Devil Water (24 page)

“Then what’s come over Meg?” said Charles. “She swore I’d never get the child.”

Rob was silent, unable to express at once all the things which had altered Meg’s mind. The boy knew that in her own bitter defensive way she still loved Mr. Radcliffe. That was one thing. She’d wandered about like a spook, white and wambly for days after he’d been there. And then she must have seen the justice of rearing Jenny like a lady, for she had asked Rob one day if he thought Jenny was too fine to live with the cattle in a crumbling peel in the moors. He had answered, aye, because he did. Meg had not been angry as before; she had turned away with a dumb stricken look. Then something else had happened, and it was this Rob tried to tell.

“Ould Snawdon,” he said, “he’s took very queer at times. He rants off stuff from Scriptures’d make a tinkler blush. Dirty talk. Last Sabbath he was yammering an’ shoutin’ blasphemies. Running about the yard wi’ his breeks off, naked as an egg.”

“My God,” whispered Charles. “I must get Jenny away
now!”

Rob shook his head. “Ye cannot, sir. Jenny canna gan to war wi’ ye. An’ she’ll tak’ no harm. Meg an’ her brothers’ll guard her, an’
I’ll
guard her, sir, ye may trust me.”

Charles stared at the boy with sudden attention. Under the mat of hair, the hazel eyes met his steadily; there was something attractive in the rough, square, North Country face.

“How old are you?” said Charles.

“Fifteen, or thereabouts.”

“You’re an odd lad. Why didn’t you go back to Tyneside and your kin there?”

“Because I had me bellyful o’ the pits, an’ the Snawdons let me bide here as cow-man.”

“Is the care of cattle better than the pits?” asked Charles with a half smile.

“Aye, fur a while. Ould Snawdon an’ Meg’ve taught me m’letters. The Faws they taught me to play the pipes. I’ve made siller wi’ m’pipes of late at weddings an’ harvest time. But I’ll not bide here when Jenny goes to Lunnon. I aim to rise i’ the world, same as she will.”

Charles frowned, aware of annoyance which it was silly to identify as jealousy. “You will have nothing to do with Jenny, once she’s in London! You understand that, of course, though I’m grateful enough for your care of her now, and will reward you properly, when I can.”

Rob also frowned. “I’m no fule,” he said sharply. “I’ll niver pester the bairn once she’s being made a lady of. Ye may count on that. An’ I’ll earn me
own
way up.”

Charles shrugged, not entirely satisfied. There was a great deal about this dark, stubborn boy he did not understand. For that matter, he did not understand the Snowdons -- or Meg -- and it had been a rueful day when, scarcely older than Rob, he had wandered along Tyneside and forced himself into the lives of people so alien. And yet, from this mismating there was Jenny.

“I’ll gan back now,” said Rob. “An’ ye’ll send fur the bairn when ye get to Lunnon an’ have a place fur her?”

“Yes,” said Charles. “And it can’t be long. The whole country’s ripe as a plum to fall in our hands. Why, we’ve not even had a battle yet, for all that fat German Geordie has sent some dragoons after us. I hear they’ve not the pluck to fight.”

Rob did not question this optimism. In Coquetdale with its swarming Jacobites there was no reason to suspect that other parts of England might prefer the Hanoverians, and to Rob the matter was of scanty interest except as it affected his own future, and that of Jenny, for whom he felt a protective fondness.

“Good luck, sir,” said Rob, moving towards the door. Charles, on impulse, put out his hand, and the boy after a startled moment shook it.

“I’ll see you in London by Christmas!” said Charles, smiling. “You can pipe for our King when he’s crowned at the Abbey!”

Rob’s face flushed with pleasure, his mouth widened in a startled grin. “Thank ye, sir!”

But Rob Wilson and Charles did not see each other again for many years.

On Wednesday, November 9, the Jacobite army was in Lancashire, and its cavalry rode into the predominantly Jacobite town of Preston. It had been drizzling for days. James and Charles at the head of their mounted troops were sodden, mud-bespattered; water dripped from the angles of their cocked hats, over the lank tie-wigs. Yet their prospects seemed bright, James thought. Brighter than they had appeared to him at any time during these weeks of constant marches -- and constant dissension among the leaders.

Just now, north of Preston, they had been acclaimed by a number of Lancashire Catholics, who welcomed them with huzzahs and the assurance that they had nothing to fear from the enemy. That King George’s regiments, commanded by General Wills, were forty miles away and on the run, while the main Government army under General Carpenter were milling helplessly in Scotland, being trounced by the Earl of Mar. Great news!

