[Being the tale of a Notorious Malignant.]


Upon the high and windy Wolds, along the ancient London Road,
there stands a place called Hangman's Stone... where gallows stood, in days of old.
There is no Gibbet there today; but Hangman's Stone, you still can see...
whereon the felon stood neck-roped, to dance into eternity.
And, on some nights, when, through the skies... the pale moon flits, and dances clear;
all thrust, and parry with the ragged clouds; they say you may just hear
the clatter of a galloper, rode swift, along the shadowy lane...
The Highwayman, Jack Barrington... Malignant, of notorious fame.
Or so, at least, was he then called, by those who ruled with iron hand
the Eastern Hundreds of the County;
Civil War had stalked the land,
and the Family Barrington... all Royalist, were brutally
sequestered...
fifteen hundred pounds... which left them all in penury.
And seeing how the farm folk suffered with no coin to feed their kin,
and seeing how his parents faded, with tax-gatherers leeching them;
and, when, the gatherers' escort did molest his sisters, one fine day...
then Jack decided to revenge the family on the King's Highway.


And in the darkness of the night; lit sometimes, by a slivered moon,
Jack prosecuted his revenge upon the road to London town.
Many coachmen heard, from out the shadows, those cold, dread words...
'Stand...
and Deliver'... staring down the Holster pistols in his hands.
But; not just any travellers, held at random, with malign intent
to rob... these were tax gatherers... fat merchants of the Government,
laden with sequestered coin... the impositions of defeat;
bound for Cromwell's coffers... and the irony of this, was sweet.
Perhaps, too sweet... for, though the proceeds of this desperate enterprise
were shared betwixt sequestered families... there were always prying eyes
who saw the resurrected wealth, and put together two by two...
and, finding that the score was four; plotted then, what they would do.
For young Jack Barrington, in Cromwell's side was now, a festering thorn;
and, for his taking, there were now, Five hundred Guineas to be won.
Informations were despatched... intelligences of betrayals
to the County Garrison; wild rumours... fabricated tales.


And, this was quite enough... and so, a trap of surreptitious guile
was laid...
and if this plan prevailed, then Jack had ridden his last mile.
For the Sequester-General was now London bound, within the week...
from out of Monmouthshire, with bloated coffers... such a prize to seek!
But, it would not... Sequester-General, be...
that fat and preening fool,
within the coach...
nay, it would be a Roundhead Captain, with a tool
the gunsmiths called a crows-foot pistol; new, and dreadful, they had said...
that, when discharged; spread four balls wide... enough to strike this felon dead.
And so, the trap was sprung, upon a moon-washed, windy, cloud-swept night;
shadowed distant, by a troop of horse, the coach hove into sight.
The postern cocked his blunderbuss, and stood, to cast his gaze around...
the rope that stretched between the trees, swift, swept him cruelly, to the ground.
And as he struck the ground, his blunderbuss did impotent discharge
into the night;
and as he looked... before him loomed a shadow large.
"Stand and Deliver" came the cry... the moon gleamed on the pistol pair;
he felt the fear rise in his throat; to hardly breath... he did not dare.


Then, from out the coach, there sudden, came the most ungodly crash...
the Captain had discharged the Crows-foot... all were blinded by the flash,
as the barrels... four, ignited;
and the lead balls whined away...
but, did they strike the Highwayman? In such confusion; who could say?
The Highwayman wheeled round his mount, and swept away into the night;
the troop of horse came clattering up... but he was far beyond their sight.
They lit a lantern from the coach, and cast about for sign, or clue...
and found fresh blood upon the ground... so, he was wounded; they now knew.
But, Jack was riding like the wind; his mount... she was an Arab mare,
so fleet, they would not catch him now; but, where to go?
Oh, where... oh, where?
And then... the ancient Posting Inn; the daughter was a childhood love...
there was a priest-hole thereabouts; he would hide there 'till he could move.
They took him in... no questioning. They knew his trade... the reasons why...
although, the danger to them was quite palpable... the hue and cry
was up; and yet, they cleaned and sewed his shoulder, by the lead ball, torn;
and laid him in the Priest-hole by the hearth... where he was safe and warm.


But, always, there will be some viper in the bosom... even so;
a pot-boy, chided for his sloth; in fit of pique, elected to
make free his tongue about the taproom of this thing that had occurred,
and soon, the Magistrate; made party to this wanton stripling's word,
laid a warrant for to search by force, the Inn, and all therein...
a troop of horse descended, and a thorough search, they did begin.
But, Jack had long departed, and no sign that he was ever there
was found;
and soon, the troopers need decamp to search again, elsewhere.
The Magistrate, thus vexed, and discontented, hatched a venomous plot;
The Innkeeper was Royalist; a malcontent, then... was he not?
The Inn could be sequestered from him... old scores settled legally.
Bribe some perjurer to denounce the daughter of black witchery.
So, the evil deed was done... Witchfinders then, were summoned in.
The daughter Betty, then was taken, for her ordeal to begin.
The Magistrate laid issue that the bodkin's probing kiss, no less;
would quickly cause the daughter, Betty, to seek mercy, and confess...


