The Rebel and the Redcoat

by Jan Constant

  Anstey found the scratching of her quill strangely soothing as, later, she sipped her shallow dish of China tea while the Dame took the opportunity to continue her self-imposed task. Not until that moment had she realized how she missed the gentle atmosphere of a home and the presence of a friendly female companion.

  As expected, the Captain’s fever broke that evening and he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep which lasted well into the next day. Anstey, who had been given die task of sitting beside him and calling as soon as he awoke that he might be given nourishment as soon as possible, occupied the time in mending the bullet hole in his shirt.

  Looking up from her work, she found her eyes dwelling on his unconscious face, which seemed strangely young and defenceless without his usual straight grey gaze. Without his white wig she saw that his own hair was almost black, cut close to his head, not shaven as were most gentlemen of fashion.

  Anstey sighed and returned to her stitching, smiling a little that she should be darning Captain Ward’s shirt when a short while previously she had been prepared to kill her Redcoat captor. Involuntarily she glanced again at the bed and found herself the object of its inhabitant’s gaze.

  “So domestic,” he murmured and she was surprised at the weakness in his voice, but when she leaned closer she could read the amusement in his eyes and knew that he had been struck by the incongruity of her task as she had.

  “Dame Coke set me to it,” she declared, hastily depositing the shirt on the seat of her vacated chair.

  “Now you are awake, I’ll go and ask for nourishment for you.”

  Before she could leave, fingers closed over her hand and she was held token prisoner.

  “Not before you have answered my questions - where am I? I’ve vague recollections of being shot ... but what then, and where the devil is my troop?”

  Anstey looked down at him, aware that his touch was sending a pleasant tingle down her spine. To counteract her feelings, she answered with more asperity than necessary.

  “You had a fever, which was your own fault for you would allow no one to tend your wound and insisted upon riding through a storm. As to where you are?” She shrugged, “I can only tell you that you lie in Dame Batty Coke’s second best bed.”

  The Englishman regarded her silently, one black eyebrow crooked. “You’ve forgotten my soldiers,” he reminded her.

  “About the countryside. The Dame has taken the opportunity of using their strength and expertise to mend various gates and fences that have long lain in wait for a man’s ability.”

  He roused himself in bed. “She sounds a formidable female. I take it that it is she I have to thank for this,” he indicated the neat bandage across his chest. “If you would retire, Miss Frazer, I shall dress and present my thanks to her in person.”

  For all his brave words it was the next day before he left his room, but once up he regained his strength with surprising speed and soon declared that they must be on their way.

  “To deliver that sweet creature into the hands of a brutal goaler,” put in Dame Betty roundly, having heard Anstey’s story and making no effort to hide her feelings upon the matter.

  “That sweet creature, as you call her, put a pistol ball into an English officer, killing him,” Captain Ward told her, nettled.

  Dame Betty snorted derisively. “If you believe that, you’re more of a fool than I take you for,” she retorted.

  James Ward left his comfortable chair abruptly and strode to the window. Staring out of the room, he said harshly, “She has confessed.”

  “She’s shielding someone.”

  He swung back into the room. “Precisely,” he agreed. “Who would carry your wager?”

  Dame Betty looked up from her writing. “I think you know,” she said quietly. Their eyes held for a few seconds before she nodded slightly, and a smile passed between them.

  They left Dame Betty’s house the next day, Anstey finding herself strangely reluctant to leave the shelter and unquestioning acceptance she had found there. The thought of London less than sixty miles away and the fate she would find there, loomed large in her thoughts, making her nervous and tense. Somehow the very solidarity and cosiness of the countryside through which she was riding seemed to present a danger, and she turned with passionate longing to thoughts of her wild homeland.

  Trying to recall every curve and boulder-strewn slope of the mountainsides she had known since childhood, she rode with her head sunk upon her chest and oblivious to her surroundings until, sensing some unease among her companions, she lifted her eyes and looked around.

