Death and the Chevalier

by Robin Blake

  In my own head I thought it over. Suppose the matter of the Ribchester attacks had been raised in the rebel war council on the previous afternoon. If so, d’Éguilles would know my own connection with the matter and this would give him an idea of how to get revenge. He had no doubt spent the night dwelling on it. It would just be a matter of sending a message to the MacGregors that I had been concerned in the horrible death of their comrades to ensure my arrest.

  Our cart bumped along two or three hundred yards behind the rearmost of the main body of soldiers, one of three dozen vehicles loaded up with baggage, victuals, arms and sick and wounded men, and at least one carrying prisoners like ourselves. In front of, behind and alongside us trudged the camp followers – hawkers, mountebanks, ballad sellers, ragged whores, soldiers’ wives (a few with their children in tow) and others who tagged along with the army for some reason or another, or none. Geese, goats and donkeys were led or driven. Dogs padded this way and that between the traffic, their tongues lolling. Chickens squawked in wicker baskets.

  The army’s plan, I heard, was to rest for the night in Wigan. The advance guard must have reached the town before noon, but it took the oxen and spavined draft horses of the baggage train ten hours to complete the seventeen-mile journey. Along the way Bellasis bought a flagon of ale from a table outside a wayside mughouse.

  ‘Give us a wet, man,’ the prisoners around him said, and at first, with his flagon still pretty full, he handed it around. But his liberality diminished as the level of ale in the flagon sank, and soon he was sharing with no one as he became lion-like in drink, roaring his defiance at the rebels in a continuous stream of slurred oaths and profanities.

  ‘Have my horses, would ye? I’ll have ye, ye rebel bastards. I’ll have your balls boiled and your arses for bacon. Arrest a Bellasis? Steal my colt and mare? Wait till I have ye, ye mangy-bald, crooked-cock dogs.’

  After receiving a few cuffs around the head from our guard, he was forced to tone his tirades down until they were delivered under his breath, with occasional louder outbursts.

  ‘Bloody shabby, scabby, scratchy, beshitten, lousy rebel bastards. I’ll have ye. I will.’

  We rode into Wigan, a town much given to metal smelting, where we were brought to the house of the constable, a fellow called Terence Pitt, whom I knew to be more corrupt than a rotten bucket. We were each put into one of Pitt’s pinder cages since, as well as being constable, he was the taker-up of stray animals, which he returned to their owners only after the payment of fines, from which he took a cut. Not unlike John Wilkinson, late tax collector of Penwortham and now of Ormskirk, Pitt had built himself a splendid new house out of these profits. To the rear of the house lay a large compound behind a high fence – the pinfold – in which stood a scattering of about twenty cages and coops.

  It was thus that I found myself sharing an ignominious, draughty accommodation with two calves, whose large rolling eyes followed my movements with grave curiosity. The cage was some ten feet square and enclosed by walls made of stout, close-set ashwood staves, which I could see would be difficult to break down and impossible to squeeze between. Two kilted soldiers guarded us, patrolling the cages at ten-minute intervals.

  Those of us in the cart with a few pennies in our pockets had eaten on the road, buying bread and ham or cheese – at grossly inflated prices – from shops or taverns we passed along the way. But by the time we had been imprisoned at Wigan for three hours, I, for one, was hungry again, though no one seemed to have considered the matter of feeding us. I could hear the voices of my fellow prisoners calling out to our guards for food and water. They got nothing but orders in Gaelic, which I supposed meant the equivalent of ‘button it’.

  At eight o’clock by my pocket watch, the sergeant of the MacGregors came for me, attended by another man. He removed my shackle and pushed me out of the cage. The pinfold lay just on the edge of Wigan, some twenty yards back from the highway that led to and from the town. With the sergeant leading the way and holding a lantern, and the other walking behind with his musket prodding at my back, we came by that road to a house which, from its size and furnishings, seemed to be that of a tolerably rich citizen. Here I was brought before two officers sitting at a card table in the lobby, men no older than twenty-five.

