The Rebel and the Redcoat

by Jan Constant

“Indeed? He must have grown tired of waiting. I daresay the landlord knows his name.”

  “The fellow’s as new as his inn!” James Ward exclaimed, and Anstey’s heart gave a throb of relief at the knowledge that the snuff-suited man would be difficult to find. “But he’s certain the man had something he wished to give to me. The landlord says he left with a well-satisfied air - hardly the manner of a man frustrated in his wishes. Which must mean, my dear Miss Frazer, that he had carried out his desires ... or thinks he had.”

  Lifting her shoulders delicately, Anstey smiled with assumed indifference, hoping that the man opposite would not detect her quickened breathing. “Perhaps he saw one of the servants, or a trooper,” she suggested.

  Captain Ward shook his head and at last lifted his shoulders away from the door. “No one save you,” he told her baldly and advanced into the room.

  Anstey forced a laugh. “You can hardly suppose he would hear my accent and give me anything intended for you.”

  “As you must know, your accent is of the lightest and with a little effort on your part, could be unnoticeable.”

  While he spoke, the Redcoat continued his slow progress towards her and against her will Anstey found herself backing away until she was trapped in the space between the low-burning fire and a large wooden settle.

  “Where is it, Miss Frazer?” asked the soldier inexorably.

  “Wh-what?” she asked in puzzled innocence.

  “The folded paper the man showed the landlord before he came in here.”

  “Oh,” she sighed and lowered her head to hide the dismay she felt from the penetrating gaze directed against her.

  “Precisely. Pray give it to me and let there be an end to this foolishness.” He waited for her to reply, but as she merely hung her head and remained silent he grew impatient. “I would remind you that my patience is not unlimited.”

  A shiver at the quiet menace in his voice shook Anstey, but she gathered her courage together and faced him bravely. “I cannot give it to you - I destroyed it.”

  “Liar,” the man said pleasantly, for all there was a tight knot of anger at the corner of his mouth. “You had no time.”

  “The fire—”

  “There is no burnt paper there. No, Miss Frazer, you have not destroyed the paper, but hidden it.” His eyes ran slowly and insolently over her, stopping at the neckline of her bodice and lingering there. Instinctively she covered it with her hand and a smile of satisfaction appeared on the soldier’s face.

  “I thought so,” he said quietly. “It would take an ingenious woman to try another hiding place. Now, ma’am, shall you give it to me, or do you wish for the excitement of my hands upon your person?”

  A vivid flush flared in Anstey’s cheeks and heedless of the folly of her action, her hand flew up and struck at the smiling face above her with all her strength. Her wrist was seized and held in a merciless grip and while she cried in pain at the strength in the Redcoat’s grasp, fingers delved between her breasts and the hidden paper was retrieved and thrust deep into Captain Ward’s pocket.

  “How dare you - oh, how dare you!” she breathed over a sob of rage and indignation.

  “Very easily,” she was told, and deliberately his brown hand slid again from her shoulder to the lace that edged her bodice.

  Anstey cringed at his touch, tears of impotent anger running down her cheeks. Quickly she bent her head and sank her teeth into the wrist of the man who held her.

  She was shaken off much as a terrier deals with a rat, and thrown roughly on to the settle to land in an undignified heap of petticoats.

  “Stay there,” commanded Captain Ward grimly standing over her, his expression hard and cold. Reading the threat in his eyes, Anstey subsided and lay still, watching as he took the paper from his pocket and perused it quickly, a frown between his eyebrows.

  At last he looked up, raising his brows interrogatively. “Do you know what is here?”

  Brushing aside the tears on her cheek with a hand that trembled, she sat up and nodded her head.

  “A list of supposed Jacobites.”

  Quick to hear the note of scorn in his voice, she looked up, her eyes wide, in time to see the paper dropped into the embers of the fire and crushed among the coals by a booted foot. Wordlessly she gazed up at him, her mouth parted with astonishment. “Why? Why did you do that?” she demanded. His expression did not soften. “I’ve enough to do without taking part in a witch-hunt. Obviously the man is out for retribution over some hurt. I’ll not lend my uniform to vindictive troublemaking.”

