The Rebel and the Redcoat

by Jan Constant

  “Hold!” he commanded.

  For a second the masked men hesitated, then there was a loud report and a flash from higher up the bank where a fourth man had waited unobserved, and Captain Ward’s weapon tumbled to the ground while the soldier himself clutched his shoulder with fingers that rapidly turned red, and swayed in the saddle.

  Anstey watched horrified, the speed of events dulling her brain until her bridle was seized by one of the figures and she recovered her wits enough to fight for control of her horse.

  “Mistress Frazer, Mistress Frazer, we are friends,” the man said to her surprise. “We are Jacobites, here to help you to escape.”

  Wide-eyed, Anstey looked across at the face behind the mask, seeing its youth and examining the others in turn, realized that here was the result of Caroline Ward’s mysterious behaviour.

  “Come with us - there is no time to lose,” urged the one who held her bridle and the others shifted in their saddles, glancing uneasily over their shoulders, obviously eager to be gone.

  “The wench has lost her senses - don’t argue with her. Lead her horse, or I will.”

  As he spoke, the man thrust a smoking pistol back into his pocket and realizing that he must have been the one to shoot the Redcoat, Anstey looked at him more carefully, noting the smooth chin and mouth that was tightly compressed to stop it quivering.

  Ignoring his companion, the nearest rider gave her his attention. “You are quite safe - come with us, there is no time to spare. Caroline arranged this - she told us of you and we came to rescue you—”

  Anstey stared at him, her face tense. “Did she arrange, also, for her brother to be shot?”

  His face grew as pale as hers. “That was an accident,” he told her, unhappily.

  “And now you would leave him here, wounded and unattended? You are as bad as Butcher Cumberland.” He flinched at the scorn in her voice and as though to point her words, Captain Ward chose that moment to slide from his horse and lie limp and deathly white on the muddy ground. With an exclamation, Anstey slid from her saddle to kneel beside him, trying to staunch the blood with the linen cravat she dragged from her neck, her mind taken back momentarily to the time when she had tended Johnnie Gray.

  “You had better go,” she told the would-be rescuers, who were watching her silently. “The Captain’s troop is on its way from Grantham. They may arrive at any moment.”

  “You must come! We came to save you. Stay here and you’ll be taken to London to stand trial as a rebel,” they told her, bewildered.

  “I cannot leave him,” she said simply, unable to explain her action even to herself.

  “Then one of us will stay, if only you will go.”

  “Use your brains,” she said curtly. “What use is it to sacrifice yourself for me? Think of the heartbreak for your family.” She looked at them. “I’d lay wager that none of you are long out of the schoolroom. No, gentlemen, I appreciate your offer and am grateful for your brave act, but I shall stay here - you will go, and quickly.”

  She smiled up into their nonplussed faces, touched suddenly by their youth and bewildered dejection. “Go home, gentlemen,” she said gently, “and forget this ever happened. For all Captain Ward knows, we were attacked by highwaymen.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, and with many backward glances, they went. Disdaining the road, they trotted up the bank, paused for a moment on the ridge as though hoping she would change her mind and let them play the heroic role they wished for, before they plunged over the skyline and vanished.

  Once alone, Anstey renewed her attentions to the unconscious figure on the ground. The bleeding seemed to have stopped and she dared to disturb him while she felt in his pocket for the brandy flask she knew he carried. As she withdrew the silver container, the soldier groaned and stirred, opening his eyes to stare at her blankly.

  With surprising speed his fingers closed over her hand in a grip that made her wince. “Would you rob the wounded?” he asked thickly and throwing her from him, scrambled to his knees.

  From where she had fallen, the girl watched him and saw that the effort had been too much and that he leaned against a tree-trunk for support. Rising, she approached him cautiously, wondering if his senses had returned.

  “James,” she said softly, unaware that she used his first name, “James - it’s me. Anstey Frazer.”

  She saw recognition in his eyes as he turned and looked at her, before he frowned and glanced about, his expression puzzled.

