The Highwayman (by Alfred Noyes)
Alfred Noyes wrote this poem; I am merely translating it into prose.
The highwayman came riding. He rode through windy weather, much like this dreadful night. The wind howled. The tress bent as though they had heavy weights strapped onto their trunks. The full moon shone its round face through the mass of angry clouds, illuminating the dusty road. The highwayman came riding over the moor. On his left was an inn, and that was his destination. He veered his horse away from the road sharply, the tlot-tlot of hooves turning into an easy clip-clop on cobblestone.
The highwayman circled the inn, tapping his whip on window shutters here and there, but none would yield to his beckoning. He felt very alone in the dark yard, and started to sing a sad, haunting tune:
"The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
I am a lonely robber, only my voice is in the trees…"
But he wasn't as alone as the thought he was. On the second storey of the old inn building, a young girl had not yet slept. Bess had no more than 18 young years under her thin black belt, but she had been waiting for him. Excitedly, she flung open the shutters, revealing the landscape beneath her. The harsh wind was still blowing; the gate of the stable creaked. The robber stopped his song and gazed upwards, for this was the landlord's daughter. She was in the midst of braiding her long, silky-black hair with a deep scarlet love knot. Her face softened as her gaze fell upon the highwayman. His wine-coloured velvet coat and his deerskin britches all fitted perfectly; his thigh-high boots did not have one patch of mud on them. She thought he looked very spectacular under the full moon, the moonshine reflecting off his pistol butt and rapier hilt. A bunch of delicate lace was at his throat, and his French cocked hat gave him an elegant appearance.
"My bonny sweetheart," the highwayman began. "One kiss, for I'm going after a big load tonight; I will be back with the gold before morning breaks. But, if they chase me closely throughout the day and I cannot get back to you, then wait for me at night, under the light of the sparkling moon. I will come to you by moonlight, although hell may block the way."
After speaking, he stood up on the saddles and stretched his arm out at her. Bess stretched down as far as she could, but it wasn't enough. So she loosened her long black hair out the window, a waterfall of perfume tumbling down onto the highwayman's chest. He kissed the sweet black waves instead, then tugged at the reins and galloped off westwards into the night.
Bess watched her love ride away until he melted into the darkness. What she didn't see, was Tim the ostler eavesdropping on the two lovers. The creaking of the stable wicket was not the wind; it was Tim. He was a skinny fellow, his eyes were hollows of madness and his hair was like mouldy hay, but he loved the red-lipped Bess. His shrewd eyes darted about; suspicion lit in them. He had heard every word the highwayman said.
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Bess waited and waited for her love to come. She waited in the faint morning light, in the hot afternoon sun, but he did not come. But just before the moonrise, there came another sight, one not so pleasant. A troop of British soldiers came marching out of the ochre sunset. King George's soldiers marched all the way into the inn but did not state their business; instead, drinking the landlord's beer. All this time Bess was regarding them behind a door with the utmost curiosity, what could they be doing here? Then, her heart skipped a beat as she realized: they were after her love! She stumbled backwards, making a racket. The men turning around; she was revealed.
"Well well, what do we have here?" one of the soldiers drawled with an unpleasant glint in his eyes.
They took the struggling black-eyed Bess upstairs, then bound and gagged her carefully to the foot of her slender bed. They also put a musket by her side – with the barrel pointed straight at her heart. Bess was terrified out of her wits; to her, every window around her had death written all over it, but there was a special window that held more than death – it had hell. It was the window in which she could see the ribbon-like road where he was going to ride.
"Now, keep good watch!" The soldiers said with much mockery, and they kissed her. And at that instance, she heard her lover – the dead man – say, wait for me at night, under the light of the sparkling moon. I will come to you by moonlight, although hell may block the way.
She had to act quickly! She tried the knots, but they all held good! But she did not give up at that. Bess twisted and writhed her hands at the ropes… were they wet with sweat or with blood? She went on like this for hours – no, more like years! – until at the stroke of midnight, the tip of one finger touched the trigger – it was hers!
She did not attempt to obtain anything else. She stood up at attention, the barrel still pointed at her chest. She could not risk the soldiers hearing her; she would not go through the long process again! The road still had no sign of him, it was blank and bare, but the blood in her veins throbbed to her love's refrain.
Suddenly – tlot-tlot, horse hooves! Had they heard it? Bess was white with terror. Tlot-tlot. Were they deaf? Of course they heard! The highwayman came riding, riding down the narrow stretch of road. The red-coats started to prepare, but Bess could not, would not let them capture him!
She stood up straight; her face was like a light. The hoof-sounds echoed, grew louder and nearer. She had to warn him! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew in one last deep breath. Her finger moved. The musket shattered the night.
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The highwayman heard the gunshot. He took a swift glance towards the inn before he veered his horse to the west again. He did not know who stood with her head bowed over the musket, saturated with her own blood, until the dawning of the new day. As he heard the news, all the blood left his face. Bess, the landlord's daughter, had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
"…No, not Bess…!"
He galloped back towards the inn again with the yellow road smoke right at the horse's heels, screaming a curse to the sky and waving his rapier at it. King George's men were still there, heavily armed. Hearing the shrieks, they turned, aimed, and fired. The highwayman's coat was stained, his spurs blemished – with his own blood. This is how he died, like a dog, in the middle of the highway.
So that is how this story ends… or is it?
They say, in the still of a winter's night, when the full moon shines its round face illuminating the dusty road, the highwayman comes riding over the moor. He circles the inn, tapping his whip on window shutters here and there, but none would yield to his beckoning. He sings a tune to a window, and who should be waiting there, but Bess the landlord's daughter, braiding a crimson love knot into her long, silky-black hair.
A/N: Major plagarism here (sorry Alfred Noyes)! But I tried to stick as closely to the poem as possible. Throw in the factor that this was done during the (awesome) times of early high school when "plagarism" still counted as a difficult word. I hope you liked reading it!