The Rebel and the Redcoat

by Jan Constant

  Anstey searched his face with her eyes, but when she drew a breath and would have questioned him, he laid a finger over her lips and shook his head. “I can say no more - save that it would make me happy to know that you considered me your friend.”

  Not stopping to think of the incongruity of such a request in the circumstances, Anstey assured him that she did. Forgetting that they had been captor and prisoner, she impulsively gave him her other hand. “Shall we meet again?” she asked, unaware of the wistful note in her voice.

  “I give you my word,” the Englishman answered, lifting her hand to his lips.

  For a moment his grey gaze held hers and then he was gone. Anstey looked after him blankly as the door was closed and locked, and then almost involuntarily she raised her hand and pressed the back of it to her mouth.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Somewhat to her surprise Anstey found confinement in the Tower of London not so irksome as she had imagined. The Warder’s wife, Mistress Potts, proved a cheerful motherly person, who by producing a few homely touches, soon managed to give the cell a more comfortable appearance. While nothing could alleviate her claustrophobic dislike of small places, the Scots girl found that her jail was made bearable by the fact that she was allowed to walk on the ramparts each day and even sit on the Tower Green under the careful eye of a guard.

  From the ramparts she could see the River Thames, broad and deep, with a myriad of varied craft on its shining waters. She could never cease to be amazed at the diversity of the small boats plying their trade and larger ships arriving from foreign pans that filled the river with life and interest. Sometimes she could even catch the exotic smell of spices as a ship returned laden with expensive luxuries from far-off places.

  Not long after her arrival she was joined on the green by the Governor, who dismissed Mrs. Potts with a nod and seated himself beside her on the stone bench.

  “Not finding your stay with us too tiresome, I hope?” he asked, taking snuff from an elegant box, and went on without waiting for an answer. “However, I am sure that you will be - interested - to know that your trial has been set for two days’ time.”

  While she had expected the news every day, now that it had come Anstey was shocked into silence, her heart beating like an imprisoned bird against the bones of her bodice. “W-where?” she heard herself ask, in a voice totally unlike her usual tones.

  “Westminster Hall - the seats and scaffolding have not yet been removed—”

  The Governor broke off abruptly, sending her an uneasy glance as he realized that he had been about to mention the Scottish peers who had recently been sentenced to death at their trial. “Baron Hardwicke will hear your plea,” he finished weakly.

  Anstey recognized the name. “Is not he the man who sentenced the three Scottish lords?” she asked, disdaining subterfuge.

  “I am afraid he has no liking for the Stuarts or their cause,” admitted the Governor. “In your case, I am sure he will sympathize with your youth and sex and be lenient.”

  Privately Anstey doubted it, but her natural pride made her assume a brave front, and when later the Governor left her, she hurried to look over her meagre wardrobe and decide upon the most suitable dress to wear. She was sighing over the choice between the clothes Molly Barton had chosen for her all the time ago when she had lodged in the Sour Plum, and the riding-habit belonging to Caroline Ward which now was sadly worn and travel-stained, when the Warden’s wife appeared in the doorway.

  “This was sent for you, miss,” she said, proffering the large bundle she carried. When the Scots girl looked questioningly at her, she went on, “Came this morning, it did. ’Cause my man had to open it in case something was hid in it. Someone’s sent you some clothes to wear, ducks.”

  Dropping the bundle on the bed, she soon produced a blue velvet bodice and a full tartan skirt which she shook out and held against her ample form.

  With a lift of her heart which was almost painful Anstey recognized the bright colours of her own tartan. “Highland dress!” she cried joyfully. “Who could have sent me such a thing?”

  “Don’t know, I’m sure,” commented Mrs. Potts, “but it’s very pretty, I must say.” She watched as the other seized it and held the soft wool against her cheek, her hands caressing the familiar pattern. “There’s been talk of banning it, so I’ve heard.”

