The Rebel and the Redcoat

by Jan Constant

  Needing all her skill to stay in the saddle, Anstey crouched low and prayed that he would not trip or put his hoof in a rabbit-hole. The chase was short; before they had travelled more than a few hundred yards at high speed, she was aware of a horse’s outstretched head and neck at her elbow, and then a strong, brown hand reached out to seize her bridle in an iron grip. Slowly but inevitably they came to a sweating, breathless halt, and she raised a hand to put back her hair that had broken loose from its confining ribbon in her wild flight.

  The rage in his cold grey eyes took her aback; she had expected anger, but was unprepared for the look of near-loathing which he directed at her, his mouth a tight line, his cheeks knotted with tension. Without a word, he dragged the horse’s head round and set off towards the fissure they had so lately left, stopping only to snatch up and toss to her the tricorne hat that she had lost during the chase.

  Anstey felt her heart beat a mad tattoo against her ribs as they hurried back to the road and found Captain Ward’s ominous silence even more disturbing than a noisy anger would have been.

  Rejoining the waiting troop, her eyes sought Johnnie Gray, finding him at last, a miserable dejected figure, sitting his horse with hanging head amidst the other soldiers. The troopers regarded her with blank, hostile eyes and she knew that they blamed her for the young Redcoat’s action.

  Without more ado the gorge was left behind and they rode on until, coming upon a level place with a good view of the surrounding countryside, they stopped and dismounted, the soldiers seeming to know what to do and each going about his task in a grim silence.

  Anstey watched, sensing that something unpleasant was about to take place, but when the young trooper was led to one of the small, stunted trees and stripped to the waist, she started forward.

  “What are you doing? What’s happening?” she cried, although the preparations told her all too plainly what was about to take place.

  “Field punishment,” Sergeant Wright told her curtly. “Shall I send the prisoner to the rear?” he asked.

  “No,” replied Captain Ward, biting off the word savagely. “Being the cause of the trooper betraying his trust, it’s only right that she should see the consequences - make sure she does.”

  Johnnie Gray’s wrists were tried to a branch above his head, and stepping forward the sergeant took off his own belt and twisted the buckle end about his hand before looking towards the officer.

  “Eight strokes,” said Captain Ward, his voice even.

  Anstey closed her eyes, to open them again as a hand closed in her hair and her head was jerked by the soldier who held her. “Watch, the officer said,” he told her, his voice rough, and against her will she did, as stroke after stroke of what looked like red paint appeared on the smooth white back.

  At first Johnnie clenched his teeth and was silent, but at last his resolve gave way and he uttered a high-pitched whimper, reminding Anstey of a beaten dog. Wrenching herself free, she darted forward to seize the sergeant’s upraised arm.

  “No!” she cried. “No more - he’s had enough.” Sergeant Wright seemed nonplussed, looking over her head to Captain Ward for guidance.

  “His punishment isn’t complete,” he was told. Anstey wrung her hands, almost crying in her distress. “It was my fault - I should be the one to be punished.”

  “Very well - then take his place.”

  Catching her breath, she stared up the officer, reading satisfaction in his expression at her startled reaction. She realized suddenly that it pained him to have his trooper beaten, whereas it would disturb him not at all to inflict the same punishment on her.

  Slowly turning her head, she looked at the figure of the trooper hanging from the tree, silent now save for an occasional whimper like a tired child.

  “Well, which is it be?” demanded the soldier harshly. “You or the boy?”

  Taking a shaking breath, she lifted her chin and faced him defiantly. “Me,” she said clearly.

  There was a murmur among the ranks of the troopers, stirring them like a wind among trees.

  “Remove your coat,” ordered the officer and she turned a pleading face in his direction, thinking he meant to strip her like the trooper. “Only your coat,” he said, almost gently. “We haven’t time for a peep-show.”

  Sliding her arms out of the sleeves, Anstey shivered in the sudden chill as she dropped the jacket on the grass at her feet.

