The Chevalier

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  She heaved the yard gates closed and ran the poles across, fled into the house and bolted the door behind her. She could hear from the front of the house the tumult of banging, and the horrible howling of the mob, and now and then she could even make out the words: 'Burn the place! Hang the Jacks! String 'em up!’

  The house was not defensible - it had not been built to be defended. They would be in at any moment, and then - she could not think about what would happen. She ran up the stairs towards Sabina's room. Could she get them out? she wondered as she ran, and even then she heard the shattering sound of splintered glass, as they abandoned knocking at the door and broke the windows for access.

  Sabina's door was open, Mary stood there, trembling with fear. Mavis shoved her violently back into the room and slammed the door behind her, looking round for something to barricade it with. Downstairs she heard the mob coming into the hall through the windows, their voices rising with excitement. Kateryn and the girl, Bet, were on either side of the bed, where Sabina sat up clutching her baby and looking frantic.

  ‘What's happening?' she cried. 'Who are those people? Where's Hamil?’

  There was no time for gentleness. ‘Hamil's dead,' Mavis said. 'Those people are a Hanoverian mob, and they've come for us.’

  She saw that the fright and shock prevented Sabina from taking in what she had said about Hamil, which was perhaps to the good.

  ‘Can you get out of bed?' Mavis asked tersely. 'Our only hope is to hide. Take the baby and get through into the closet. Here, take these blankets and cover yourself. Try to look like a heap of bedding. Kateryn, help her. Bet, Mary, give me help.’

  Kateryn took Sabina's arm to get her out of bed, while Mavis and Mary and Bet grabbed whatever loose furniture there was and dragged it to the door to barricade it. But there were feet on the stairs already, and even as they pushed a chair against the door, it was shoved violently from the other side, the door began to spring, and the chair was pushed back against their legs. Bet screamed shrilly.

  Mavis heard a voice outside yelling: 'In here! They're in here!’

  The door was shoved again and flew open, and the chair rammed back against Bet's legs made her fall over. She screamed non-stop, her eyes wide with terror, mindless with it. Three men forced their way in, and others pressed behind them in the corridor. Bet was grabbed, and screaming and immobile was passed like a bundle of clothes over the heads of the mob, and Mavis saw her no more. Mary was behind her, and for a second held firm, and then in terror ran to the window and began struggling with the catch. A man darted after her and grabbed her round the waist, and she clung to the catch of the window with both hands, shrieking, while the man dragged her backwards. Mavis made her last, desperate, futile attempt, seizing the nearest thing to hand, a pewter pitcher, and ran towards the man, raising it over her head to try to bring it crashing down on him. But she had gone no more than a step or two; she heard the sound behind her as the next man in ran forward; and then a silent, violent blow struck her across the back of the neck, like a great painless explosion in her head, and she fell forward into the dark.

  *

  Allan Macallan leathered the horse fiercely to make it go faster, galloping towards that glow on the horizon, a terrible fear in his heart. Of course, he reasoned with himself, they had gone days ago; it was probably a fired rick, nothing to do with Aberlady House; if it was Aberlady, it was the empty house that was burning. The horse stumbled and almost pitched him from the saddle. He did not know whose horse it was - he had simply grabbed it. Black had called out after him as he rushed away, but idly, thinking him perhaps caught short. He had not had time to adjust the saddlery properly, and he could feel that the girth was not tight enough, and the saddle was slipping. He took his feet out of the stirrups and held on to the horse's long, coarse mane, the better to balance, in case the saddle went over.

  The horse was slowing now, wearily, and he yelled at it and kicked and slapped its neck with the reins. It put on a spurt for a moment, then slowed again, determinedly. It was a farm horse, not a gentleman's hunter, and fast galloping was not in its nature. Desperately he tried to push it on, but it would only condescend to trot. He considered jumping off and running, but knew even in his desperation that he was going faster than he would on his own legs.

  When he got near, he knew from the direction that it was Aberlady House that was burning; nearer still, and he could see the outline of the house against the glowing sky, and the dark windows like blind eyes. The horse began snorting with alarm and throwing its head about, smelling the fire, and now he did abandon it, flinging himself from the saddle while it still moved and beginning to run as his feet hit the ground, while the horse veered off and fled with a turn of speed it had not shewn before. Stumbling in the dark that was darker by comparison with the flames, Allan went forward. The house had been attacked and looted, he could tell from the debris in the garden, before being fired, and the windows downstairs were smashed and the front door torn off its hinges, perhaps to make the bonfire that began it all.

  That was not all that was in the front garden. His stomach sinking in nausea, he saw the dark shapes silhouetted by the flames, and he went forward, almost as if his feet carried him against his will. Two figures hung from the branches of the big oak tree, that was older than the house by far; still and limp, hanging by their necks, women's figures, he could tell by their skirts. He crept closer like a shivering dog. One face, tranquil, unmarked, was Mavis's. The other, contused and almost unrecognizable, was Mary's.