  The road they were following had just breasted a hill and ahead, silhouetted against the sky, was a tall post that carried a swaying, creaking burden. Puzzled, she examined it, frowning as she tried to make out' what it could be. Suddenly James Ward barked the order for men to close ranks round her, but not before she had realized with sickening clarity that she was looking at a gibbet and its ghastly load. Even as the soldiers pressed closely about her, she caught sight of a strip of material hanging from the corpse, its bright red and green faded and pathetic, but still recognisable as tartan.

  “Dear God!” she exclaimed and bent over her pommel, one hand to her mouth as she fought the waves of sickness that threatened to overwhelm her.

  Her bridle was taken and the soldiers increased their speed, as eager as she to leave the gruesome spot behind. Scarcely able to keep her seat, Anstey slumped in the saddle, while shuddering which she was unable to control shook her. At last their speed slowed and as they drew to a halt, brandy was forced between her pallid lips.

  “That-was a man,” she whispered, choking on the spirit. “That was my countryman.”

  “I would that you had been spared the sight.”

  Suddenly she lifted her head to stare at the Englishman her eyes wide and fearful. “Will - they do that to me?” she asked.

  “No.”

  For a moment longer she held his gaze and then turned away with a choked sob, the reality of what she faced in London brought clearly home to her as it had never been before. Subdued and quiet, they rode on, even the soldiers uneasy when they contemplated what the fate might be of the prisoner they had guarded for so long. For the first time since leaving Scotland thoughts of escape filled Anstey’s mind with ceaseless activity. Wild, impossible schemes chased each other through her brain and she wished bitterly that she had taken the chance offered her when Caroline’s plan had been sprung earlier.

  Even while she planned and rejected, she still had sense enough to present a dejected, despondent air that left none of her watchers in any doubt of the hopeless despair that held her in thrall.

  As she had hoped, the soldiers displayed their consideration and tact by leaving her alone and when the column halted for a rest, she was able to delay her dismounting until she was the only one left on horseback. Waiting until the troopers had withdrawn from her somewhat, their attention taken up by the prospect of a few minutes’ relaxation, she suddenly clapped her heels into her mount’s sides and was several yards away before anyone realized her intention.

  Unable to choose her moment for escape, she had been forced to take the one presented to her and had hoped that once round the curve ahead she would find some means of eluding her captors. The hoped-for woods or valleys failed to materialise, and instead she found herself faced by a long open road with not one atom of cover or even a side turning until it reached a bridge over a broad river a mile or so distant. Realising that she must either give up or trust in her horse’s speed and stamina, Anstey hesitated momentarily, before a picture of the gibbet’s grim burden flashed through her mind and without thinking more she kicked her heel against her mount’s side and urged him forward.

  Crouched low over his brown neck, she gripped the pommel with her knees and thought longingly of her despised breeches and the ease of riding astride. The wind snatched at her elegant hat and tossed it away, dragging her hair free of its pins and ribbon to fly behind her like a shining banner. He
edless of her own safety, she plunged on, exhorting the horse to even greater effort. She was sure that pursuit was close behind, but could spare no energy to glance over her shoulder, controlling the great beast under her was taking all her strength and skill, and she knew that one moment’s lack of concentration could cost her dear.

  The bridge seemed to fly towards her with frightening speed and she could see that the water was white beneath it with the turmoil of a weir that fed the mill on the further bank. A voice behind her, much nearer than she expected, called upon her to halt, but torn between exhilaration and terror, she galloped on until a hand grasped her bridle and brought her to an inexorable stop on the very edge of the stone bridge.

  The horse plunged and trembled beneath her, shaking his head nervously while flecks of foam covered his smooth neck. Shaken by her struggle for breath, Anstey glared at her captor.