  Anstey looked up, her hands suddenly still. “Banning it?” she repeated in a puzzled voice. “Banning tartan?” Her voice rose as the full implications struck her. “We’d never accept it - we’d lose our identity ... how could they enforce it? There are some clansmen who never come down from their clachans in the mountains.”

  She stroked the soft material with a loving hand and smoothed the velvet of the bodice, pausing as a new thought filled her head. “Will they let me wear it?” she asked.

  “The Governor said he had no objection, so I don’t see why not,” said Mrs. Potts. “They can hardly drag it off you in Westminster Hall. You wear it, my pretty, and show us Londoners what a Scottish lady looks like.”

  Following her advice and the dictates of her own heart, Anstey dressed next morning in the costume she had not worn for so long, revelling in the familiar sight of the neat bodice clasping her waist and the gay check billowing above her ankles. Almost carefree, she took particular trouble over arranging her hair, pleased to find that it had grown enough to allow her to twist it on top of her head in the style which she knew was most becoming. By association, her thoughts turned to the Redcoat officer who had cropped her hair, and she wondered if he would have charge of the soldiers who would escort her to her place of trial.

  When, a short while later, she was taken out to the coach that would carry her through London, Captain Ward’s familiar figure was nowhere to be seen and Anstey felt an irrational dismay at his absence. None of the impersonal troopers were familiar to her, their blank gazes passing over her head with disinterest as she climbed into the heavy black coach.

  To her surprise she found it already occupied and, dazzled by the change from sunlight to dark interior, started back in alarm until she heard the Governor’s reassuring voice.

  “I am to accompany you,” he said, his eyes scrutinizing her dress with approval. “May I compliment you on your costume? Like most of my fellow-countrymen, I find such simplicity vastly becoming.”

  Anstey smiled her thanks. “Do you know who sent it?” she asked quietly.

  The Governor shook his head. “Whoever it was had good taste - and sense,” he commented. “I have no doubt that it will create a good impression. You should be grateful to your benefactor, whoever he is.”

  “Is it true that tartan is to be banned?” Anstey could not forbear asking.

  “There is talk of it - and of breaking the old clan system. Justice and punishment would no longer be in the hands of the Lairds, but by appointed officials.”

  Anstey was horrified. “The clan is a family,” she protested. “Our chieftain is regarded as a father.”

  “Justice should be impartial - your method can be nothing less than personal. Likes and dislikes, animosity and remembered happenings must come into it, and pervert the course of justice. What if a clan has a bad or corrupt chief at its head?”

  Remembering Sir Robert Mackenzie, the girl fell silent as she recalled his past iniquities and the many whispered complaints of his unfair jurisdiction and biased judgements in favour of his toadies and friends.

  “But all chiefs and lairds are not like that,” was all she could say, as much to herself as to her companion.

  The elegantly suited shoulders opposite lifted and fell expressively. “There is good and bad in all things,” he said, and leaving her to her own thoughts, fell to gazing out of the window at the passing streets.

  The coach and its escort seemed to make little impact upon the people thronging the narrow streets. Busy about their own affairs, they scarcely spared the sombre vehicle a passing glance, in contrast to the crowds who had watched the Scots girl’s pr
ogress through the capital on the day of her arrival.

  Relieved not to be the butt of their interest, Anstey hoped that she would be spared the ordeal of a noisy, excited audience at her trial, but when she was escorted into the splendour of the ancient hall, built by William Rufus not long after the Norman Conquest, she was met by a sea of expectant faces, peering down at her from the tiers erected for the trial of the three Scottish peers a few weeks previously.

  Stumbling involuntarily as she was greeted by a loud, indistinct murmur of anticipation, Anstey was grateful for the Governor’s reassuring presence as he escorted her to the high box-like structure intended to place her in clear view of all the observers.

