The Legend of the Phantom Highwayman (2 page)

From the darkness of his bedroom, Tapser listened to the babble of voices in the kitchen. He had gone to bed early as he was getting a lift to the glen with Mr Stockman next day, and was lying wondering what his visit was going to be like. He loved those seemingly rare occasions when Mr Stockman took the day off from farming to deliver sweets to small shops along the mountains and in the glen. The sweet run they all called it, and a sweet run it was in every sense of the word. He was also looking forward to seeing his cousin Cowlick again. They always had great fun together. Last year, when Cowlick had visited him, they had helped to solve the mystery of the Legend of the Golden Key. That was a great adventure, and he wondered if they would find anything exciting to do in the glen. Suddenly, as he lay and thought about these things, he became aware of what one of the neighbours was saying …

‘That may well be, but the glensfolk say there's something funny going on.'

‘How do you mean?' asked Mr Stockman.

‘Ah, wouldn't you know, the quare stuff of course.'

‘Not to mention Hugh Rua,' said another. ‘They say he's been seen again.'

‘Aye,' laughed Tapser's father, ‘it wouldn't do if you ran into the phantom highwayman.'

‘Och now,' said Mr Stockman, ‘I never met a man yet that saw a phantom.'

‘If there's no such thing,' said the second man, ‘what does the ballad mean? How does it go now?'

Tapser then heard him singing:

‘Stand and deliver,' said Hugh Rua
‘Stand and deliver, do or die …'
He stole a coach-and-four
So they hung him on the moor.
But they say his spirit still rides in the glen …

‘There you are,' said Tapser's father. ‘Somebody must have seen him.'

‘Well, if anyone asks me to stand and deliver,' joked Mr Stockman, ‘all he'll get is a delivery of sweets.'

They all laughed at that, and Tapser sat up and rubbed his eyes. He couldn't believe his ears. He wanted to hear more but knew if he went into the kitchen they would probably change the subject, so he slipped out of bed and listened at the door.

‘If anyone stops you, it's more likely to be the police,' said the first man.

‘What for?' asked Mr Stockman.

‘Didn't I tell you, to see who's smuggling the quare stuff.'

Tapser was dying to hear more, but the men went on to talk about the barley crop and the price it would fetch. He got back into bed and snuggled under the duvet. Thoughts of highwaymen and smugglers filled his mind. What did they mean by ‘the quare stuff' he wondered? And what was all this about a phantom highwayman? Was there really something going on in the glen, or was this just another of their ghost stories? The trouble was he never really knew when they were serious.

There was great excitement next morning as last-minute preparations were made for the journey. Tapser's mother was fussing around wondering if there was anything they had forgotten to pack. Even his collie, Prince, was excited, almost as if he knew what was happening. Then Mr Stockman called to say he was about to load the van and would Tapser give him a hand. Tapser, of course, was only too delighted.

The sweet store was like an Aladdin's cave, and Tapser and his friends always felt privileged any time they were allowed into it. Not because they got any sweets there – it wasn't until they were on their way to the glen that they got those. It was simply the smell of the store, a sweet musty odour that appealed to their nostrils and to their imaginations so much. It was a smell like honeysuckle, a smell that was the essence of bulls' eyes and toffees and sticks of pink rock and chocolate and lollypops, and all the other sweet things they wanted to buy in the shops but could seldom afford. It was a smell that held the magic of promise.

‘Now, Tapser,' said Mr Stockman, nodding to the deep shelves along one wall. ‘We'll take the jars first, and be careful you don't drop them.'

He handed down a big glass jar of barley sugar, and Tapser, hugging it as he would a baby in case he might drop it and ruin the trip, gingerly stepped around the tea chests and boxes that were piled about the store, and made his way out to the van.

Soon the van was loaded with a mouth-watering selection of all that was in the store, including jars of butterscotch, acid drops and clove rock, not to mention cardboard boxes, the contents of which could only be imagined. Tapser took his place in the front passenger seat, Prince hopped in and sat between his legs, and, with his mother shouting after him not to forget to do this and not to forget to do that, the blue van rounded the pillars at the foot of the lane, and headed up the hill towards the Old Coach Road.

Tapser, of course, could hardly contain his curiosity about the phantom highwayman. He didn't want to ask straight out and let Mr Stockman know he had been listening to them the night before, but as they turned onto the Old Coach Road, he got an idea.

‘Why do they call this the Old Coach Road?' he asked.