  Frantically, he looked round him. Where were his wife and children? He began running back and forth, madly, uselessly, and then spun round and dashed for the house. The hall and stairs were not yet in flames. They must have started the fires in the rooms, where there would be furnishings and wooden floors to help, while the hall was mostly marble, apart from the wooden staircase. He ran upwards into the pall of smoke, and within seconds of reaching the top of the stairs had to drop to his hands and knees, choked and blinded. He knew Sabina's room without being able to see. The door was open, there was furniture broken and scattered about the floor. The bed, he discovered by groping, was empty. He turned to crawl away when some instinct - a sound, heard at the limit of consciousness perhaps - made him go to the closet and open the door. He felt something firm, covered in a blanket, and pulled at it. It cried out and wriggled. He pulled the blanket off, and knew blindly that it was Sabina. He felt about her, found her eyes open and wet, the baby in her arms, and he began to drag her towards the door. She resisted, and he gasped, 'It's me, Allan.’

  He heard her draw a breath to speak, but she only began coughing. Now she did not resist him, but shook his hand off and got on to her knees and crawled too. They got to the staircase. Lights seemed to be exploding inside his head, and his sight was so dimmed that he almost fell down the stairs.

  Sabina struggled a few steps down, and then said, 'Allan - Kateryn! She was in the closet with me.'

  ‘I must see you safe.'

  ‘I'm all right. You must get her out. Only one - loyal.' Allan rolled his eyes despairingly. 'Wait in the garden. Keep under cover,' he gasped, and turned back up the stairs on his hands and knees. He found the bedroom again, but it seemed further away than before. Surely it had never been so far? The darkness rolled down over him, his lungs were on fire, his eyes streamed as if they were bleeding. He found the closet, reached forward with fingers that seemed a hundred miles away from him, and numb. He found a bundle - a body. He leaned close, tried to speak. He ran his fingers over the face, with no response. She's dead, he thought, and the thought was a long way off, too. He hooked his fingers into the cloth and tried to Dull her with him, but he had no more strength. Abandon ing the task, he tried to crawl back towards the door, but it got further and further away, and the red darkness grew heavier and more solid. He collapsed, gasping for breath, and his face felt the floorboards burning hot under his cheek.

  *

  John Rathkeale and Jack Francomb
and their men did not feel they had achieved very much since joining Tom Forster's army at Rothbury. There had been talk of marching south to take Newcastle so as to have something solid to shew the Scots when they joined up, but news had come of the great hostility amongst the town's officers towards Jacobites, and so that had come to nothing. And then it was time to march north to Kelso.

  There they had joined up with Old Borlum and his army from Perth, and the Scots from Kircudbright under Lord Kenmuir, and had made a fine show of men. There had been a wonderful display on the Sunday after they arrived, the 22nd, with a church service, and proclaiming the Chevalier king, and reading speeches, and marching and parading, and bands playing, and the bagpipes of the Scottish regiments, and in the evening plenty of good things to eat and drink provided by the inns and the loyal and grateful populace.

  After that things had begun to go wrong. The trouble was that there was no getting anyone to agree on a plan of action. The Border Scots wanted to go back to their own country and capture the main towns of south-western Scotland, and then Glasgow, so that all of Scotland would be in their grasp. The English Borderers wanted to march into Lancashire, which had always been a Catholic stronghold and which, it was believed, would turn out in force for the Chevalier. The English regarded Scotland as a dark and barbarous place, and were strongly averse to penetrating it any deeper. The Scots, on the other hand, regarded themselves as bound only to fight within their own country, and thought the English could sort out their own problems south of the border.

  So there followed almost three weeks of indecision, during which they marched first one way and then another, covering hundreds of miles across the Borderlands along tracks over moors and mountains in steadily worsening weather. After the first week it was definitely decided that they would head for Lancashire, and some of the Scots went home in disgust, but most stayed, though pessimistically, rather than be accused of desertion or cowardice. On 5 November they reached Kendal, wet and tired and disheartened, and four days later they came to Preston, after one of their worst day's marching, through teeming rain and thick mud. Preston was a fine town, with good inns, public gardens and squares, even a theatre, and it was decided to stay there a few days to rest and revive the men before pressing on to Manchester where, it was hoped, the long awaited welcome from the people would at last take place. If they could only get to Manchester, great numbers would join them, and they could easily capture the port of Liverpool, which would give them access by sea to France and Ireland.

  But on the eleventh news came in from scouts that two enemy armies were approaching under General Wills and the much-feared General Carpenter, and Old Borlum gave orders to prepare to defend Preston. On the morning of Saturday 12 November, the vanguard of Wills' army was spotted coming up the road from Wigan, and the men on the outposts were ordered back behind the barricades. They were only just in time. Even as the last of the men withdrew, General Wills crossed the bridge outside the town and at around two o'clock the first attack came. About two hundred of Wills' cavalry entered Churchgate Street; the Scots snipers, hidden in cellars and attics, fired on them, killing more than half, and they retreated hastily. The battle had at last been joined.

