Bridget's Fame, March week two entry
This is a variation on an old folk legend.
'Twas an evening in May and Solomon Gale was traveling the Old Post Road, in search of a fat purse to liberate from its fat owner. The setting sun cast a rosy glow over the fields, and violet shadows filled the ditches and the eaves of the forest. The only sounds were the soft thudding of his horse’s hooves and the chirring of frogs. The air carried a perfume particular to that time of year: new-turned earth, sun-warmed spring grass, and lilacs. This section of the Post Road was lined with them; slender trees arching over the road, their plumes of aubergine flowers nodding in the spring breeze.
Solomon Gale was a highwayman, always watchful, lest the law sneak up and capture him whilst he is unawares and dreaming. So it was that, when Solomon rounded the next bend in the road, he spotted Jenny McGee right away. She was standing in the ditch, the evening sun slanting across the road and lighting her up like an angel of God, her hair glinting fiery gold, her skin luminous alabaster. She was picking the lilacs, and dropping them into a pair of baskets lashed to the back of a snow-white pony.
Solomon Gale was struck almost senseless by her loveliness, and he reined his horse up, the better to study her. The horse, accustomed as he was to keep moving when on the road, bridled at the pause, stamping and jingling his bits, so that the lovely creature looked up and saw Solomon watching. Her sea-blue eyes further stunned him, and it was a moment before he remembered his manners and spoke.
“Good evening, Miss.” He touched the brim of his hat with his whip handle.
“Good evening, Sir.” She dropped her eyes, and curtsied prettily.
“May I ask, Miss, what has you out on the highway this evening? The roads can be dangerous at night.”
“Well, Sir, I am collecting lilacs, to make lilac wine. Sure, and this particular section of the road is not dangerous, for the gentleman Solomon Gale rides between here and Sudbury, and no harm shall visit his road.”
“Yes, well, Gale’s reputation is that of a highwayman.” It always amused Gale to speak thus of himself.
“'Tis true, sir, but it is also that of a gentleman and protector.” she placed an armful of blooms in her panniers, and, they being full, took the pony’s bridle. “Good evening to you, Mr. Gale,” she said over her shoulder as she led the pony away, “perhaps I will see you here again. The lilacs will be blooming for a while yet.” She cast a stunning smile back at him, so that he again forgot his manners until the last minute.
“Good evening, Miss!” It was not until he had turned his horse towards home that he realized that he had not asked her name.
Solomon Gale returned the next night, and every night thereafter. He learned Jenny’s name, and that she was a freewoman, having paid off her indenture making lilac wine. He would walk next to her, leading his horse, whilst she filled her baskets with the fragrant lilacs; and he would walk home with her each evening, leaving her at her gate in the gathering dusk.
There came a night, in early June, when she paused at the gate, and said to him: “I’m afraid the lilacs have gone by.”
“Yes, indeed they have,” he replied.
“I won’t be going out in the evening to collect them any more.”
“No; you haven’t any reason to, anymore.”
“Ah, well. Goodbye, Solomon Gale.” She held her hand out for him to shake.
“Good evening, Jenny McGee.” He took her hand, pulled her close, and kissed her. Her lips were warm and soft as rose petals. “Perhaps I’ll see you another evening. The king’s men will be ripe for picking for a good while.” This time it was Jenny who was left standing stunned in the road, staring after him as he rode away.
And so it went, through the summer and into the fall. As the lilac wine clarified and matured, so too did the love of Jenny McGee and Solomon Gale. She continued in her endeavors, making her living, and so did he. That year’s vintage of lilac wine promised to be particularly fine, and, on an evening in late November, Solomon came to her with some fine news of his own.
“Jenny, Jenny, such news! I’ve just learned that there will be a large purse of the King’s gold being carried over the post road in two day’s time!”
“Oh, Solomon, sure and you don’t mean to steal it! It will be so heavily guarded, you’re sure to get caught!” She clasped his hands, tears glimmering in her eyes, “Promise me you won’t try to steal it!”
