The Ballad of Simon Bolter by David Ford

The only thing fake about me is my name. Everything else, from the leather of my riding coat, to the bullets in my revolver, to most importantly, the intentions in my heart, are very real. To the world, I will soon be known as Simon Bolter, but to one currently unsuspecting soul, I will even sooner be known as “the man who robbed me.”

The only sounds in the woods as I stalked near the road for my prey were the snapping of twigs beneath the hooves of my horse, Lafayette. That and the occasional snort from his nostrils as hot breath rose from them, rising as steam to blend in with the light mist of the bitter day. The morning dew still sat crystalline atop the autumn leaves, catching what light the dying tree canopy would allow to stream down from the midday sun above. I was glad I decided on my long stockings that morning, feeling them adding a much welcomed second layer beneath my breeches, just as I was glad to feel my thick waistcoat hug the heavy cotton of my ruffled shirt to my body, sealed at the top by a wide cravat around my neck to stop the chill making siege down my back whenever Lafayette’s movements waved the fabrics beneath my knee length riding coat. I felt magnificent. I ran my hand along the hilt of my rapier sword on my left hip, and my thumb along the hammer of my gun to my right. I felt powerful.

In the silence of the forest, a noise was born around the corner of the road, a small distance away, enough time for me to set myself. Positioning against the tree line, the perfect vantage to assess the danger of the potential infractor, I reached into my inside pocket and pulled out a mask. I lifted my tricorne hat and placed the string behind my head, concealing my identity from the world. My friends call me by my real name, but you shall call me Simon Bolter.

My target rounded the corner, I got a good look and “Hee-yah!” Lafayette galloped onto the narrow road, blocking the path. I pulled my gun and pointed it at the driver. The car screeched to a halt not 10 feet from me.

“Your engine or yourself? Which will be killed?” I shouted at the man. He hit all my predetermined criteria for robbery, he was alone in his car. This one was middle aged, balding and very poorly dressed, wearing some kind of t-shirt with the name of a city he’d likely never been to scrawled in a cursive font across the chest. He probably had ill fitting jeans on beneath the steering wheel, and dare I say it, desert boots… As I was assessing him, he was just staring blankly back at me, as though he was trying to work out if he’d crashed a few turns back and I was the result of a brain bleed.

“It seems you’ve made your choice, Sir!” I said, lowering the hammer of the gun. The click snapped him back as he panicked and turned the ignition off.

“Throw your keys out the window,” I said. He obeyed. I approached his window like I’d just ordered a meal at the drive-thru, confident I’d be satisfied in no time.

To get to this point was truly a feat of human will. The trial and error I’d been through over numerous attempts to get to this point, well let me tell you. My first few attempts on foot were quite eye opening. I stood at the side of the road, and ran into the middle when one turned the corner, inevitably watching them speed past me, or at closest, nearly wipe me out, leaving nothing but the loud beep of their horn echoing in my ears. Rarely though, did they even notice me. That wouldn’t do. I was now Britain’s premier Highwayman, the sole heir to the legacies of the great Dick Turpin, James Hind and Sixteen String Jack. They would notice me, I’d have to make sure of that, so I acquired Lafayette. All the legends robbed on horseback, so I followed suit, and people really noticed a horse.

Once I’d perfected the charge timing so that the cars didn’t avoid me, I scouted the narrowest roads so they couldn’t just also drive around. You know what they did? They began to stop! But, then I needed to overcome my next obstacle – control. I found out early on that a sword was no good against a car, and once threatened from outside the sanctuary of their metal bunker, they’d just roll the window up and press the gas pedal, sounding the horn to spook Lafayette out of the way. I looked back at the history books, and realised all my heroes had one thing in common. A gun. The golden age of Highwaymen coincided with the dawning of firearms, which happened to mean that not many people owned them yet domestically. The Highwayman was able to easily control the situation from range for years, until eventually every Tom, Dick and Harry carried a pistol of their own in their coat. I however, live on the other side of time, in a place where nobody is allowed to carry a gun domestically anymore, so I knew where my edge lay.

After tracking down a salesman by the name of Six Caliber Cecil, I was almost there. He even sorted out my name for me.

“You aren’t daft enough to use your real name, are you?” he asked while I checked how the aesthetics of each gun matched up to my outfit, “because you already look pretty, erm, distinctive,”

“No, of course not. All Highwaymen used a Nom de Guerre, and I’m no different,”

“Oh, good. What’s yours?”

“Símon de Boltiér,” I said proudly, emphasising each accent as it rolled off my tongue. He placed his face into his open palm and sighed.

“Nah, mate, come on. Nobodies gonna call you that around here. They’re gonna call you ‘that Victorian bloke with the French name’ aye,”

“I wear Regency dress, actually,”

“Look, just save yourself the bother. Go by Simon Bolter and be done with it, alright,” he said, in as broad a Yorkshire accent as I’d ever heard, and I was Christened. I was ready, but for one thing that never once occurred to me.

The next day, I stopped a car, the lady driving threw her keys as she stared my gun down. I approached the window and demanded her money and her valuables, just as the Highwaymen of old once did, but all she did was drop her shoulder in confusion, answering “What do you mean? I’m on my way to the shop, I don’t have anything,”

“Cash?”

“Card, all my money’s on my cards,”

“Jewelry?”

“Erm, I got this ring from Pandora, but it only cost like 35 quid new,”

“Oh, erm, what’s in the boot then?”

“I dunno, the spare tyre obviously. I think there’s a tin of antifreeze, maybe an umbrella,”

“So, you have nothing?” I asked. She shrugged,

“I mean, you can have the car if it’s a choice between that and you killing me,”

“The car? How am I supposed to get my horse in the car? Don’t be stupid,”

“Well, I’d give you my cards, but I’ll just cancel them before you got to a cash point. And anyway I’d not give you the real PIN,”

“You know what,” I said, dismounting Lafayette, “Just go, this was not well thought out and to be honest, I’m a bit embarrassed by the whole thing,” I picked her keys up and handed them back. “Sorry for the inconvenience,”

I watched her drive off, thinking my dream of resurrecting the guild of the Highwayman was over, simply due to this new cashless society I was born into. But just as I was beginning to curse not being alive during the 70’s, I have a brainwave. I’d saved my ambition.

So, that’s why I had my tail feathers plumed as Lafayette approached the window of the poorly dressed gentleman’s car.

“Your money and valuables. Now,” I said, and watched his shoulders drop, just as the ladies had.

“Ah, you’re out of luck, mate. I don’t carry cash, it’s all on my cards ain’t it,” he said, a smile grew across his face, perfectly balanced between smugness and relief. I chuckled to myself as I reached down into the pocket of my waistcoat and brought back a thin white box.

“Don’t worry, Sir, this is the 21st Century after all. I do accept contactless payments,” I said, brandishing the reader at him, the LED lights illuminated in a pattern reading ‘£500, tap to pay’. Evolution is survival.

David Ford

Image: Pixabay.com – A black credit card reader on a wood grain surface.