  ‘What this one’s name?’ said one to the sergeant as he consulted a list that lay before him.

  ‘Titus Cragg, sir. May we go and have our wet, sir?’

  ‘Yes, go on. It’s through there. You may sit, Mr Cragg.’

  I sat down in the upright chair that faced the two men across the small table. The lobby had several doorways leading from it, a double one beside the foot of stairs and two or three at the back, behind the staircase. My escort disappeared through one of the latter as the second young officer addressed me directly.

  ‘Your wife is Elizabeth Cragg,’ he said.

  ‘Yes – how did you know that?’

  ‘Never mind. You had under your hospitality last night the Marquis d’Éguilles, I understand.’

  The accent in his voice – in both their voices – was softer and more refined than the Highland tones I had grown used to.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Monsieur le Marquis makes a complaint against you. He says that you accused him falsely of rape against Mrs Cragg and that you yourself then gravely assaulted him, breaking his nose. What do you say to that?’

  He looked very serious.

  ‘Well, yes. I mean, I didn’t in fact accuse him of rape—’

  ‘You didn’t? He says you did.’

  ‘Attempted rape. I accused him, and I still accuse him, of attempted rape. I interrupted him before he could …’

  ‘Before he could what?’

  ‘Do any lasting harm.’

  He snapped his fingers.

  ‘What did you see, then? Tell!’

  ‘I went into the room that we had given the Marquis to sleep in and found Elizabeth with him.’

  ‘With him?’

  ‘Yes, but only because she went in to collect his tray.’

  ‘But in doing so she became intimate with the Marquis?’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  ‘Well, then, what is your complaint?’

  ‘That the Marquis … that he was trying to force her, sir. He had her down on the bed and, well, he was lying on top of her, attempting to kiss her.’

  ‘She was fully clothed?’

  ‘Yes, of course she was fully clothed! She was collecting his tray!’

  ‘But apparently had time to become intimate with the Marquis?’

  ‘No! As I just told you—’

  ‘And you became suspicious of her because, of course, the witch had done this kind of thing before, behind your back, so you went up there—’

  ‘Damn you, sir! It was no such thing!’

  ‘It wasn’t?’

  His eyes widened and the brows arched in surprise. As I grew angrier, the serious mask of the young fellow’s face very slowly, almost imperceptibly, began to dissolve. His lips twitched. But even as he was trying to control his mouth, he could not prevent the hilarity showing in his eyes. He glanced at his companion and suddenly they both burst into laughter.

  ‘Mr Cragg, shall I tell you something about the Marquis?’ he said.

  ‘I doubt I want to hear it.’

  ‘Oh, I think you do. It is this. In every town we have stopped in, the Marquis has tried to take advantage of at least one woman in his host’s household. Everyone knows he does it – he can’t help himself. And you broke his nose because of this behaviour – and good for you, sir. He deserves it.’

  ‘Then why have you … What am I doing here?’

  ‘For a much better reason. You must reassure yourself, Mr Cragg. You should know we don’t put a civilian in irons and haul him along in the baggage train lightly. We have more important things to deal with than the complaints of a cuckolded husband.’

  He held up his hand to forestall my objection.

  ‘All r
ight! An almost cuckolded husband. No. It is a very serious matter that you’ve been taken up for.’

  ‘What, then?’

  He wagged his finger at me.

  ‘It is a matter of a murder, Mr Cragg, for which this army does not shrink from exacting the penalty of death. To be precise, it is a matter of ascertaining whether you did it and are therefore deserving of a military execution.’

  THIRTEEN

  The two young officers were merely gatekeepers to the ordeal which lay ahead of me. I was made to wait in their company for a further twenty minutes, during which they played cards and took no further notice of me except to give me, at my request, a drink of water. At last a bell was rung within and they took me through to a panelled room where three older officers sat behind a long table littered with documents, and with them a civilian clerk equipped with paper and writing equipment. Towards the front of the tabletop a heavy cavalry sword was laid, to lend military authority to the meeting. My escorts were dismissed, and the older presiding officer rose and growled.

