"Murder!" Johnson snarled. "Murder, ye French bastard!"
"Enough!" Dick whirled on him, the dripping rapier still in his hand. " 'Twas clear accident." Just below the hilt, he saw then, the blade was ringed by a narrow band of leather. "Frank spitted himself so hard, poor devil, he pushed the point clear through the button."
Men crowded around, examining the weapon. "Fair bout," Mostyn conceded. He stared at Villebonne, his face turning green. "Holy Christ, it might have been me!"
Captain Francis Edwardes, late of Hertford's Foot, was buried in Bowes's churchyard. All who had served in the regiment were there— Villebonne excepted. So were Sir Roger, Mr. Robinson and many of the local gentry, several of whom gave Johnson nods.
Later, Dick took the man aside. "Ye still say it was murder?"
"I've seen many bouts, but none where the button's pierced."
"You've seen many a woman shrink before your pistol, ye scum. I know who held up the York coach. I served years with Frank, but what I did for him I won't for you. Get ye gone out of the Riding. You've your own mount and Star. Go!"
"You're no magistrate to order me away."
"Stay, and ye'll hang in a week. Not only because you're a pad, but because you're a traitor to King George."
Johnson went, leading Star, and without a word to Milkmaid Molly, who hid in the dairy and was still red-eyed the next day.
Since the tragedy, Ram had kept to himself and when, after the funeral, Dick found him in the salle, he seemed dazed.
"Come, lad, you've seen men die before. Had Frank fallen in battle, you'd grieve but not miss your dinner. What ails ye?"
"The button."
"Hey? Why, he spitted himself, button or no, like Gaston's warned you not to. He's not to blame, remember that."
"But that second bout, when he raised his sword above his head, he slipped on a different button with a slit in it. I saw him! Oh, Father, why did he do it?"
"God!" Dick remembered Villebonne's words: ". . . permit me to add my love to that you bear for Ram." He stared down at the unhappy boy. "You'll never know, lad. But Gaston loves ye well, and he'd do as much for you as I would myself."
"Ride like the wind! John, you to Bowes; Rob, you to Gilmonby. Ring the church bells and, damme, don't let anyone stop ye!" Ram snapped out orders as crisply as Dick himself. "And cry Scotland's risen and proclaimed the Pretender king. All old soldiers to report to the major at Mr. Robinson's house. Go!"
As the boys spurred away, he turned Moor and started after Dick, Villebonne, Will and a dozen more, who were taking a short cut to surprise Robinson.
Anstruther's Dragoons were being born.
Two days before a War Office letter authorized Dick to raise a regiment for the defense of the North Riding. And this morning came news that James Stuart's banner had been raised.
Whatever Robinson's pohtics might be, he commanded the local militia, and its weapons and ammunition were stored at his house; so Dick determined that they shouldn't fall into hostile hands.
As his party rode up the avenue toward the great house, Bowes's bells clanged; John had carried out his mission. "No violence, mind," Dick warned, dismounting, "but let no one near the magazine or the armory. To your posts. The rest follow me."
The surpise was complete. Robinson, conferring with a suspiciously large number of his militia officers, was aghast and flung dismay-inspired threats against this Anstruther upstart who dared to question his loyalty and thus invaded his home.
Waving the letter, Dick said he held the King's commission to raise a regiment and arm it from the militia stores. Actually, it gave him no authority to comandeer from the militia, but it did bear the King's own signature and the Royal seal.
Hoping to impress the Robinson womenfolk, young Mostyn chose to play the hero. "Sir, you must answer to me for insulting ladies with your presence," he blustered grandly.
"At your service, bantling," Dick shrugged. "I've swallowed larger helpings than you before breakfast many a time." He turned to Gaston. "Major, you'll second me?" Villebonne bowed gravely,
Mostyn changed color. "I—I meant I'd fight you alone, not in the London style, with seconds."
"Jackanapes, name a friend and Major Villebonne will confer with him. We choose swords."
Feminine squeals showed that Gaston's reputation had spread. "No bloodletting, sirs, I beg," Robinson pleaded, and faced Dick. "Sir, I bow to superior strength. Here are the keys to the munitions."