  “Highwaymen,” she supplied quickly, before he should give the matter too much thought. “We were attacked and you were shot - when I told them your troopers were on the way they rode off.”

  “They seem singularly cowardly ... surely I recollect several of them? Which way did they go?”

  Without thinking she indicated the opposite side of the road to the one her erstwhile rescuers had taken and knew at once how foolish she had been when she followed the soldier’s eyes to the hoofmarks in the muddy ground, all clearly leading towards the other bank. Looking up she found the clear, grey gaze regarding her thoughtfully.

  “Jacobites?” he asked quietly, holding out his hand for the flask.

  Her nod was almost imperceptible.

  “Why didn’t you go with them?”

  The question hung in the air, and unable to answer it she rose and went to the horses who were calmly cropping tufts of grass a short distance away. They took little notice of her approach and she was able to gather their dangling reins. Their velvet noses were warm and soft beneath her fingers, the sounds of them munching and their bits jingling, comfortingly familiar.

  “Why, Miss Frazer?” asked a voice at her shoulder - she was turned gently to look up at the face above her.

  James Ward had regained most of his colour and save for the ugly hole in his uniform, seemed little the worse for the adventure.

  “Is that why you wear red coats?” she asked. “To hide the blood?”

  Disregarding her question, he repeated his own. “Why didn’t you make good your escape while you had the opportunity? No one would have found me for some time - you knew my troop is waiting at the crossroads.”

  “I told them that they were riding to join us, that’s why they went.” She laughed a little. “They were only children, and so determined to be heroes!”

  “They could still have got you away. Why didn’t you go with them?”

  “I - found I could not,” she answered very low. He regarded her steadily, his head bent to hers. “In reality, I could not leave you wounded ... and alone.” Turning away abruptly, he went in search of his pistol, returning it to the holster on his saddle before speaking again.

  “This can make no difference,” he said his voice harsh. “I still hold the King’s commission. I still owe him my loyalty - no matter how much it costs me. I must still take you to London.”

  “I had not thought to influence you.”

  Her quiet voice hung in the air between them. The Englishman turned away with a muffled oath, and stared at the road with unseeing eyes.

  “Your wound should be attended to,” Anstey reminded him at last.

  “I’ve had worse and stopped in the saddle.”

  She was surprised. “I thought you might return to your home.”

  “No. The sooner this business is over the better I shall be pleased. We’ll ride for London with all speed, so mount up, Miss Frazer, and let us be on our way.” Understanding the divided emotions that made him speak harshly and well aware of her own warring feelings, Anstey obeyed him, sighing for what might have been with vague longings as she found a convenient boulder to serve as a mounting-block and climbed back into the saddle.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When they reached the crossroads and found the troop waiting for them, Anstey was glad to see that the decrepit old coach was nowhere in sight, and hoped fervently that it might have been abandoned. Sergeant Wright held the reins of a large horse with the virtuous air of a man wanting to convince others of the justn
ess of his action, and snapped a smart salute as his officer approached.

  “The coach, sir,” he said. “I left it behind as a decoy - thought it might distract the mob, sir.” Captain Ward regarded him gravely, well aware of the battle between the ancient vehicle and the soldier which had assumed huge proportions as Will Wright fought for supremacy.

  “Good idea, Sergeant,” he said. “I’m glad to see you none the worse for the fall you had.”

  The Sergeant grinned suddenly. “Almost think the blessed thing was alive at times - I swore it was trying to kill me. Fought me all the way from Scotland it did, throws me on me head and then if it don’t run away with me! I can tell you, sir, I was glad to leave it behind, and I only hopes as they burn it when they find we’ve left.”

  “Never mind, Sergeant, you can always get a job as a coach-driver when you leave the army.”

  The Sergeant laughed. “Not me,” he said. “I’m all set to own a nice little inn somewhere—” He broke off abruptly as he noticed the damp stain on Captain Ward’s coat. His demeanour changed, sobered on the instant and he stepped forward quickly. “You’re hurt—!” he began.