  ‘You are Titus Cragg of Preston?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The MacGregor.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The MacGregor.’

  ‘What MacGregor?’

  ‘Myself, man! The MacGregor. Are ye stupid?’

  I twigged him then. He was introducing himself, MacGregor being not merely his name, but his rank. As the MacGregor he was the top man, the MacGregor that represented all the other MacGregors – and that included the dead MacGregors. And I had every reason to believe, based on the plaid, that those dead MacGregors included at least one of the murdered and headless men that we had inquested at Ribchester.

  ‘I demand to know what this is all about,’ I said. ‘I have been unjustly taken away from my home and family, starved and imprisoned. I must know why.’

  The MacGregor sighed, as if he were tired of explaining painful matters.

  ‘This is a military tribunal. I hold the rank of colonel and am enquiring into the deaths of twae of our men, who were brutally killed and their heads taken off while they were visiting Lancashire, one of them being a clansman of mine, Jock MacNab. Jock was a very strong man who could only have been overcome by tricks and connivance or being grossly outnumbered. Under his protection was a young laddie, William Sinclair, who was carrying dispatches under orders of my commanding officer, the Duke of Perth, and he is the other victim. This tribunal has the power and authority of a military court. So now to the point: based on this evidence …’

  He selected a sheet of paper from the table in front of him and, after quickly looking it over, wafted it in my direction.

  ‘Based on this paper here, you, Titus Cragg, are accused of the responsibility for their deaths, which is a capital crime.’

  For a moment the power of speech deserted me. I was thunderbolted. Incredulous.

  I said at last, ‘Who has accused me of this? Some lying person must have given perjurous testimony.’

  ‘In saying that, you only accuse yourself of lying and perjury. And though you are innocent of perjury (in my estimate), you are guilty of the other far worse crime.’

  ‘I am bemused. Perjury? What perjury do you mean? I demand an explanation for all this.’

  ‘Are ye no listening? Like I just said: as you admit your guilt, there is no perjury. No man in his right mind admits to murder unless he did it. I shall read out your confession.’

  He balanced a pair of ancient spectacles on his nose, cleared his throat and read in a ringing voice. ‘I am it must be admitted the man who ordered the killing of the two Highlanders, and all that is the essence of villainy however one views the military situation. (Signed) Titus Cragg.’

  He looked up at me over the top of his reading glasses.

  ‘There is more about you being coroner – whatever that is – but that’s the meat of it: your admission that you ordered the killing of those two men, and that you know full well the evil you have done. You claim this writing is the work of a liar. Well, sir, that liar would be you, as you have signed it. It is your hand?’

  ‘Let me see.’

  ‘You may read it but not handle it. Come forward.’

  I stepped up to the desk and he held the paper before my eyes. It had only three lines of writing and I could see straight away they were in the legal hand of Robert Furzey, except the signature, which was my own. After a few moment’s thought my confusion cleared. I knew what this paper was.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘Is it your hand?’

  ‘The signature? Yes, of course. I repeat: where did you obtain it?’

  ‘We searched Lord Derby’s house and there it was, under some piece of furniture. The man had been burning papers before he ran away, but your confession slipped the flames.’

  ‘It is not my confession. It is very far from being my confession.’

  ‘And yet that is your signature.’

  ‘Yes, but you have misread it. You have misunderstood the whole thing.’

  ‘D’you think we’re stupid? No, sir, it is as plain as day. You confess here it was you that gave the order.’

  ‘No, no. It doesn’t say that. Look at the punctuation. You’ve read it wrong. You must see, this is the last page of a much longer document. It is, in fact, the end of my inquest report.’

  ‘Inquest? What do you mean?’

  ‘Coroner’s inquest – surely you know what that is!’

  He did not like my ‘surely you know’. He frowned.

  ‘Explain what you mean and be quick.’

  ‘It is an inquiry into a death.’