  When she had recovered her equilibrium enough to raise her head and gaze out at the sea of faces turned in her direction, she surreptitiously searched for a bright red coat and a familiar face, hoping to see the upright figure of James Ward among the crowds of strange and unfriendly people. Sighing inwardly at his absence, she turned her attention to the men and women seated on the tiers, wondering why they should have chosen to spend their time watching a Jacobite on trial, if not necessarily for her life, certainly for her liberty.

  All kinds were there and all stations in life, from painted drabs and respectable working-class matrons, to lords and ladies in their shimmering silks and satins, who held nosegays to their aristocratic nostrils against the smell of the common folk who crowded so uncomfortably close to their betters’ well-bred sides.

  A ripple of anticipation moved the audience like a wind across a field of corn and following their eyes, Anstey saw a stern, middle-aged man in a full-bottomed wig appear as the people rose to their feet. Accompanied by a retinue of solemn attendants, he made his way slowly towards the high chair on a dais in the middle of one wall and Anstey realized with a sinking of her heart that this hard featured man was Philip Yorke, First Earl of Hardwicke, an implacable enemy to the Stuarts and their followers, who had so recently, and in the same hall, sentenced three of her countrymen to death for their part in the Jacobite Rising.

  Across the empty space between them their eyes met, and the Scots girl shivered involuntarily under the icy stare that studied her briefly but astutely. In that short glance, Anstey felt her innermost soul had been laid bare, examined fully and put aside for future consideration.

  Clutching the rail in front of her, she fought back a wave of fear as she realized instinctively that she could expect no mercy or clemency from the man sent by the Hanoverian King to judge her. Studying the grave, implacable face now turned from her, she knew that cold justice according to the law of the land would be allotted her and nothing more.

  A black-clad figure knocked a gavel on a table and the crowded hall grew silent, leaning forward in their seats, watching the prisoner with excited anticipation.

  Anstey stared back impassively, her face schooled to careful blankness, her chin lifted unconsciously as she faced her accusers with all the pride and arrogance inherited from her Highland ancestors.

  The trial began. As a prisoner of state being tried for treason she was allowed no advocate, and had to listen in silence while a long accusation was read aloud. The people on the tiers gasped and muttered angrily as they heard of the death of Leo Smythe, and Anstey shivered under the concerted gaze of their hostile eyes.

  The drawling voice droned on, the lawyer’s affected accent strange and hard to understand to Anstey’s ears. Before long her attention wandered and she found herself following the progress of a bee that had wandered by chance into the hall, with more interest than the lawyer’s monologue could arouse. She knew that she would be allowed to speak when all the evidence had been given but until then she had to listen in silence and unable to sustain interest in the familiar story, she fell to improving the speech upon Scottish loyalty she had prepared during the long days of her incarceration in the Tower.

  Suddenly an awareness of a change in the proceedings caught her attention and she looked up quickly, realizing that the prosecuting lawyer had returned to his seat and that an anticipatory silence hung over the ancient hall and its inhabitants.

  Lord Hardwicke shuffled the papers in front of him, his hands sure and methodical as he replaced them in the exact centre of the table. At last he looked up, his cold gaze passing over Anstey without a sign of interest, before he gazed out over the sea of absorbed faces staring back at him.

  “Before we proceed further,” he began in a dry, ' precise voice, “I understand that one of His Majesty’s officers has something relevant to say. This event is most unusual, I may say, but as the King himself has given permission for this evidence to be heard, I can only order it to be given. Is Captain Ward here?”

  Startled, Anstey lifted her head abruptly to look eagerly around the assembly. A movement in the far corner caught her eye and her heart gave an excited skip as a tall figure in familiar regimentals marched forward. She recognized the sturdy figure of Sergeant Wright keeping step at his elbow and could not repress a feeling of relief at the Redcoat’s unexpected arrival.

  James Ward appeared pale under his pristine white wig and black tricorne, but the irrepressible Sergeant gave her a wink as he passed. Across the width of the hall, Captain Ward caught her eye and sent her a message so full of meaning that her heart lurched and then began a violent tattoo against her ribs.