  “Am I never to be rid of you?” she gasped. “You are like Nemesis—”

  “Once in London—”

  Her eyes opened wider at mention of the town which to her brought only fear and the thought of an ignominious death. With an inarticulate cry of repugnance and refusal she jumped down from her saddle, and despite her shaking knees dashed across the bridge and scrambled up on to the parapet.

  “Anstey!” cried the Redcoat as he divined her purpose and leaping from his own horse, ran towards her.

  Ignoring his shout, Anstey gathered up her trailing skirts and ran along the narrow stone edge, the swirling water beaten to a foam by the force with which it fell, dazzling her until she was giddy and deafened. Fearful, yet fascinated, she hesitated until the soldier’s hand touched her skirt, and then with a cry of despair she leaped forward into space.

  The roaring water seemed to rush towards her but suddenly something stopped her fall with a jerk and she hung suspended by the length of her full riding skirt that James Ward had caught in a desperate grip. Spray wet her hair as she dangled with her head lower than her feet, while above her anxious voices called and heavy boots thudded over the bridge. At last, after what seemed like an age, she was hauled upwards and dragged over the parapet by eager hands, to stare at her rescuers with wide, blank eyes that were dark hollows in her white face.

  Shocked, the troopers stared back, shaken by the unexpectedness of her action. Quiet and uneasy, they formed a circle round her. White and shaken himself, Captain Ward glowered down at her, holding her elbow tightly as though expecting her to make another attempt to escape.

  “You little fool,” he snarled, shaking her, “you might have been killed.”

  “I wish I had,” she flared, to cover her own fright.

  Not sure herself whether she had sought death in the weir, or had only jumped in the desperate hope of escape from the impossible situation in which she found herself, she hid her feelings in a show of temper. “You saw that thing on the gibbet - do you think I want that to happen to me? I’d rather take my chance in the water. At least I might escape from you savage barbarians. The natives of America are more civilized than you.”

  “We don’t roast our enemies over a fire—”

  “No - you hang their bodies alongside the road and leave them to rot or be pecked by carrion, and you call yourselves civilized!” She looked round at the encircling Redcoats and made a derisive noise through her nose. “Look at yourselves. A whole troop to take one woman to London. Do we Scots affright you so?”

  “You are overwrought,” James Ward’s face was tight with anger, but he made an effort to speak in a conciliatory tone.

  “Anyone would be, having been confronted by your cruelties,” Anstey cried, wishing she could throw herself into the Redcoat’s arms.

  “I am sorry you saw—”

  “I’m sorry for the man whose body it was.”

  “In any country there must be law and order. He was a rebel.”

  “One cannot rebel against a usurper—”

  “King George is King of Scotland. Accept it, Anstey Frazer, there is nothing you can do about it. You cannot defeat us all by yourself.”

  Anstey brushed away furious tears and hid her face against the rough stones of the bridge as one painful sob escaped her.

  “Now, miss,” Sergeant Wright patted her shoulder. “Don’t take on so. Things’ll come right, you’ll see. No harm’ll come to a nice young lady like yourself. Take my word for it.”

  “I wish I could,” Anstey sighed and gave him a weak smile as she allowed him to lead her to where the horses patiently cropped grass.

  For the moment she was exhausted by the strong emotions that had burned in her, now she could do no more than sit her horse and long for the end of the journey, whatever it might bring. Her long hair blew about her face as she rode, but uncaring of her appearance, she made no attempt to tidy it.

  Subdued by the near-tragedy, the soldiers rode close about her, their attitude protective rather than that of goalers, but the girl sat in their midst aware only of one thing, that London was steadily growing closer.

  She shivered at the thought and stole a glance at the English officer, longing for a gesture from him that would show that he still felt some kindness for her. In the wake of the wild emotions that had recently filled her came a void that had gradually been replaced by a reluctant acknowledgement of the fact that, with the perversity of nature, she had grown to love her captor; some time during the last weeks her hate and dislike had turned to something far different, and now she wished only to conceal her self-realization from James Ward.