  “Carry on, Sergeant,” Captain Ward ordered. “Two strokes are wanting, I think.”

  A rough hand twisted in the hair at the nape of her neck and Anstey almost cried out with fright, her flesh cringing at the thought of what was to come. The first blow knocked her to her knees, and remembering the bloody weals on Johnnie Gray’s back, she was thankful for the protection provided by her waistcoat and shirt. Almost at once another blow pitched her forward on to her outstretched hands, and she barely suppressed a cry of pain as the heavy leather belt snaked about her shoulders.

  Afraid to move, Anstey lay still, her face buried in the short grass, while the trooper was released and helped away by his friends. Boots tramped around her and she knew that the soldiers were preparing to move out. She was ignored and for a few wild moments she hoped she had been forgotten, but eventually hands seized her and her arms were thrust into the sleeves of her coat.

  “Come on, miss,” urged the sergeant gruffly, “time to mount up.”

  She was pushed into her saddle and Sergeant Wright reached over from his own mount to take the reins out of her hands.

  “I’m to have charge of you, miss - you’ll not find me so easy to bamboozle as Johnnie Gray.”

  Anstey looked at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think he’d be in trouble.”

  “Then you should have. What did you think he’d get for aiding a prisoner to escape - a reward? It’s a good thing Captain Ward’s got a heart.”

  “He’s a brute!”

  “Gray could have been hanged for what he did,” the sergant told her sternly, “and as for you, my cully, you just be thankful you was allowed to keep your shirt. I’ve known officers what would have been glad for the excuse to strip you off and have a bit of sport.”

  Shuddering, Anstey looked away and despite its ending, wished the journey over. Feeling something akin to hate welling in her as she caught sight of the English officer’s straight figure astride his horse, a little to one side, watching his men form into a double column.

  Satisfied that all was as it should be and that the prisoner and Trooper Gray were placed in the middle of the line of men, he nodded to the sergeant, who gave the order and once more they rode forward.

  They had lost time and Fort Augustus, their destination for that night, was still many miles distant. Anstey was used to spending hours on horseback, but not to riding all day with only short halts to rest the horses, and soon began to feel infinitely weary. She stretched aching muscles and winced a little as her bruised shoulders protested. Aware that the sergeant’s shrewd eyes were upon her, she straightened her back and lifted her head with an attempt at pride, but soon found herself drooping with tiredness.

  “You all right, miss?” asked Sergeant Wright.

  “Yes,” she answered shortly and hooked her fingers tightly over the rim of the saddle.

  For a while they jogged on, the steady pace eating up the miles. Anstey was scarcely aware of her surroundings, her back aching intolerably and her fingers cramped and cold from retaining their grip on the saddle pommel. A great weariness seemed to overtake her, her eyes closing of their own accord as she slumped forward.

  The watchful man beside her caught her arm and called to the officer ahead.

  “Prisoner’s swooning,” he said, as Captain Ward wheeled his horse and joined him on the other side of the girl.

  An impersonal gloved hand pushed up her chin, and Anstey opened her eyes to find herself staring into a coldly indifferent gaze.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “Well - w-what?” she retur
ned, puzzled, meaning to speak normally, but her voice no more than a tired whisper.

  “Are you like to swoon, as the sergeant claims?”

  “No,” she answered proudly, but he had already seen her pallor and reaching into his pocket produced a flask.

  “Not your heathen national drink,” he said, removing the top, “but good brandy.”

  Heedless of her faint protest, he tipped a small quantity between her lips and watched dispassionately as she choked a little and a faint tinge of colour returned to her cheeks.

  “Take the lead,” he said to Sergeant Wright. “I’ll take guard of the prisoner for a while.”

  The reins were passed across, and with a brief salute the sergant cantered ahead. As they rode along Anstey was aware of the officer’s gaze on her, and turning her head to meet his eyes, lifted her eyebrows interrogatively.

  “I was thinking that you’ll not be so foolish as to attempt to escape again - even though I would be wiser than to accept your word of honour, which obviously is a thing of very little value.”