  “You are Captain James Ward of His Majesty’s army, and also of Wrexford Manor in Lincolnshire?”

  “I am.”

  James’s clear voice echoed about the blackened beams, and the audience stirred in anticipation, agog at this unexpected event.

  “I understand that you have His Majesty’s permission to place before us some new evidence appertaining to the trial of Miss Anstey Frazer?”

  “I have.”

  “Then proceed.”

  Pausing deliberately, the English soldier turned and sent the girl in the dock a reassuring smile, before he positioned himself so that he could be seen by both the judge and lawyers and the watchful spectators.

  “My lord, may I crave your indulgence? If you will allow me a few minutes to explain the situation I will then give you a letter from France which will, I feel, put a new light upon the matter before you.”

  Lord Hardwicke waved an elegant hand and taking it for permission, the soldier continued, his even voice carrying clearly to the furthest corner of the hall.

  “I was assigned the duty of escorting Miss Frazer from the Keep of Cushlan in Ross-shire to London, where she would be put on trial for the murder of Captain Smythe. Leo Smythe was a friend of mine, which made the duty onerous in the extreme. As you may guess I knew a ready dislike of Miss Frazer even before I met her. Ready to believe the worst of her, I both despised and detested her, treating her without regard to the respect her sex and position demanded. I assure you, my lord, I was not - kind, during the difficult and dangerous journey through Scotland.”

  Under the concerted, speculative gazes turned on her, Anstey felt heat burn in her cheeks and hastily looked down at her hands clasped tight on the rail before her.

  “However, eventually Miss Frazer’s demeanour was such that even I began to wonder if the accusation could be true. She made no effort to hide her loyalty to the Pretender, but here I felt she was following her father’s politics, as all good daughters should, rather than her own inclinations. As I grew to know her, under the most trying of circumstances, I became more and more certain that the hand that pistolled Captain Smythe was not that of Anstey Frazer, even though she insisted that she alone had killed him. In fact at one point in our journey she was the means of saving my life. If not she - then who? Her sister Isabel, a lady of beauty but known to be simple, seemed unlikely. After much thought I grew interested in her young brother, Jamie—”

  “James! No, please!”

  Anstey’s voice cut across his words with a wild force that shattered the calm that held the audience enthralled in the soldier’s narration.

  Crossing the floor to her box, Capt
ain Ward reached up and covered her hand with his, ignoring the interested eyes watching. “Have no fear,” he told her. “Trust me. All will be well, you have my word for it.”

  He gazed deeply into her eyes, before returning to his former position and resuming his story. As she followed his tall, straight figure with her eyes, without thinking her hand smoothed the fine wool of her tartan skirt. Suddenly her fingers grew still and she gazed down at the gay checks, speculation rushing through her brain. When she lifted her head she had no doubt at all about the identity of the person who had sent the parcel containing the Highland dress she was wearing.

  “Upon being questioned closely about this matter,” James went on, “Miss Frazer always denied that anyone else was involved, seeking to divert my interest to her own guilt by various methods at each mention of her brother. With this in mind I recalled that Jamie Frazer had been hiding in the Scottish mountains, but upon enquiry found that he was known to have escaped to France, where he had joined his father in Paris. I therefore took furlough from my regiment and set out for the French capital, determined to seek the truth. I found the Frazers living among the Jacobite refugees, and once they had learned my errand was received kindly by them'. Master Jamie freely admitted that his was the hand that fired the fatal shot. Coming in from a day’s hunting he had found Isabel apparently struggling in the arms of an English officer, and only afterwards discovered that the man had not been molesting her, but seemed to be under the momentary impression that she was his wife. Indeed, having seen portraits of the two ladies, I can vouch for the fact that they closely resemble each other. I must add that Captain Smythe’s wife had lately died and that the undoubted shock of encountering Isabel Frazer, so like her, must have resulted in behaviour which affrighted the lady, whom you will remember was a simple, child-like person.”