  Anstey sighed. “For a moment I thought you might have grown kinder towards the Hanoverians’ opponents.”

  “Then, Miss Frazer, you thought wrong,” was the uncompromising reply, and reaching down he took her arm and jerked her to her feet, holding her so close that she was forced to stretch her neck uncomfortably to meet his gaze. “I no more like the Jacobites than you care for the King’s men, but one thing I will have plain.”

  He bent his head until his breath fanned her cheek, and said, his voice filled with quiet menace, “I grow tired of your behaviour, girl. With repetition, it becomes tedious - bore me again and I’ll replace the bracelets you wore and enforce greater security of your person. No doubt you think yourself hard-done-by and ill-treated, but believe me I could make your life so miserable that you would regard your arrival in London with relief.”

  Anstey tried to lift her arm free of his grip, but his fingers tightened cruelly as he gave her an impatient shake. “I grow tired of your company, Miss Frazer,” the Redcoat went on. “From now on you will have little time to embroil yourself in schemes or escapades. I intend to be in London in a week’s time.” He smiled thinly at the quick glance of dismay she sent him. “I see you realize the haste with which we shall travel. We’ll journey late and set off early. They tell me the stage takes twelve days to reach Edinburgh from London - I have every intention of bettering that time.”

  During the next few days, Anstey had every cause to realize that Captain Ward intended to keep his word. Towns and villages seemed to fly by, and she came to know that any request for rest would fall upon deaf ears as the cavalcade hurried along the Great North Road towards the capital of England. With every day the aged coach seemed to become more dilapidated and worn; the door was held closed with an improvised strap, a hole that appeared in the flooring was covered over with a square of wood. Altogether, the ancient vehicle gave every sign of being in the process of disintegration, and the fear of an accident was added to Anstey’s already worried and weary brain as they drove deep into the heart of England.

  Her fears were justified as they entered Lincolnshire, and the flat road and landscape spurred Sergeant Wright to greater speed. A few miles before they reached Grantham, there was an ominous crack and the coach lurched wildly as the spokes of one wheel snapped, the axle was driven into the ground and the whole equipage plunged over at an angle amid the screaming of frightened horses and the shouts of men.

  Anstey found herself in a heap in the corner of the coach, dazed and bruised but otherwise unhurt. The door above her was opened and hands reached in to drag her to safety. Swiftly she was set on her feet, and after a cursory enquiry to her hurts was put into the care of a soldier, while the company’s attention was turned to Sergeant Wright, who had been flung from the driving seat and lay still and pale with an already livid bruise rising on his forehead.

  Under his fellows’ rough but competent ministerings, he soon stirred and sat up, but seemed dazed and giddy, complaining in no uncertain manner of the headache that troubled him.

  The accident had taken place near a substantial farmhouse, the owner of which now approached and offered his services.

  “My good wife has ale enough for your lads,” he said, “and wine for yourself, sir, put ready in the parlour by my daughters. I’ve even a wright as can give a hand to that wheel for you.”

  “My thanks, farmer, and we’d all be grateful for your hospitality,” ret
urned the officer, “but that wheel is beyond repair if I mistake it not.”

  “My man can make a good job of it,” said the farmer sturdily. “We has to be good with our hands, if we’re not to send into Grantham every time anything goes wrong.”

  The Redcoat smiled. “I’d be grateful, then, and even more so if you’d take my Sergeant and the lady we’re escorting into the care of your house.”

  “Escorting?” Shrewd eyes turned in Anstey’s direction. “Why be that, then?” he asked baldly.

  “The lady is a Jacobite,” he was told curtly.

  “Then she’ll have none of my hospitality. I’ve had enough of them Jacobites - affrightening my females into hysterics and putting the country into a turmoil. The price of wheat’ll go down, you mark my words.”