"We fight, nonetheless. I stand no insults from such witless apes. He's crazed, to challenge a King's officer in the performance of his duty." Leaving in a stunned silence, Dick made for the armory. Ecod, it was good to wear the red again, to command! As for Mostyn, he'd accept challenges from a dozen such every day.
By afternoon he had accepted almost a dozen. For his swift move
had wrecked many plans, and clearly the frustrated plotters hoped to scare him off by the very volume of their challenges.
As the victors escorted carts loaded with weapons and powder homeward, Gaston voiced this thought. Dick grinned sourly. "But I don't frighten. It's well I've exercised with you lately."
"Let me take your place," Gaston urged. "An unlucky thrust and there'll be no Anstruther's Dragoons."
"No. Rather than face you as principal, the whole pack would be off to join the Scots in open rebellion. If the Riding's to be held, they must be brought to heel now."
But after a too brief night's rest, his confidence had oozed. He was forty-five and stiff from wounds. They were all young, strong.
Gaston proffered one of his rapiers. "I'll wear the other and we'll take our challengers on two at a time."
"You bloody-minded old dog," Dick grunted fondly. "But, I don't want their lives, only a httle of their blood."
Once out in the dawn, his stomach chilled. Thrice-damned fool! he told himself, is this the time to risk your hide, just when your life's dream burgeons? He paced the gravel glumly as Will arrived with bandages and lint.
Horsemen debouched from the chestnuts, a whole troop. They came on slowly and, Dick hoped, reluctantly.
" 'Steeth, did I agree to meet so many?" he muttered. "There's a score of 'em. Heigh ho, I'll be stiff in the arm before the end." He recognized Robinson in the lead. "The old fool, he's sixty or more, and I don't recall he challenged me."
Dismounting, the party advanced in a body. It was Robinson who spoke. "Colonel Anstruther, I've the honor to present these young gentlemen to your notice. If yesterday's hot tempers are forgiven, you'll find they'll make stouthearted dragoons."
"Colonel and captain, self. Lieutenant colonel and captain, Thomas Robinson." Dick ran a hand over his bald head. "He may prove untrue, but as militia colonel, he carries much weight. Major and captain, you, Gaston. Adjutant, Will. A troop captain. Ram. He's a trifle young, but I'll give him a good lieutenant—and make the man pay handsomely for the privilege. Abel Thornby will be Ram's sergeant. How many private men have we?"
Gaston scanned his lists. "Raw recruits, eighty; militia, fifty-six; old soldiers, twenty-seven. Total, one hundred sixty-three."
"Good. Now the other captains. There's Mostyn—hasn't a rabbit's guts, but he's worth seven hundred a year, so he'll pay a cool thousand for his troop. And Robinson's son—he's a coxcomb, but the old man will pay a thousand for him too. There, we have our six troops captained."
With all Britain torn by alarms and skirmishes, he worked as if possessed to whip his men into shape: more commissions sold, more recruits 'listed, contracts let for uniforms. He spent the commissions money as fast as it came in. And when Authority conceded that his seizing of the militia arms had forestalled a possible rebellion in the Riding, he was bursting with pride.
So was Ram— Captain Ramillies Anstruther! True, some of his troop grumbled at sendng under a boy not yet twelve, but he was quite confident he could lead them against the whole Jacobite army.
It was he who first learned of possible action. One November day, while maneuvering
his troop near Bowes, he found the Roman Road red with regulars marching westward. Learning that they were General Carpenter's force, moving to cut off an invading army of Scots, he ordered his lieutenant, George Slingsby, to bring the troop back, and raced ahead himself to report to Dick.
"Sir, our army's marching into Westmorland to cut off Highland invaders!" he cried, too excited even to salute.
Wlien Dick learned the scanty details, he blared: "Sound Boots and Saddles! Gaston, bring the regiment after me when mounted." Then, with Robinson and Ram, he galloped to overtake the general.
Having previously ordered Dick to remain in the Riding to maintain order, Carpenter greeted him coldly. But when he realized that Anstruther's was made up of Dalesmen who knew every mile of the road west, he ordered that it should provide the advance and flank guards through the hill country.
Within two hours Dick had his troops in position. As he rode at the head of the advance, he wouldn't have changed places with King George himself. Across Westmoriand into Lancashire and down to Preston town they went, where the Scots had been trapped by another regular force from the south. In two days the Jacobites surrendered, so all Carpenter had to do was to guard prisoners.