  Riding on with averted eyes, she knew that one kind word, one softened gesture from the man beside her would be her undoing, but Captain Ward looked steadily ahead, apparently oblivious to her presence.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Now the way was quick and easy. The Great North Road was wide and well made, and with each mile seemed to grow busier and more crowded. Coaches and wagons passed in quick succession, strident trumpets declaring their right to the road as they hurried by the troop. Curious faces peered at Anstey from the depths of luxurious carriages, making her lift her chin higher as she pointedly ignored them. Several times the huge, lumbering stage-coaches lurched by, their horses stretched to a gallop as the drivers concentrated on keeping a good speed. The outside passengers hung over the protecting rails in their eagerness to see Anstey, so obviously a prisoner guarded by the column of soldiers.

  Anstey’s one thought now was to arrive in London without her feelings for Captain Ward being revealed. Aware of his nearness with every nerve in her body, she took' refuge in silence, hoping that it would be accepted as a natural reaction to the fate that awaited her. By careful manoeuvring she managed to avoid the Englishman; without seeming to ignore him, she accepted others’ aid in mounting or another’s hands to lift her from the saddle, taking care never to be in a position for a private word or look.

  But all her efforts came to nothing for Captain Ward, well aware of her attempts, simply took the procedure of sending for her one evening with a firmness that brooked no refusal on her part.

  The inn in which they were lodging was old, its rooms low and panelled. As she followed the red coat of her escort down the stairs and along the wide passages, Anstey toyed with the thought of the many other people who had walked the same boards on which she trod and, to keep her mind from the interview ahead, pondered upon their stories and the reasons behind their age old journeys, sighing to think of the lovers now dead and their bodies dust.

  Captain Ward looked up at her entrance, his face curiously immobile and still as he indicated a settle facing the open window.

  Anstey hesitated and made a tentative bid to avoid what she sensed would be a painful confrontation. “I really am very tired—” she began.

  “I am well aware that I have driven you to the point of exhaustion and believe me, I would not disturb you, save that we need to talk upon a matter of the utmost importance.”

  He took a few restless steps about the room, turning before he reached the window to stop and look d
own at the girl, his face in shadow and his expression unfathomable. Staring down at her hands clasped in her lap, Anstey waited wondering what he was about to say, but instead of speaking, Captain Ward thrust his hands deep into his breeches pockets and gazed out of the window at the people passing in the street below.

  Raising her eyes cautiously, Anstey studied him and knew by the set of his shoulders that his recently-healed wound was paining him. Even as she watched, he put up a hand and rubbed it absent-mindedly. The silence grew, and the girl began to wonder if the Redcoat had forgotten her presence. Captain Ward turned abruptly and took a breath as though about to speak, but seemed to have difficulty in finding words.

  “Some time ago I offered you my friendship,” he said at last, speaking quickly and without his usual assurance. “Which you refused - as you had every right to do if you wished. However, I feel that the circumstances have changed somewhat and that now you realize that you stand in need of a friend. It would not take a sharp imagination to dread the future and to be afraid of what is to come when you reach London.” Wondering where this conversation might be leading, Anstey tried to read his expression, searching his face for some clue, but with the window behind him, he remained a baffling silhouette.

  “I would not bring to your mind something which I am aware you would prefer not to think about, save that we will reach London tomorrow—” Involuntarily Anstey gave a gasp of dismay that she was unable to conceal, and felt her heart begin to race under the tight lacing of her stays.

  “I have been given a set route to follow, and handbills have been handed out to the populace with details of your charge.” He waited for the meaning of his words to dawn on her, but as her face remained blank and puzzled, went on to explain. “Which means that crowds will gather to watch us ride through the city to the Tower.”

  “Oh, no!” she gasped, understanding at last.

  “I am afraid it will be - unpleasant.” He continued quickly as Anstey closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, one hand hiding her mouth. “There is one way to avoid such a happening.”