  “A scratch - nothing to bother about,” he was assured. “We had a skirmish with a pack of not very efficient highwaymen. Miss Frazer sent them flying with tales of your approach.”

  The Sergeant spared Anstey a shrewd glance, making her feel that he understood much more than was said. However, he appeared satisfied with the explanation, but the girl noticed that he was alert and wary as he rode, his hand never far from the butt of the big horse-pistol at his knee.

  Forgetful of the fatigue she had felt on the former long ride, Anstey was glad to have exchanged the confines of the lumbering coach for the open air and the illusory freedom of a horse’s back. The borrowed sapphire-coloured velvet riding habit was elegant and fashionable, its long trailing skirt moulding the lines of her legs before it fell away in graceful folds. With the little blue tricorne hat dipped becomingly over one eyebrow and the jacket cut in masculine lines, she felt like a dashing boy, the admiring glances thrown in her direction by the accompanying soldiers making her aware of how attractive she looked.

  The bright sunshine of the morning gradually gave way to an overcast sky and by late afternoon rain had begun to fall in a steady manner that made it plain that it had set in for the rest of the day. Cursing his lack of foresight in not providing Anstey with a cloak, James Ward flung his own over her, and soon his brave red uniform was soaked and dull. The rain dripped out of his black tricorne, adding to his general discomfort. Despite his wish to continue the journey he looked about for shelter, at last spying a large barn beside the road to which he led his troop.

  With all the ingenuity of old campaigners, the soldiers soon had a fire lit and their coats drying, while the youngest was sent in search of something to fill the cooking pot, which had not been used since leaving Scotland. When the general gloom had deepened and became night, the clothes were dry and most of the occupants of the barn asleep. Anstey had been provided with a corner and a bed of sweet-smelling hay, but despite her tiredness she found that she could not sleep, and lay awake, aware of the noises around her made by the sleeping men and the dozing horses, while the rain drummed softly on the tiles overhead. At last she fell asleep, only to waken near morning and realize that the rain, had stopped and that the first adventuresome bird was singing.

  Unable to stay where she was, Anstey scrambled silently to her feet and picking her way cautiously over sleeping figures, crept softly to the huge double doors. Struggling to open them quietly, she slipped through the crack into a bright new world, made fresh and clean by the rain and the new day. Gathering up her long skirts, she crossed the wet grass to a nearby clump of trees, and leaning against a rough trunk looked out at the sparkling countryside. Round about more birds joined in greeting the morning. Gradually the sky lightened, the horizon becoming pink until the colours spread and faded into blue as the sun rose.

  A movement beside her made Anstey turn her head to find that the Captain was leaning against a neighbouring tree watching her. Seeing she was aware of him, he prised himself away from the trunk and came towards her. “I had not known you were a lover of nature, Miss Frazer,” he said.

  “You should see our Scottish dawns - from a mountain you can really see the morning break.”

  He seemed not to be listening to her, leaning his hands either side of her head and staring down at her. Perplexed, Anstey frowned, and looked up to find his face disconcertingly near. Slowly he leaned forward, bending closer until his mouth was only inches away from hers.

  “Captain Ward - are you ill?” she asked, and then his mouth touched hers, gently at first, his lips soft and caressing and then with a murmur he caught her roughly to him, crushing her against his chest as his kiss became more demanding. Hardly aware of what she did, carried along by fierce emotions that surprised her, Anstey slid her arms around his neck and returned his kiss.

  Suddenly his grip slackened and at the same time she became aware that his skin was unnaturally warm. Drawing back she tried to look into his face, but his head fell forward and he slid slowly to his knees. Supporting him as best she could, Anstey called loudly for aid.

  The door of the barn burst open and dishevelled, bleary-eyed soldiers appeared, struggling with clothes and hastily caught up weapons.

  Sergeant Wright quickly took in the scene. “Fever,” he said after a brief examination and ordered two troopers to carry their officer back into the barn.

  “What shall we do?”