  “I’m sure you are right,” Captain Ward agreed wearily, “but the prisoner cannot stay here while the coach is repaired. She is not so desperate a criminal that you need feel endangered by her presence under your roof.”

  The farmer considered. “Well, I daresay there’s an outhouse as will take her,” he said at last, “but I’ll not be responsible if she gets away, mind.”

  Anstey, who had listened to this exchange in stony-faced silence, lifted her chin and stared disdainfully down her nose at the older man.

  “I’ll give you my word, Captain, not to escape,” she said, “I have no wish to test this fellow’s outbuildings.”

  “I thought they all spoke some mumbo-jumbo o’ their own,” the farmer exclaimed. “Sounds English, she does.”

  Drawing herself up to her full height, Anstey took a deep breath. “I am a Scot,” she told him proudly. “My ancestors were civilized when yours cowered in caves.”

  The farmer blinked under this unexpected attack, but the officer, growing impatient, sent the Sergeant and Anstey under the care of two soldiers to the confines of the farm and turned himself to the business of repairing the damaged coach.

  Afterwards, Anstey could only suppose that some impulse made her pluck one of the farmer’s white roses as they passed through his garden and deliberately tuck it into the bodice of her dress. Seeing her action, as she had intended, he rumbled his annoyance and grew red in the face.

  “Why, farmer,” she said sweetly, “I’d almost question your loyalty - having a whole bushful of Jacobite favours in your garden. You must know that the white rose is the Prince’s symbol.”

  His colour grew alarming and she wondered if he would have an apoplexy, but although he was forced to mop his face vigorously, he controlled his emotions while he pushed her into a small stone building and barred the stout door, his heavy footsteps as he stamped away indicative of his feelings.

  The hours passed slowly for Anstey, who had soon explored the narrow confines of her prison and had quickly come to the realization that there would be no escape for her from the strange little building. Showing signs of having been recently whitewashed, it contained nothing save herself, and she was forced to sit on the floor while the sun rose higher and the interior became hot and airless. Some time later, when the pangs of both thirst and hunger had made themselves felt, she heard voices and movement in the yard outside and raised her heavy head from her knees as the door was opened.

  Eager for release, she scrambled to her feet but the brilliant sunlight after the darkness of her prison blinded her and suddenly her head began to spin. Stumbling against the wall, she would have fallen had hands not supported her. For a moment all was darkness and then she felt blessed coolness on her face and water was held to her lips.

  “This was inhuman,” she heard Captain Ward say, and opened her eyes to find him regarding the sullen farmer with obvious anger.

  “Your men should have cared for her,” the man defended himself. “Besides, I had to ride into Grantham.”

  “If you’ve made our arrival known, I shall make it my business to see that you are punished,” James Ward told him, his voice tight with annoyance. He had chosen to ignore the charge against his troopers, but the glance he flung in their direction promised much and made them shift their feet uneasily.

  Without further ado, he gave curt orders for the men to mount and hauled Anstey to her feet. She had thought his anger for the farmer alone, but now saw that a great part of his annoyance was reserved for her.

  The limp rose was snatched from her bosom with scant regard for the delicate lace in which it was entangled or for the thorns that barbed its long stem. Heedless of the red drops that appeared on the girl’s pale skin, he tossed aside the Prince’s favour and glared at her.

  “You are extremely foolish, Miss Frazer,” he told her, his lip curling contemptuously. “Now all the town will be waiting for you ... and I’ve an idea that your reception will not be to your liking. From the farmer’s reaction, you should have realized that Jacobites are held in little liking in these parts. Derby is not far away, and the Pretender’s arrival there must have filled the local people with alarm. Methinks you’ll find that they regard you as a target for their anger at the fears they felt.”

  The Redcoat’s supposition was proved right when they were met on the outskirts of Grantham by a group of people, obviously waiting for the coach. Shouts and jeers followed them as they passed, and the people who turned and ran after the column were quickly joined by more, until by the time Anstey and the soldiers reached the centre of the town they were surrounded by a large, hostile crowd. Following their officer’s orders, the troopers closed up protectively around the coach and its occupant, but even so, Anstey was far from safe.