Not, so much to witchery... he knew full well, this falsity;
Nay... to her relation with the Highwayman... and where, he be.
Yet, if she could gainsay the bodkin, then she could a'swimming go...
neatly trussed with flaxen rope that tightened in the water flow;
and if she floated, she was guilty, and condemned... that was the Law;
and if she sank and drowned... he was content... it mattered not at all.
For, then they would impeach the father in the manner of the same,
and, when that was done; then, of the Inn... no hurdle would remain.
When she withstood the bodkin, then they swam poor Betty up and down,
and, in the space of half an hour... as they had planned... the poor girl drowned.
As then... did her father too, his body rudely cast aside
upon a distant midden heap; the fate of those, who had so died.
But, Betty had a different fate. The people voiced their discontent
about the manner of her death... the reasons... so, she then, was sent
out to a distant, lonely crossroads, where they dug a lonely grave.
No priest to ease her passing, and no words yet spoke, her soul to save.


They laid her in the soft, warm earth, and gently drove a stake of Oak
down through her heart to free her spirit, so that it would never walk
abroad...
And, when Jack Barrington was told of what befell his hosts;
his anger, it is said, was fearsome to behold... he swore an oath;
his retribution would be terrible indeed, for what was done;
the Magistrate would beg for death, before his time to die would come;
as would the Witchfinder, and all his crew; no mercy... just the same.
They would rue the day they travelled here, to play their loathsome game.
And in his lair, he coldly fashioned pistol balls of softest lead,
designed to confound swift removal...
hampering this by their spread.
Then he loaded pistols, four... with double charge of powder, neat,
then sallied forth, his oath to hold... all preparation, now complete.
His Arab mare flew like the wind... and soon, the place came into sight
where the Magistrate partook of drunken whoring, every night.
Through the door... his pistols cocked... the Magistrate aboard a slut...
leaping up, then tumbling... pistolled twice, about his corpulent gut.


Writhing, screaming on the floor...
Barrington turned and walked away;
time enough to let him die... another debt must now be paid.
The Witchfinder was lolling in the ordinary of the very Inn
where all these things had come to pass... deep in his cups, and frolicking
with some young wench;
his henchman, making water on the taproom floor...
then... sudden, deathly silence, as Jack Barrington kicked in the door.
The Holster pistols, long and evil, pointing at this knavish brace...
which one be the first to die... who first, shall see the Reapers face?
The Witchfinder made good his feet... Jack's left-most pistol then gave voice;
for it was double loaded, and its victim had been Jack's first choice.
The double load of softest ball smashed into the Witchfinder's paunch...
all splattering guts across the wall, as in the air... it did him launch.
The henchman froze... the merest heart-span... but it was enough for Jack...
the right-most pistol crashed. Shot through the throat, the henchman tumbled back...
and watched his life, with fading eyes... swift, jet away... a gout of red.
Jack turned, and made step for the door; the deed was done... all had been said.


Witchfinder thrashing... screaming; henchman leaking gore, all spurtingly;
but Jack had overlooked one thing... a second henchman there could be.
And so there was... above-stairs all the time... who watched with cunning eyes,
and, standing on the stair, despatched Jack from behind... a noble prize!
The Highwayman expired before the floor received him with its kiss;
Not for Jack, the Gallows dance; such sport... the people then, would miss.
The Magistrate and Witchfinder were not so fortunate as Jack.
Witchfinder took four hours to die... dread pain, his screaming body racked.
The Magistrate's wounds putrefied... Divine reprisal, it was said;
offending noses 'cross the street for three long months, 'till he were dead.
Jack's oath had come to pass. The Magistrate... Witchfinder too... had died
most horribly...
a lingering death... a merciful release denied.
And what of Jack? They chained him on the Gibbet, hard by Hangman's stone,
swaying in the breeze, until the carrion birds had picked his bones
white clean;
and, one by one they tumbled, as dried tendons did give way...
'till there was nothing left, except the chains, that tinkled merrily.


Now; if you should, by chance, come to the distant, lonely crossroads, known
as Betty's Grave;
there, you will find a great Oak tree stands all alone;
and, it is said that, from the stake through her kind heart, this tree has sprung...
a monument to greed, and wilful murder of a girl so young.
And, on some nights when, through the skies... the pale moon flits, and dances clear;
all thrust and parry with the ragged clouds, they say you may, just hear
the telephone wires, soft singing in the wind... the sound ... a mournful call
that almost sounds like "Betty"... "Betty," when the wind gives rise and fall.
But, is it just a whisper in the wires all strung so high above?
or, indeed... Jack Barrington, still searching for his childhood love?
At Hangman's Stone you may not hear the rusted, wind-swung, tinkling chains...
the clatter of a galloper rode swift, along the shadowy lane.
You may not see his Arab mare fly like the wind, against the sky...
no cold, dread words... "Stand and Deliver," from the shadows, closely by.
You may not hear the mournful call... but yet, his echoes still remain...
The Highwayman, Jack Barrington...
Malignant, of notorious fame.