  ‘Ah! You mean by the Procurator Fiscal?’

  ‘Yes, a person like that.’

  ‘Looking into the deaths of our comrades?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you told the fiscal—’

  ‘It’s the coroner, here in England.’

  ‘You told the coroner that you were the guilty one?’

  ‘No, no. You miss the point, sir. I am the Coroner. This is my own report, or part of it.’

  ‘And in this report you accuse yourself. I would say that is quite conclusive of your guilt.’

  ‘No, it is not, sir. Why, how and under what circumstances would I have cause to kill your kinsman and the other young man, and then confess it in my coroner’s report? It does not make any sense.’

  ‘I know that. The sense is what we want to find out – before we shoot you.’

  ‘But look!’ I said. ‘Look at the punctuation. Here after “I am” you have a full stop. Then a new sentence: “It must be admitted the man who ordered the killing et cetera.” Do you see?’

  ‘I see it is written here “I am the one”,’ said the MacGregor. ‘You are owning to the crime.’

  ‘It is a loose page, the last one. There was more matter – much more – on previous pages, no doubt burned or taken away by the Earl. “I am” are the last words of the previous sentence, don’t you see?’

  He frowned more deeply.

  ‘Step back, if you please,’ he ordered.

  I did so and watched as the MacGregor showed the paper to his colleagues. They conferred in whisper and, after no more than a minute, he turned back to me.

  ‘We are nae satisfied by your explanation, sir, and as you cannae produce the supposed other pages you mention in your defence, this tribunal is in agreement. Your signed confession is in our hands and we consider that enough to condemn you. There is nae time for further investigation. You are therefore sentenced, by the authority of His Royal Highness, to die under military law by shooting.’

  ‘Shooting?’ I gasped. ‘Are you mad? This is … I cannot take this seriously!’

  ‘You had better,’ he said, ringing his little handbell. ‘And give thanks in your prayers you won’t be hanged. It’s a much nastier death.’

  The sergeant appeared in response to the bell.

  ‘Take him back to his cage, Sergeant. We’ll make the necessary arrangements f
or first thing in the morning.’

  Fifteen minutes later I was back with my fellow prisoners, the two calves. Feeling low, frightened and queasy in my stomach – all thoughts of hunger had disappeared – I went to them where they lay together in a mound of straw, pulling my greatcoat closely around me and sinking down beside them. Patiently, the young animals put up with my company, which was lucky because the air was freezing hard and the warmth radiated by their bodies was almost luxurious.

  Surely the MacGregor had been bluffing, I thought. He had to be. But why? For what possible gain?

  And if he had not, I was to be shot, first thing in the morning, with no chance of appeal. Well, I could understand why they would want to shoot the person who had ordered the nasty deaths of their comrades. I myself regarded it as a heinous crime and I sincerely hoped – I still hoped – someone would be punished for it in due course. Just so long as it was not now, and not me.

  But perhaps there was still time to make them see sense. I thought very hard, trying to remember the wording of the last few remarks in my report to Lord Derby. If I did not remember them right, I would have no chance of defending myself – even if it was not too late, and I very much feared it might be. There was a copy of the whole document at the office back in Preston, but that was no use to me now.

  To the best of my recall, I had ended by saying, despite the verdict of the jury, that I personally thought James Barrowclough was the one who commissioned the crime. I had written something to the effect that I expected him to absent himself for a while, and be difficult to find, particularly given the present military situation of the country. But what precisely had I written in that penultimate sentence ending with the words ‘I am’?

  That such a religious, outwardly decent man should engage in such a villainous killing, and specially on these victims at this particularly dangerous time, nobody is more surprised than I am.

  Yes, it was something like that. And I went on to write: It must be admitted, the man who ordered the killing of these two Highlanders, and all that, would be the essence of villainy however one viewed the military situation. The commas around ‘and all that’ were also ignored by my accusers. How could they not see that the commas and full stops governed the sense? Of course, they would if the complete report was under their eyes, but it wasn’t, and I would be shot dead before it could be.