  Anstey flushed and felt her anger flare. “I would make a bid for freedom at the very gates of London itself,” she told him fiercely, her voice harsh and strained. “Don’t think you’ll have an easy job conveying me to your masters, for I intend to make it as difficult as possible.”

  Captain Ward smiled and settled in his saddle as though satisfied. “I thought so,” he said quietly, and Anstey stared at him, appalled by the ease with which she had fallen into the trap set for her. “From now on, Miss Frazer, you’ll find your journey a great deal more uncomfortable. And don’t think to gain my sympathy by acting a fainting fit, for I’ll have no compunction in tying your ankles together under the belly of your mount and so prevent your falling off.”

  “I would not expect to gain your sympathy in any way,” Anstey exclaimed, “for I know you have none ... nor kindness or humanity, or any kind of gentlemanly feeling whatsoever. You are totally despicable and cruel and - and I hate you, for the harsh, unfeeling creature you are!”

  He leaned closer. “Hate away, mistress,” he told her, “for I care not for your opinion of me, only for getting you to London and there being rid of you.”

  Anstey grew cold at mention of London and all it implied, closing her eyes against a sudden picture of a jeering crowd and a waiting hangman. She swayed in the saddle and felt her arm taken in a hard grip as she was jerked upright.

  “Dammit, woman, sit up, or I’ll carry out my threat.”

  Straightening herself, she shook off his hand. “Your threats, Captain Ward, leave me quite unmoved,” she told him defiantly, for all her voice was weary. “Best by far to have a care for your command, for I tell you freely that I intend to make your life miserable and your duty impossible.”

  As he met the challenge in her eyes his brows drew together, before he gave a snort of scornful laughter. “I should have thought you would have learned your lesson earlier and ridden south like a defeated lamb.”

  She shook her head. “The only lesson I learned was not to admit defeat - I’ll fight with the last breath in my body - so be warned.”

  His expression was cruel. “Not a well-chosen phrase, Miss Frazer,” he pointed out. “A little too apt to be comfortable, I would have thought.”

  Her fingers closed tightly upon the leather of the saddle and she turned quickly away so that he might not have the satisfaction of seeing the pain and terror he had raised.

  “Have you a sister or wife, Captain Ward?” she asked, keeping her voice firm by an effort of will. “A loved one, perhaps, if you can find it in that cold heart of yours to feel affection for another? Then, Captain Ward, I hope that such a one never has such as you to taunt and injure her. I pray that she has a kinder fate than I.”

  “Pshaw, histrionics, Miss Frazer! If I am unkind then it’s because of your murderous deed, and if fate is against you, then you have only yourself to blame. I have no wife, but my sister, thank God, is a civilised, gentle creature and could never find it in herself to hurt an insect, let alone a man.”

  Anstey turned her head and studied him quietly. “I think you might find her different if her country were invaded and her home and family threatened.”

  “Make me no excuses,” she was told coldly. “There can be none for the killing of such as Leo Smythe. I knew him well and know beyond any doubt that he was not capable of attacking you as you suggest.” He ran his eye over her, taking in her slim form and dark eyes. “I happen to know that he ever had a preference for blonde, Junoesque women. I cannot believe that his tastes would have changed so radically since his wife died that he would have taken a violent desire for a female of your colouring and size.”

  Flushing under his clearly disparaging gaze Anstey bit her lip and looked away, refusing to be drawn on the subject of the death of Captain Smythe. Instead she ignored the man beside her, withdrawing into her own thoughts, and so was surprised when she lifted her head some time later to find that they were descending from the mountains and approaching a long strip of water, which she recognised from her visits to the town at its head as Loch Ness.