“And so,” said Charles, who had been pursuing the same thoughts, “is it
possible
that we’ll march all the way to London without ever coming to grips with the enemy at all?”

“Possible, I suppose,” answered James yanking his gray stallion out of a mudhole and wondering if it were weather or fatigue which prevented him from joining in the general elation.

They had been on the move for three weeks since quitting Rothbury the second time. They had entered Scotland to join Brigadier Mackintosh and his Highlanders at Kelso. They had proclaimed King James there and in other towns. Yet in Scotland the Jacobites had suffered serious quarrels among themselves. The Earl of Winton had for a time refused point-blank to re-enter England with his men until all Scotland should first be secured to the Jacobites. Lord Kenmure in his gentle way agreed. As did James. And their counsels were given added weight when it developed that half the Highlanders would not cross the Border. They deserted instead.

Yet Tom Forster’s arrogant obstinacy had prevailed. Better call it “obstinacy,” James thought, not something else surely. There had been an exceedingly uncomfortable moment in Kelso when a breathless Jacobite spy had reported that General Carpenter with regiments of foot and dragoons was in hot pursuit, and nearing Kelso. Forster had paled when he heard this news, his thick lips had quivered, and he had immediately ordered what amounted to a panicky flight to Jedburgh. Charles and the Earl of Winton had protested violently, Charles was all for leading his Northumbrian troops off to fight Carpenter then and there. James, though sympathizing, had been firm in stopping so rash an unauthorized move, which would have split their forces. And no arguments could sway Forster. He did not listen to them. He had made up his mind to lead the army to Lancashire, where he was certain that the entire county would rush to join them. And he carried the day. Lord Winton glumly gave in at last and summoned his men, saying, “It shall ne’er be told in history that a Seton could break off from or desairt the Stuart’s interest, yet --” here he had seized his two ears in his hands, “cut these lugs from my head here and now, if we don’t all sore repent this!”

And here they were. Though the whole of Lancashire had not swarmed to their standard -- and the High Church Tories seemed disturbingly limp -- still there had been some gratifying demonstrations, and no opposition at all. Incredibly easy, James thought. It must be that the Stuart doom was lifted at last, and God wrought for them a miracle. Why then continue to feel despondent?

They sloshed on through Preston’s narrow streets and drew up at the Mitre, where most of the chief officers were quartered.

Tom Forster was already lolling in the best seat by the parlor fire, a steaming mug in his hand. His scarlet and gold coat was unbuttoned, his boots were off, his fat stockinged feet propped on the fender. Colonel Oxburgh and Robert Patten -- the Anglican curate from Allendale -- both hovered near him.

“Ho there, my lord!” Forster called jovially to James, while he nodded to Charles.
“Now
will ye own what a fine general ye’ve got! Hey? Lancaster an’ Preston in our pockets already. Next we’ll have Manchester an’ Liverpool. An’ never a soul to stop us. Geordie’s lads’re scuttling away wi’ their tails between their legs. Like the bloody Scots!” he added loudly with a glance towards the far end of the room.

Charles followed the glance and saw the Lords Winton and Kenmure and young Murray seated at a table near Brigadier Mackintosh of the Highlanders; all eating from a dish of Lancashire hot pot.

The Scots looked up at Forster’s remark. Murray flushed and put his hand to his sword hilt. The Earl of Winton tilted his head and raised one sardonic eyebrow. “You deign to compliment us, General?” he called in a thin voice. “Or do ye suggest that we scuttle back to Scotland, leaving the full glory of these many victories to you alone?” There was a dangerous glint in Winton’s small eyes, and Oxburgh hastily leaned over Tom Forster with a nervous murmur.

Tom shrugged but heeded his adviser. “I meant only to speak o’ the Highland savages who wouldna follow me down here,” he said airily.

After a moment Winton bowed. Murray’s hand dropped from his sword. Kenmure looked distressed, his gnarled fingers trembled as he spooned up gravy from the hot pot. Brigadier General Mackintosh shook his head sourly. He was a great lanky laird, a fierce fighter with claymore or battle-axe, but here in the hated England he was ill-at-ease, homesick, as bewildered as the sixty Highlanders who had remained loyal to him and were now quartered in Preston. They did not understand this sort of war, which consisted of nothing except long dull marches and never a battle.