“Jenny, I must! If I’m successful, we can leave here, and go to Portsmouth. We can get married, and live on a small farm and make lilac wine for the rest of our lives! Jenny, I must do this!”
Jenny begged and pleaded, to no avail. Solomon Gale had made up his mind, and would not be swayed. On the day of the shipment, he came to Jenny and said “Pack a bag, Jenny, and be ready to leave when you hear me at the door.”
“I’ll do better than that; we’ll toast to your fortune.” She uncorked a bottle of her lilac wine, pouring it into two pewter mugs “This is the best I’ve ever made.” She raised her mug, “Here’s to your success, and our future. May they both be as promising as this wine.” They drank; the wine was sweet, redolent of summer and sunshine and flowers. Solomon slammed his mug on the table, kissed Jenny passionately, and was gone.
Solomon waited in the shadows of a side lane he knew the King’s men would have to pass. It was getting dark, and he was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t been played false. He continued to wait.
Jenny packed her bag: her two other dresses, some warm things to ward off the chill, her mother’s hairbrush and two bottles of her lilac wine. She drank another glass from the open bottle on the table. She continued to wait.
Just before full dark, Solomon heard hoof beats, many hoof beats, approaching. H waited until he could stand it no longer, until he felt they must be upon him. He spurred his horse, and it leapt out into the road, right in the path of the man carrying the King’s purse. Solomon shouted “The gold or your life!” and, before anyone could react, seized the purse, wheeled his horse around, and galloped off into the woods, bullets from the guards’ muskets singing by his ears, ricocheting off the trees to his right and his left …
Jenny paced and fretted back and forth across her kitchen. She began to sob when she heard the shots that she knew were aimed at her Solomon. Shortly afterward, a group of horsemen thundered up to her door. The King’s men! Quickly she hung her little bag on the peg under her cloak, and answered their pounding.
“Good evening, Sirs. What brings you to my door at this hour?” The guard there was tall and burly; he carried a loaded musket. She did her best to steady her voice, but it surely trembled with fear.
“Good evening, Miss. We are looking for a highwayman. Has anyone ridden by here just now?” The guard peered past her into the house, trying to see if she were harboring the man that had robbed them.
“A highwayman! Goodness! I haven’t seen or heard anyone but yourselves on the road.”
“We must search your house, anywise,” The burly soldier replied, and shoved his way past her. The soldiers made quick work of searching her house. As they were leaving, the burly one asked, “Do you live here by yourself?”
“Why, yes, I do.”
“Why are there two mugs on the table?”
Jenny froze. She had forgotten that Solomon’s mug was still on the table, next to the bottle of wine. “Oh, well,” she stammered, “I- one of them had a spider in it, and I couldn’t drink out of it. So I used my other instead.”
“I see. Well, good evening, miss, and don’t worry; I think we shot him, we simply cannot find him. I’m sure someone will come across his remains soon.”
“Good evening to you, too, gentlemen.” Jenny shut the door behind them and leaned against it, trembling and sobbing.
Jenny waited for Solomon all that night and into the next day. It was near noon when she fell into a deep sleep, not being able to remain awake any longer. A pounding on her door startled her into wakefulness, to a dark kitchen, and a fire that had gone out. The pounding on her back door was repeated. She rose, crept to the door, and opened it.
Solomon swept merrily into the room. Jenny leaped into his arms, and covered his face with kisses, weeping and wailing “Oh, oh! They said they had shot you; I thought you were dead!”
“Shhh, shhh, Jenny! Quickly lass; are you ready to go?”
“Yes, Solomon,” Jenny nodded.
“Well then, off to Portsmouth!” He kissed her, and they gathered up Jenny’s things. Solomon thought to take the bottle of lilac wine that had still been sitting on the table, and they drank it, happiness distilled and bottled, as they rode off into the night, into their new life. No one ever again heard from the highwayman Solomon Gale; every one thought that the King’s men had shot him down. But, in the following years, Portsmouth did become famous for its lilac wine.