‘Because that's exactly what it is,' explained Mr Stockman. ‘In olden days this was the main road from Belfast to Ballymena, Ballymoney and on to Derry. Of course it wasn't a good tarmacadam road like it is now. There were no motorcars and no railways, and the only way of getting from one place to another, unless you walked or had a horse, was by stagecoach.'

‘But I thought they only had stagecoaches in the Wild West,' said Tapser.

Mr Stockman shook his head and watched the road in front of him. ‘Not at all. Sure they had coaches in this part of the world long before they had them in America.'

‘But why did they call them stagecoaches?' asked Tapser.

‘Because they did the journey in stages, I suppose. You can just imagine what some of the roads were like in the days before Mr McAdam thought of a way of making better ones.'

‘Who was Mr McAdam?'

‘John Loudon McAdam. He was a Scottish engineer who came up with the idea of giving the roads a harder, smoother surface. That's why it's called tarmacadam. Before that it was rough going, and as well as picking up passengers, the coachman had to stop here and there to feed and water the horses or get a fresh team.'

Tapser could just imagine it, for in the sweet store he had often admired a picture in which the driver of a cart had stopped at the river in Ballymena to allow his horse to have a drink. In the background was the old spinning mill. Mr Rodgers had told him that in years gone by, when the farmers of the area had grown flax for making linen, the picture had been an advertisement for the Braidwater Spinning Company.

As they passed under the motorway and drove towards the Antrim mountains, Mr Stockman continued, ‘Of course, the highways the stagecoaches used are only the byroads of today.'

‘Why did they call them highways?' asked Tapser.

‘Oh, I don't know … probably because they were always higher than the fields.'

‘And is that where the highwaymen got their name?'

‘That's right – from robbing coaches on the King's highway.'

‘Boy, they must have been exciting times.'

‘Aye, and dangerous.'

‘You mean, because of the highwaymen?'

Mr Stockman nodded. ‘There was a famous highwayman here in the Ballymena area, you know.'

Tapser looked at him to see if he was serious.

‘There was. His name was Thomas Archer. He was a fugitive from the 1798 rebellion.'

The road to the village of Broughshane branched off to the right, and Mr Stockman continued, ‘The United Irishmen had marched on Ballymena from Broughshane. They laid siege to the Town Hall, or the Market House as it was called then, and after a battle, set fire to it. Some of the defenders, a small group of yeomen and loyalists, were killed during the battle or done to death afterwards.'

Mr Stockman changed gear as they went uphill. ‘However, the rebel victory was short-lived. When the rising was defeated up in Antrim town, the troops arrived in Ballymena. The rebels were forced to retreat and some of them were hanged on top of the Moat for all to see.'

Tapser was trying to imagine the scene on top of the Norman fort they called the Moat – a large mound which was now a children's playground – when Mr Stockman added, ‘Then they cut off their heads and stuck them on pitchforks on the parapet of the Market House as a warning to others never to do the like again.'

Tapser shivered at the thought.

‘The last man to be executed,' continued Mr Stockman, ‘was Archer, the outlaw. When the rebellion broke out, he deserted from the Antrim militia and joined the rebels. Afterwards he went on the run and became known as the Brigand of Ballymena.'

‘Would you call him a highwayman then?' asked Tapser.

‘Well, he certainly carried out a lot of robberies, and he was said to be very daring. Sometimes he would disguise himself as a woman, and with his blunderbuss hidden under his cloak, visit his parents up in Castle Street.'

‘What's a blunderbuss?' asked Tapser.

‘It was like a single-barrelled shotgun, only shorter, and it widened out at the end like a trumpet. Anyway, as I was saying, he was supposed to be very daring. But he was also a very violent man, and him and his gang murdered a loyalist farmer up near Glarryford. Soon after that he was captured and hanged on the Moat like the others.'

‘Did they cut off his head too?'

‘I don't know. But like many another highwaymen, his body was put in irons and left hanging there until it was only a skeleton.'

‘What other highwaymen?' asked Tapser, hoping Mr Stockman would tell him about Hugh Rua.

‘Well, there was Captain Brennan on the Moor as he was known, down in Tipperary. The same thing happened to him.'

They were well on their way now.

‘And what about the glens?' asked Tapser. ‘Did they have a highwayman?'

Mr Stockman smiled and nodded. ‘Of course they did – and still have, by all accounts. His name is Hugh Rua.'

‘What do you mean “still have”? Sure highwaymen lived hundreds of years ago. You're after saying so yourself.'

‘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.