  Ahead of them lay the fort built to subdue the Highlands after the abortive Jacobite rising of 1715 — which General Wade had used as his quarters while building the roads which would make such a task easier. She had passed the little square of buildings many times before without a glance, but now her heart fell as she and her escort left the road, turning aside to enter the compound and the heavy wooden doors closed behind them.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Anstey was lodged in the Governor’s house and, for the first time for many days, offered the luxury of a bedroom and hot water for her toilet. Governor Martin’s wife made no effort to hide her shocked disapproval of Anstey’s attire and hastened to make her the offer of the loan of one of her daughter’s gowns, insisting that she and her husband were not barbarians and would expect the prisoner to dine with them that night. Anstey could not resist stealing a glance at Captain Ward to see how he was taking such a command, but found his face carefully blank.

  “I fear that Captain Ward would not approve,” she demurred.

  “I have very little feelings upon the matter,” he hastened to say, “save that with you under my eyes I might feel a little easier in my mind.” He turned to Mrs. Martin and bowed. “Although she may look far from it, the prisoner is dangerous, having already killed one man, and has told me clearly that she has every intention of attempting to escape - if you still feel you wish for such as she at your table, I shall be happy to guard both you,” he turned and gave Anstey a glance of chilly warning, “and her,” he finished, pointedly.

  Mrs. Martin studied the girl, her face troubled, and then her expression cleared. “Ah, well,” she said, “I dare say that with two armed men in the room we shall be quite safe - besides, we so rarely see any visitors that I should be sorry to miss one.”

  Anstey smiled. “I assure you I shall be on my best behaviour and shall give you no cause for alarm,” she said, and was escorted upstairs to her room by a trooper.

  Opening the door a few minutes later, she found him standing a few yards away, obviously on guard, and realizing the position she gave him a pleasant smile before closing the door again. Knowing that there was no means of escape in that direction, she gave her attention to the window and finding it not only small but nailed firmly closed, gave up all thoughts of escape for the moment, instead concentrating upon enjoying the luxury of a lengthy wash and clean feminine clothes.

  The dress put out for her was a pale pink silk with a modest hoop to hold out the full skirts and to her pleasure fitted her tolerably well. The elderly maid lent to her by Mrs. Martin coaxed her hair into curls with the aid of hot tongs, and when at last she entered the dining room Anstey felt a different woman from the bedraggled, grubby waif in male disguise who had entered the fort a few hours previously.

  All eyes were turned upon her as she paused in the doorway and then the Governor came forward
to lead her to the fire that burned brightly at one end of the room. Making her curtseys, Anstey looked fully at the Redcoat, pausing deliberately long enough for him to be forced to give her his hand to raise her. Releasing her as soon as he could, he pointedly turned his shoulder and spoke to his hostess, but Anstey had already seen the surprise in his grey eyes and knew to her satisfaction that her appearance had shaken him.

  Lifting her chin, she engaged the Governor in conversation, setting out to make herself vivacious and attractive, using every wile she possessed to please him. Once or twice she was aware that James Ward was watching her and knew that her behaviour was making him uneasy, knowing too that she was rapidly losing Mrs. Martin as an ally.

  Exhilarated by wine and food and comfort, Anstey wished the evening could go on for ever, but almost before she was aware of the passing hours, the candles were guttering and Captain Ward was excusing himself and his prisoner on the grounds of the long journey before them.

  “I’ll ring for an escort for Miss Frazer,” offered Governor Martin.

  “No need at the moment,” returned the officer, “but I’d be grateful for a guard to be placed outside her room all night.”

  Making graceful thanks Anstey took her leave and was a little disconcerted to find that the Englishman intended to escort her upstairs.

  “I can hardly make an escape from so closely guarded an establishment as this,” she pointed out reasonably. “Besides, I am much too tired to attempt anything so energetic.”

  “Then let us hope that Governor Martin ignores the invitation you so clearly gave him and does not disturb you tonight,” the soldier said evenly, making her gasp with outrage.

  “You are insulting, sir!” she cried, pausing on the staircase to glare at him, to her chagrin well aware that she had behaved badly that evening, and only dimly aware that she had been prompted by a wish to prove herself still attractive after the rigours and unconcealed dislike that had accompanied the journey from Cushlan Keep.