The Highwayman

Bloody hell, he hurt. Everywhere. His head, his shoulders, his legs. Even breathing hurt. He forced himself to take shallow breaths to fend off the worst of the pain beneath his right ribs. He didn’t dare move either. He’d tried that when he’d first regained consciousness and nearly screamed from the jolt that had swept through his body. And he didn’t want to scream. Not here. The others would be on him like rats on a carcass if they thought him incapacitated. In fact, now that he considered it, he wondered why they’d let him alone for so long. Perhaps they knew who he was. Perhaps his notoriety was keeping them away.

He tried to look around in the darkness to appraise his surroundings, but even turning his head a little made him suck in air between his teeth, and then he regretted breathing in at all. Oh, Christ, why was he still alive? He shouldn’t be. Maybe I’ll die soon, he thought desperately. Anything is better than this bloody pain.

He’d heard she’d die instantly. He hoped so, for he would not wish on her the agony he now felt. He hoped she had not felt even a momentary pang but knew he probably hoped in vain. He had felt each musket ball quite distinctly, all three of them, the fire of their paths burning through his flesh and knocking him from his horse. But perhaps, at close range, she had died so quickly that she hadn’t felt it.

Stupid, stupid girl! He silently cursed her for having more beauty than brains, then stopped himself. That wasn’t fair. She’d had more heart than brains perhaps. She’d said she loved him, and he’d loved her, too, but they had not meant the same thing by it. Bess was pretty and fun and he loved how she thought him important and treated him special. But he would not have done what she had done. Never. He knew himself well enough to know that. His love was not the self-sacrificing kind. He had never loved anyone enough for that. Well, perhaps Eleanor.

Foolish girl! He wouldn’t have faulted her for not warning him. He knew the way life worked, especially for a thief. It was simple. If you’re caught, you hang. He accepted that, had always accepted that.

He had said as much to her once, boasting, he supposed, and trying to impress her with how bravely he faced the dangers of his ‘trade.’ She had hushed him, told him not to worry her so, begged him to be careful, for she could not bear it if he were harmed. He remembered taking her hand to his lips and vowing as he kissed it to always come back to her. He was too clever, he’d told her, to be caught by a bunch of oafish soldiers. But he had lied to please her. Was she more naive than he’d supposed? Had she really thought him immune to misfortune? Jesus, no one was! If they had taken him last night, even killed him, then it was only to be expected. She’d be alive now if she had only understood that. At this very moment she’d be tearfully worrying about him or mourning him, thinking she’d never find another man to love as she’d loved him . . . but at least she would be alive. Time would have cured her sorrow. He knew. He hardly ever thought of his sister anymore, and he had once been so inconsolable, he had thought of hanging himself.

Well, he mused wryly, I’ll get my wish now. If he didn’t die here on this cold, shit-covered floor, they’d hang him for sure. He’d never liked the thought of hanging. He’d hoped he’d be shot down, nice and quick. He smiled in the dark. Nothing nice or quick about it.

He rolled his eyes around again and made out a small, barred window. It was night beyond. He’d been taken near midday. Was it just dusk or near morning . . . or somewhere in between. How long would he have to linger until death came?

Perhaps if I take a few deep breaths, the pain will kill me, he thought. Worth a try. He steeled himself for the effort, then sucked in a huge gulp of air. He heard himself cry out against his will and then the dark world disappeared.