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!

IV.

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!

V.

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel 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.

VI.

Tlot-tlot! tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs 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!

VII.

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.

VIII.

He turned; he spurred to the Westward; 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, and slowly blanched 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.

IX.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i’ 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 the bunch of lace at his throat.

X.

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.

XI.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
And 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.

So here it is

My first attempt at a telling…

It was a dark night, a windy night, with just enough moonlight to see the ribbon of the road snaking across the moor, an ancient highway dotted with roadside inns, the service stations of their day, places to eat, places to drink, and places to stable your horse if you wanted to stay the night.

Approaching the site of those inns, a highwayman comes riding, a gun at his side, and a sword on his belt.

There’s a clatter of horses hooves as he crosses the cobbled courtyard and approaches the inn. But he doesn’t enter: the door’s locked for the night, and the windows are shuttered.

He taps with his whip on the shutters, softly whistles a tune. A light goes on in an upstairs window. It’s Bess, the raven haired landlord’s daughter, who’s been waiting for his signal.

They speak in whispers, as she ties a love knot in her long black hair.

“I’ve business on the road tonight. There’s gold with my name on it… But I’ll be back before dawn, God willing. Though if I’m pressed, or chased, or harried, I’ll lead them away. Then look for me by moonlight, watch for me by moonlight, because I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!”

He rose up in his stirrups, reached out as if to touch her hand:,”one kiss my love, one kiss”. And from the window, she unloosened her hair; it tumbled down, onto his breast; he breathed in its perfume, kissed it gently. Then turning his horse, tugged on the reins, and was gone, gone into the night.

From the corner of the yard, from the stable in the corner there, Tim the ostler has been watching; and listening. There’s only one thing he loves more than the horses, and that’s Bess, the landlord’s red-lipped daughter. Oh, Bess…

That kiss should be his to give, her kiss should be his to receive. He paces the stable. “If I’m not back before the dawn, watch for me by midnight…” His eyes take on the maddened stare of a panicked horse, and he knows what he must do… Quietly, he crosses the cobbled yard and makes his way into the night.

Dawn approaches, and young Bess again waits by the window. At noon, she looks out from the yard; for now she must wait till midnight again to see her lover again.

The sun begins to set, and a red ribbon snakes its way across the moor towards the inn. A red-coated troop of the King’s men, marching across the moor.

They enter the inn, say nothing to the landlord, but accept his ale nevertheless. Then they force his daughter upstairs to her room, gagged her, bind her, her hands behind her back, sit her at the end of the bed, looking out to the moor from the window. A gun to her breast, and another at a her back. Bess looks out over the moor as the soldiers mock her and taunt her, stroke her cheek and stroke her hair. “A pretty one, this…”

“Look for me by moonlight; watch for me by moonlight; I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!” And she knew what she must do.

Her hands were tied behind her back. She twisted them this way, twisted them that, but the knots held true. Twisted and turned, and her fingers became wet with sweat, or maybe, with blood.

Midnight approached, and the midnight bell rang. For Bess, one last attempt to free her hands; but to no avail. But then, and then again, with the tips of her fingers, she felt it: the trigger of the musket placed behind her.

She relaxed, stood up straight, one barrel of a gun pointed up to her breast, another in her back. In the silence, she looked out for him, listened out for him.

Out in the distance, was that the sound of a horse’s hooves? She listened again: the sound of the highwayman, the approach of her lover, riding, riding across the moor…

She knew what she must do.

As the rider approached, the soldiers readied themselves. And Bess readied herself.

One last look, one last glance, and one last, deep, breath. Bess stretched out her finger, and felt for the trigger.

At the sound of the gunshot, the rider reared up his horse, turned its head, and fled into the night. And the body of Bess, the landlord’s daughter, fell dead to the floor.

He didn’t know what sacrifice she’d made, didn’t know until the dawn, when the news had spread, of how the raven haired, red-lipped Bess, Bess the landlord’s daughter, had watched out for him by moonlight, and saved his life with her death.

He cursed the sky, turned his horse again, and spurred like a madman to seek his revenge. But the pistol at his side and the sword on his belt would not be a match for the red-coated King’s men, as they shot him down on the highway that snaked across the moor.

The story doesn’t quite end there, of course, how could it? Because it is said, that even to this day, when the night is dark, and the wind blows across it, with just enough moonlight to see the ribbon of the road by, as it snakes its way across the moor, you can hear the highwayman come riding towards that inn. You can hear a horse’s hooves clatter across the cobble-stoned yard, the tap of a whip on a closed shutter, and a softly whistled tune. And if you look up to the window, you can see the figure of a raven haired, young woman tying a love knot in her long black hair. Bess, the landlord’s daughter.

And that is the tale of the highwaymen, once penned as a poem by a yound Alfred Noyes.