“Where are the others?” asked James, relinquishing his greatcoat to his servant. He had scarcely listened to the altercation, so frequent were such bickerings.

Forster, whose mouth was stuffed with black pudding, did not bother to answer, and Patten, the obsequious little curate, stepped forward bowing. “Their lordships Nithsdale, Carnwath, and Nairn are all at the White Bull, my lord, but my lord Widdrington is here and has gone to his chamber. His gout troubles him much.”

“Thank you,” said James with his usual courtesy. He liked Patten no better than he ever had, but the man was useful. Protected by his cloth he managed to worm his way into many a place where the obvious Jacobites dared not go. Patten had now become their most efficient spy. “Is it true that two companies of dragoons ran from Preston yesterday when they heard we were coming?” pursued James.

“Aye, my lord,” said Patten. “I was hiding in a house by the Riddle Bridge and saw them go.”

“All fly before us!” said Tom with a sweeping gesture which upset his ale mug. “They all fly, fly, fly away.” He gave a thick chuckle and closed his eyes.

Saint Mary, what a sot! Charles thought, staring at their commander-in-chief, while James walked to the fire and warmed his hands. Yet, in justice, one must admit that Forster had been right so far.

“What would you say our strength is now, sir?” asked Charles turning to Forster’s aide-de-camp, Colonel Oxburgh.

Oxburgh screwed up his long conscientious Irish face and pondered. He looked tired and had grown thin during these weeks of trying to guide Forster. “Maybe two thousand -- when the foot get here tomorrow,” he said at last.

“Nonsense!” cried Forster explosively, opening his eyes. “Far more’n that! Ye’re a gloomy goat, Oxburgh! We’ll have five thousand ‘neath our standard tomorrow, they’re marching in from all the west. Ain’t it so -- Patten?”

“Yes indeed, sir,” answered the curate eagerly. “ ‘Tis what I hear on all sides. And I hear too that the dragoons’re all deserting General Wills to join us.”

“To be sure,” said Forster shrugging. “Who’d fight for German Geordie when they came out for their rightful king, who is now
landed
no doubt and sweeping through Scotland to victory?”

James crouched over the fire, and hid a fresh wave of dismayed doubt.

“Amen,” said Oxburgh very solemnly, and Charles thought that the man had indeed become a gloomy goat of late. Always telling his beads and going to Mass now that they were in Catholic country. And never a smile out of him. Quite unlike the other Irish officers, the Wogan lads, who were gay blades and found amusement even in these dreary provincial towns. “Where are you off to, James?” he asked the Earl, who was walking towards the stairs.

“Up to see poor Widdrington. There never was such a man for aches and pains,” James added with an unusual touch of irritation. “Pity he hasn’t the stamina of Kenmure.” He threw that dignified and uncomplaining old laird an appreciative glance. “Charles, go see to our men. Dick Stockoe had a touch of fever this morn, see that he gets a dry bed.”

“Aye, my lord,” said Charles smiling. “Then pray, may I go find myself some entertainment?”

“This savors of impudence,” said James also smiling. “Since you will anyway. But console yourself for probable disappointment with visions of the imminent joys of London!”

The brothers exchanged a look of affection, and Charles went whistling out into the rain-washed street.

The next morning, the sun shone on Preston when the Jacobite army gathered in the marketplace and proclaimed James the Third as King of England. This ceremony had now become so familiar to them that no orders were needed to insure proper decorum. The different troops arranged themselves neatly, headed by their mounted officers, and radiating like spokes of a wheel from the central market cross. On the steps stood the herald with his trumpet. Beside him General Forster, in scarlet and gold on his huge black horse. Smiling citizens were jammed in every window of the neat brick mansions, the half-timbered shops. They cheered as the square filled with mounted gentlemen in laced hats all garnished with the white cockades, in full-bottomed wigs, ruffles, and flashing scabbards. They gawked at the company of Highlanders with their sporrans, their gaudy tartan breeches and plaids, their floppy bonnets, the like of which Preston had never seen.

There was a preliminary roll of drums and the skirling of bagpipes, then a hush, as the herald blew his trumpet and began to shout the proclamation. “Whereas George, Elector of Brunswick, has usurped and taken upon him the style of King of these realms . . . and whereas James the Third by reason of the right of the first-born son and the laws of this land, did immediately after his father’s decease become our only and lawful liege . . .”