  The soldier sucked his teeth reflectively. “No doubt there’s a village close by - I’ll ride there and see where we can find lodgings and a doctor, while you, miss, look after the Captain. You’re a sensible female and I know there’s no need for me to tell you how.” He smiled briefly and touched her arm. “Don’t look so worried, miss, Captain Ward is as strong as a horse, he won’t die yet awhile!”

  Anstey’s eyebrows rose at his reassurance and she hastily disclaimed all anxiety on the Captain’s behalf, yet wondered a little at the knot of apprehension that had formed in the pit of her stomach.

  Going back into, the barn as the Sergeant rode off, she made sure that the fire was kept up and the Captain placed close by on a pile of dry straw. Lacking any form of medicine, all she could do was sit beside his restless form and bathe his burning forehead with a handkerchief dipped in a dish of cold water. Under her worried eyes James Ward seemed to grow worse by the minute and Sergeant Wright to have been gone for an age, when in reality less than an hour elapsed before his return.

  “The doctor’s away - but there’s a woman who’ll give him a room. She says she can treat him with herbs.”

  He paused expectantly, but Anstey, more used to herbal remedies in her distant home than a doctor who was only sent for when all else had failed, was not disturbed.

  “Have you brought a cart for him to lie in?” she asked, and stepped aside at his nod to allow the limp form of the Captain to be carried to the waiting farm wagon. One quick glance at the neat house and its owner told her that she need have no qualms about the soldier’s care or comfort, and feeling she had found an ally, Anstey smiled down from the cart into the woman’s brown, wrinkled face.

  Her hand was taken in a firm, comforting grasp, but the other gave all her attention to the sick man, examining him briefly before allowing him to be lifted out of the straw cocoon Anstey had arranged about him and carried to the waiting bedroom.

  Sergeant Wright pulled off the heavy black jackboots and eased away the smart scarlet coat. Captain Ward groaned, and when his shirt was removed and Anstey saw the red, swollen wound high on his shoulder she could not suppress a gasp of dismay which contrasted oddly with the indifference she had assumed.

  Will Wright shrugged. “I’ve seen worse. When it’s cleaned up it won’t look so bad.”

  The old woman leaned over her patient and clicked her tongue impatiently. “Why you men can’t look after yourse
lves I’ll never know. Too used to your mothers caring for you, I suppose.”

  Her voice was educated and the Scots girl opened her eyes a little, for she had supposed her to be a common country woman, but now she saw that while her dress was old, it was of good material and that the lace on her cap was of cobweb fineness.

  Satisfied with her examination, she stood back and nodded to the girl. “He’ll do,” she announced. “The wound is inflamed as you can see, and he’s in a fever, due no doubt to getting wet, but he’s young and healthy and will mend quickly. Now, be off, Sergeant, and see to your men. They can camp in my outbuildings but I’ll not have any flirting with my maids ... and you, miss, can stay here and help look after your young man.”

  Anstey felt some explanation was owed and attempted to make known the situation, but the older woman brushed aside her stumbling phrases, saying kindly that first they would see to the comfort of the patient.

  “I’m Betty Coke,” she said, “but most people call me ‘Dame’. At my age one isn’t used to answering to one’s first name.”

  One of the maids entered with a can of hot water and the soldier’s wound was cleaned and bandaged, a cooling drink of herb tea was spooned between his lips and Anstey persuaded to take a rest and refreshment in another room.

  “Luce will sit with him and call if we are needed,” she was told soothingly as Dame Coke led her away. “The fever will break tonight unless I’m mistaken, but you have nothing to fear. He will do better with me than with a doctor who would bleed him and make the poor man weaker.”

  “In Scotland we have our wise women who are relied upon for most things,” Anstey said, realizing that the older woman assumed her to be worried on the soldier’s behalf and unable for some reason to disillusion her.

  “The women in my family have always been wise in the use of herbs and plants. The knowledge was handed on from mother to daughter. I have no children, so my knowledge will die with me, unless I can find the time to finish the book of simples I am writing.”