'Twas an evening in May and Solomon Gale was traveling the Old Post Road, in search of a fat purse to liberate from its fat owner. The setting sun cast a rosy glow over the fields, and violet shadows filled the ditches and the eaves of the forest. The only sounds were the soft thudding of his horse’s hooves and the chirring of frogs. The air carried a perfume particular to that time of year: new-turned earth, sun-warmed spring grass, and lilacs. This section of the Post Road was lined with them; slender trees arching over the road, their plumes of aubergine flowers nodding in the spring breeze.
Solomon Gale was a highwayman, always watchful, lest the law sneak up and capture him whilst he is unawares and dreaming. So it was that, when Solomon rounded the next bend in the road, he spotted Jenny McGee right away. She was standing in the ditch, the evening sun slanting across the road and lighting her up like an angel of God, her hair glinting fiery gold, her skin luminous alabaster. She was picking the lilacs, and dropping them into a pair of baskets lashed to the back of a snow-white pony.
Solomon Gale was struck almost senseless by her loveliness, and he reined his horse up, the better to study her. The horse, accustomed as he was to keep moving when on the road, bridled at the pause, stamping and jingling his bits, so that the lovely creature looked up and saw Solomon watching. Her sea-blue eyes further stunned him, and it was a moment before he remembered his manners and spoke.
“Good evening, Miss.” He touched the brim of his hat with his whip handle.
“Good evening, Sir.” She dropped her eyes, and curtsied prettily.
“May I ask, Miss, what has you out on the highway this evening? The roads can be dangerous at night.”
“Well, Sir, I am collecting lilacs, to make lilac wine. Sure, and this particular section of the road is not dangerous, for the gentleman Solomon Gale rides between here and Sudbury, and no harm shall visit his road.”
“Yes, well, Gale’s reputation is that of a highwayman.” It always amused Gale to speak thus of himself.
“'Tis true, sir, but it is also that of a gentleman and protector.” she placed an armful of blooms in her panniers, and, they being full, took the pony’s bridle. “Good evening to you, Mr. Gale,” she said over her shoulder as she led the pony away, “perhaps I will see you here again. The lilacs will be blooming for a while yet.” She cast a stunning smile back at him, so that he again forgot his manners until the last minute.
“Good evening, Miss!” It was not until he had turned his horse towards home that he realized that he had not asked her name.
Solomon Gale returned the next night, and every night thereafter. He learned Jenny’s name, and that she was a freewoman, having paid off her indenture making lilac wine. He would walk next to her, leading his horse, whilst she filled her baskets with the fragrant lilacs; and he would walk home with her each evening, leaving her at her gate in the gathering dusk.
There came a night, in early June, when she paused at the gate, and said to him: “I’m afraid the lilacs have gone by.”
“Yes, indeed they have,” he replied.
“I won’t be going out in the evening to collect them any more.”
“No; you haven’t any reason to, anymore.”
“Ah, well. Goodbye, Solomon Gale.” She held her hand out for him to shake.
“Good evening, Jenny McGee.” He took her hand, pulled her close, and kissed her. Her lips were warm and soft as rose petals. “Perhaps I’ll see you another evening. The king’s men will be ripe for picking for a good while.” This time it was Jenny who was left standing stunned in the road, staring after him as he rode away.
And so it went, through the summer and into the fall. As the lilac wine clarified and matured, so too did the love of Jenny McGee and Solomon Gale. She continued in her endeavors, making her living, and so did he. That year’s vintage of lilac wine promised to be particularly fine, and, on an evening in late November, Solomon came to her with some fine news of his own.
“Jenny, Jenny, such news! I’ve just learned that there will be a large purse of the King’s gold being carried over the post road in two day’s time!”
“Oh, Solomon, sure and you don’t mean to steal it! It will be so heavily guarded, you’re sure to get caught!” She clasped his hands, tears glimmering in her eyes, “Promise me you won’t try to steal it!”