  At first she had sat upright and tried to ignore the threatening faces outside, but soon gestures were followed by missiles and a volley of stones struck the coach and the escorting horses, who were already nervous at the atmosphere, making them sweat and shy nervously.

  Sergeant Wright had recovered enough to insist upon his ability to drive the coach and horses and now he brought the equipage to a halt outside the Angel, Grantham’s oldest hostelry. Seizing the moment, the crowd surged forward and broke through the cordon of soldiers to beat upon the vehicle’s ancient sides. While some attempted to open the door, others shook it so violently that it was in danger of turning over for the second time that day, and Anstey, more terrified than she thought possible, could only attempt to elude the clutching hands and pray for the horrific moment to end.

  Suddenly she became aware of a new movement outside, and the threatening growl of the crowd gradually grew silent, as the people first were still and then began to withdraw from the coach into a protective, anonymous throng. Following their retreat, Anstey turned her head and saw a group of soldiers standing on the steps of the inn, their muskets cocked and every line of their figures bespeaking grim determination as they faced their fellow-countrymen with loaded weapons.

  Captain Ward stared about him, his eyes glittering in his pale face. “I have in my custody the King’s prisoner,” he told the uneasy men and women, “and I intend to take her safely to London.”

  “Hang the wench here,” shouted a voice from the crowd and several others took up the cry.

  “In England no one is hanged without a trial,” they were told. “If you would see the rebels punished then you must come to London - I’m willing to take the foremost among you there as my prisoners.”

  Someone laughed at his sally, and taking advantage as the mood of the mob lightened, the Redcoat ordered two troopers to escort the prisoner from the coach into the inn. At sight of her the rabble pressed forward again, jostling the surrounding soldiers in their eagerness to catch a glimpse of the Jacobite rebel in their midst. A few of the braver set up a jeering catcall, but mindful of the silent, watchful soldiers on the steps of the Angel, nothing more was attempted, though the closed, angry faces told plainly that their mood was dangerous, only the presence of the armed Redcoats restraining them from violent action.

  As Anstey was hurried up the steps a stone was hurled from the depths of the crowd, and as though at a signal the mob surged forward ag
ain, people at the rear pressing against their fellows in the fore who were thrown willy-nilly against the mounted troopers, and for a moment all was confusion as men fought and shouted, soldiers laid about them with the flats of their swords, and the coach horses, tried beyond endurance and Sergeant Wright’s capabilities, reared and plunged, clearing a way through the mob as they set off at an untidy gallop.

  Anstey’s arm was seized and she was dragged into the interior of the inn and the door hastily closed and barred behind her.

  “She can’t stay here, sir - she can’t stay here,” the landlord said, his voice high and his jowls aquiver with fright. “They’ll tear my inn to pieces.”

  “Not with my men outside,” Captain Ward told him curtly, “but I’ve no intention of staying here. I take it you have a back way - then saddle me a horse and I’ll not trouble you further.”

  He looked down at Anstey, whose arm he still held, and became aware for the first time that she was trembling in his grasp. “Don’t be afraid - they shan’t get you,” he said roughly.

  Lifting her head, she gave a half-sob, half-laugh and pushed her loosened hair back from her face, revealing a bruise high on one cheekbone and a trickle of blood where a stone from the rabble had found its target. “P-perhaps they - don’t care for the journey to London to see me dance,” she said breathlessly, and slipped through his hands as she slid limply to the floor.

  Captain Ward cursed under his breath before bending to lift her into his arms, he turned to give hurried instructions to the soldier who had followed him into the inn.

  “Allow some time to elapse after I am gone,” he said, “then make the landlord announce that we are no longer here. Once the mob is satisfied on that score I hope they will disperse. As soon as that happens, the troop is to remove itself from Grantham with all speed. Take the Great North Road south and follow it for some ten miles to a crossroads with a great oak, take the left fork until you come upon a pair of gates surmounted by an eagle, which is the entrance to my house. With luck I should already be there.”