So disappointed Dick was ordered home, leaving two troops under Robinson to help with the prisoners.
"Bah, those miserable few can't be all the rebels," he opined as he neared Bowes. "We'll see plenty of action yet."
They did. Young John came racing back from the Advance. "Dales-view, it's afire!" His voice cracked. "Eigh, Uncle Dick, coom quick, there's summat awful happenin'!"
Dick stared ahead and saw smoke billowing from what must certainly be the house. "God!" he groaned, realizing that the regiment's reserve powder was stored in one of the barns. A spark, and all Dalesview would vanish.
"Regiment—tr-rot!" He led across country, Gaston and Will beside him, Ram, heading the first troop, at his heels.
The gates gaped. As he sped through them, he glimpsed old Seth Cobley lying on his back staring sightlessly up at the sky.
Snarling, he twisted in his saddle, "Captain Ram, deploy left and take the stables. Will, bid Captain Mostyn deploy right and take the barns. The rest follow me!" He galloped up the avenue, the remaining dragoons thundering behind.
The house lay ahead, smoke pouring from the upper windows. A shot rang out. Clearing the chestnuts, he saw a dozen horses tethered outside the stables, saw men battering at the house's main doors with a big timber. These he charged and sabered one, while Gaston pistoled another. The rest dropped the balk, one screeching, "Jesus, soldiers!"
Dick recognized one raider—Johnson, and the rogue was aiming a musket at him. Instinctively he bent low in his saddle, just as Pride smashed down the highwayman. When the stallion had sped on, Johnson lay still, blood on his face.
The remaining raiders pleaded for quarter as dragoons appeared from all points—Ram's troop from around the stables, Mostyn's from the barns, the remainder along the avenue.
Dick dismounted. "Captain Ram, see the powder's safe and set a guard over it." He looked up at the house. "Buckets—anything! Form a chain from the well." He ran up the steps and pounded on the doors. "Open! All's safe!"
Bolts and chains were drawn and Hannah appeared, cap gone, her small pistol in one hand, her face smut-streaked.
"It's about time ye coom," she greeted. 'T'rogues was like ti fry us alive, wi' their tossing fiery straw oop in t'winders."
Behind her stood Rob, carrying a big blunderbuss and followed by the maids and two old farmhands. 'They've slain Fred Bates, they have, and Molly too!" he choked. "Ooh, Uncle Dick!"
"Where's Joan?" Will raced up, his eyes wide with anxiety.
"In t'cellar wi' Sue," his mother said. "Nowt's harmed 'em."
"The smoke'll kill them!" He rushed inside.
It took hours to put out the fire. The stone walls and the slate roof were safe, but floor beams and some rooms were charred.
Meanwhile, Dick made prisoners talk. Johnson was their leader and had killed both old Cobley and Fred Bates for having recognized him. They'd expected to take only horses, weapons and food, but Johnson had wanted Milkmaid Molly too. Warned by the shooting, those within had locked the doors and shuttered the lower windows; so they had shot out the upper ones and tossed up burning straw.
Then Johnson threatened to massacre the defenders unless Molly was handed to him. Hannah had refused, but Molly had jumped from a back window, making him promise he wouldn't harm the others. He had taken her into the barn, but soon returned raging, with a bleeding hand. There were women inside easier to handle, he'd said, and ordered the doors battered in. That was all.
"God damn him, search him for papers, then throw his body in the midden!" Dick roared. "And find Molly, poor lass."
But Johnson had vanished. Dick was incredulous, being sure Pride had killed the man. It was Mostyn who found him in a barn, and this time he was dead. Molly had done it; Molly, with staring eyes and with clothes spattered with blood, her own and his.
"E tied me 'ands," she said, all too calmly. "Ah bit 'im, so 'e strook me, t'bastard. 'E used me bad an' left me. Theer's noise o' guns an' fightin', an' 'e cooms back, slow laike, wi' blood on 'is face. 'Moll lass. Ah didna mean ti 'urt thee. 'Ide me now and Ah'll marry thee,' 'e says. 'Let me free,' Ah says, an' 'e does. Then Ah oops wi' a sickle an' cuts 'is lyin' throat. 'E wor reet sweet on me when 'e wor 'ere wi' Capting Edwardes. Why did 'e use me so ill?" She looked around at the pitying faces. "Eigh, Mistress will be reet angered. Theer's not a gallon o' milk churned this living day."