“Jenny, I must! If I’m successful, we can leave here, and go to Portsmouth. We can get married, and live on a small farm and make lilac wine for the rest of our lives! Jenny, I must do this!”
Jenny begged and pleaded, to no avail. Solomon Gale had made up his mind, and would not be swayed. On the day of the shipment, he came to Jenny and said “Pack a bag, Jenny, and be ready to leave when you hear me at the door.”
“I’ll do better than that; we’ll toast to your fortune.” She uncorked a bottle of her lilac wine, pouring it into two pewter mugs “This is the best I’ve ever made.” She raised her mug, “Here’s to your success, and our future. May they both be as promising as this wine.” They drank; the wine was sweet, redolent of summer and sunshine and flowers. Solomon slammed his mug on the table, kissed Jenny passionately, and was gone.
Solomon waited in the shadows of a side lane he knew the King’s men would have to pass. It was getting dark, and he was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t been played false. He continued to wait.
Jenny packed her bag: her two other dresses, some warm things to ward off the chill, her mother’s hairbrush and two bottles of her lilac wine. She drank another glass from the open bottle on the table. She continued to wait.
Just before full dark, Solomon heard hoof beats, many hoof beats, approaching. H waited until he could stand it no longer, until he felt they must be upon him. He spurred his horse, and it leapt out into the road, right in the path of the man carrying the King’s purse. Solomon shouted “The gold or your life!” and, before anyone could react, seized the purse, wheeled his horse around, and galloped off into the woods, bullets from the guards’ muskets singing by his ears, ricocheting off the trees to his right and his left …
Jenny paced and fretted back and forth across her kitchen. She began to sob when she heard the shots that she knew were aimed at her Solomon. Shortly afterward, a group of horsemen thundered up to her door. The King’s men! Quickly she hung her little bag on the peg under her cloak, and answered their pounding.
“Good evening, Sirs. What brings you to my door at this hour?” The guard there was tall and burly; he carried a loaded musket. She did her best to steady her voice, but it surely trembled with fear.
“Good evening, Miss. We are looking for a highwayman. Has anyone ridden by here just now?” The guard peered past her into the house, trying to see if she were harboring the man that had robbed them.
“A highwayman! Goodness! I haven’t seen or heard anyone but yourselves on the road.”
“We must search your house, anywise,” The burly soldier replied, and shoved his way past her. The soldiers made quick work of searching her house. As they were leaving, the burly one asked, “Do you live here by yourself?”
“Why, yes, I do.”
“Why are there two mugs on the table?”
Jenny froze. She had forgotten that Solomon’s mug was still on the table, next to the bottle of wine. “Oh, well,” she stammered, “I- one of them had a spider in it, and I couldn’t drink out of it. So I used my other instead.”
“I see. Well, good evening, miss, and don’t worry; I think we shot him, we simply cannot find him. I’m sure someone will come across his remains soon.”
“Good evening to you, too, gentlemen.” Jenny shut the door behind them and leaned against it, trembling and sobbing.
Jenny waited for Solomon all that night and into the next day. It was near noon when she fell into a deep sleep, not being able to remain awake any longer. A pounding on her door startled her into wakefulness, to a dark kitchen, and a fire that had gone out. The pounding on her back door was repeated. She rose, crept to the door, and opened it.
Solomon swept merrily into the room. Jenny leaped into his arms, and covered his face with kisses, weeping and wailing “Oh, oh! They said they had shot you; I thought you were dead!”
“Shhh, shhh, Jenny! Quickly lass; are you ready to go?”
“Yes, Solomon,” Jenny nodded.
“Well then, off to Portsmouth!” He kissed her, and they gathered up Jenny’s things. Solomon thought to take the bottle of lilac wine that had still been sitting on the table, and they drank it, happiness distilled and bottled, as they rode off into the night, into their new life. No one ever again heard from the highwayman Solomon Gale; every one thought that the King’s men had shot him down. But, in the following years, Portsmouth did become famous for its lilac wine.