She moved stiffly toward the dairy. Joan, herself pale and dishev-
eled, took charge of this oversimple girl who had given herself to be raped in the belief that her sacrifice would save others.
She never recovered and became vague in her mind, so that they called her "Mad Moll." But that was later.
Though in England the Preston defeat was decisive, the rising smoldered on in Scotland where, months too late, James Stuart at last landed. He spent further weeks making declarations and addresses; then, realizing that all was over, he left his adherents to shift for themselves and sailed back to France. For political reasons. Government was lenient, and only a few of the leaders were executed and some hundreds of their followers transported to the American colonies.
Early in the new year, Dick set out for London on the regiment's financial affairs, leaving Robinson in command. To him Dick wrote occasional dispatches, but not to his family. So Hannah took the initiative, maintaining that it was only just that Dalesview, ruined by the rebels, be rebuilt by royal aid. She browbeat old Robinson until all dragoons who were carpenters or glaziers were put to work. Cash was low, but she was able to replace the damaged oak rafters, floorings and wainscots.
But Robinson grew desperate trying to find rations for 300 men and fodder for their horses, with only his pledged word that Government would at last pay for them. He almost hated Dick for having forced him to the winning side, since it looked as if the Crown would repudiate the debts incurred by those loyal to it.
On an April day Ram, up on Moor, was watching Lieutenant Slingsby drill the troop when Volunteer John rode up and bowed formally. "Sir, the major's compliments," he began in a high soprano which changed to an indefinite baritone, "and please to exercise your troop in the charge." Then he turned an embarrassed red.
"What ails ye?" Ram gaped, dignity forgotten. "Are you ill?"
"They've dropped!" John swallowed. "Faither says I'm a man now." The "man" came out baritone, the "now" in a high treble.
Ram remembered his duty. "Sir, my thanks," he nodded. "The command will be obeyed." After passing the order on to Slingsby, he was about to ask him what "they've dropped" had to do with
John's strange voice, when he recognized a redcoat who had appeared from the avenue, riding wearily. "Father!" He raced to him.
Dick did not speak and looked worn and ill. "Your honor!" Ram ranged alongside him. "What's wrong?"
/> "Send for Gaston and Will." Dismounting, Dick dragged up the steps and into the house.
When Villebonne and Will arrived. Ram went in with them. Dick sat in his grandfather's chair, staring at the floor.
"We're disbanded," he announced. "All the new regiments are."
"Our pay?" Will choked. "We've not touched a penny since ye left. And what you issued before was from the commissions sold."
"Paymaster Walpole says I'll be reimbursed. But what of Robinson and the rest, who paid handsomely for their rank?" Dick turned to Gaston. "I'll be needing wrist-exercise. The poor sods will be out for my blood and, damme, I can't blame 'em!"
So the privates were dismissed with an ofEcial commendation and the officers allowed to retain rank up to captain only, save for Dick himself, who held his major's grade on the half-pay list.
Anstruther's Dragoons had had a short life.
There was much ill-will against Dick, but no duels. He bore it all grimly and would have returned the commissions money by mortgaging Dalesview had Hannah's fury not deterred him.
He took off his red coat, swearing never to wear it again. Ram, too, felt lost. He had been a King's Captain, now he was only a boy again, with nothing to do but ride and swim with his cousins.
In July an elegant officer arrived and asked for Colonel Anstruther. He was, he explained, an aide of his Grace of Marlborough. While Dick was being sought, he accepted ale from Joan, ogled her blatantly, spoke of sylvan maids and was about to mention rustic romances when Dick appeared.
"Sir, I bring this from His Grace." He proffered a letter.
Dick's fingers shook as he broke the seal, imprinted with the arms of the House of Churchill.
As he read—in the Duke's own hand, ecod!—his heart pounded and his shoulders squared. Gulping, he bowed to the aide. "My thanks, sir, and I trust you'll accept what my poor house can provide." He bade Joan take him up to the best chamber.
Ram; being the tale of one Ramillies Anstruther, 1704-55 .. Page 10