  For the next three hours until dark, the Elector's army attacked the barricades on all four sides of the town, and were beaten back. When darkness fell the action was discontinued, though the sniping went on all night, and the intermittent rattle of shots kept everyone wakeful. At first light on Sunday morning there was another attack in Churchgate street, which was beaten off; so far the Jacobites had inflicted heavy casualties, and suffered few losses themselves. Then at around nine General Carpenter arrived, and closed round the town, blocking all escape-routes, and the Jacobites were under siege. By eleven o'clock it was obvious they were in a hopeless position, and surrender began to be talked of.

  Forster sent a man under a white flag to parley for terms with Wills, though the Scots were for fighting their way out, to die rather than surrender. When it became obvious that no one else was going to fight with them, the Scots sent an emissary to parley for separate terms for the Scots. The answer to both emissaries was the same — no terms. The Scots demanded time to think about it, and were allowed until seven the next morning, on condition hostages were given. Lord Derwentwater and Colonel Mackintosh gave themselves as hostages, and darkness fell again.

  Jack Francomb came to his son-in-law in their lodgings and took him to one side.

  ‘I don't like this business, John. I didn't march all this way to surrender without a fight.'

  ‘But what can we do?' John said despairingly. 'The Scots still want to fight — some of 'em at least — but the rest are so dispirited —'

  ‘They'll hang us, John, every man jack of us — you know that? You'll never see your wife and child again.’

  John gave a groan and put his head in his hands, and Jack Francomb leaned closer and whispered in his ear a single word, 'Escape.’

  John looked up.

  ‘Just the two of us,' Francomb said. 'I'm pretty sure I can find a way out.'

  ‘But, sir, we've got thirteen men here, two of them wounded. We can't just leave them.'

  ‘We can't take them with us. The wounded men will die anyway, that's for sure. Thirteen of us trying to escape will be seen. Two of us might make it.'

  ‘We can't leave our own men to die,' John said. Francomb seized the front of his jacket.

  ‘Listen, get it into your head that they're going to die anyway. We all are. You heard what that bastard Wills said — "prisoners at discretion". Do you know what that means? That means we will have no rights at all, not even the right to trial. They'll hang us like dogs — if they don't draw and quarter us. Do you fancy the idea of smelling your own guts as they burn them in front of you?'

  ‘But —'

  ‘Do you want to die knowing they'll report it all to Frances back home? What's the use of dying with the men when you could live? She can't run the farm and bring up the baby alone. For God's sake, John, think!’

  Francomb shook him in his agitation, and John thought, despairingly. He thought of the shame of surrender, of what the family would think, of what grandmother would think. He thought of death. He thought of Frances, struggling on alone, grieving for him, trying not to let his son grow up ashamed of his father. Then he thought of arriving home alone, without the men he had set off with. He thought of telling their wives and children that he had left them behind to be hanged. He thought of the way people would look at him ever after, because he had deserted his own people. And he groaned again, because there was no way out.

  ‘Come on, John,' Francomb said. He looked up. His father-in-law was watching him with an expression of calculation. John shook his head.

  ‘No,' he said, 'I can't leave the men. I brought them here — I must stay with them.’

  Francomb straightened up, and bared his teeth in what might have been a grin, or a grimace. 'Well, thank God I'm not a gentleman!' he said. 'Have you any message for your widow, when I get back?'

  ‘You're going?'

  ‘I'm going - with or without you.'

  ‘Without me.’

  Francomb turned away. When he reached the door, John cried out, 'Take care of them, of Frances and the bairn?’

  Francomb looked at him with an odd mixture of pity and disgust. 'What in hell did you think I was doing it for?’

  Then he was gone. Without him, John felt cold and lonely, and the horror of the death that was to come ate into him. He went along to see the men, who were all crouched together in one room, talking in subdued voices.

  ‘What's going to happen, sir?' they asked him.

  ‘I think tomorrow we will have to surrender,' he said.

  ‘And what then?' they asked. He hesitated, but at the last moment thought, they have the right to decide for themselves too. They shouldn't die in ignorance, like cattle.

  ‘I think they will hang us all,' he said quietly. And then he saw in their faces the resigna
tion that shewed they had known it all along.

  ‘Well,' said one, 'I said goodbye to my Mary before I came, and I didn't think I'd see her again. One death's the same as another I suppose.’

  John went away, unable to bear any more. He felt trapped by circumstances over which he had no control. Outside he could hear shots being fired in the distance, as if someone had not yet given up - or were they, he thought with a sudden chill, being fired at his father-in-law making an escape? He started towards the sound, but it stopped immediately and was not resumed, and he could not tell the direction without it.

  It was dark, with only a muted light here and there from a window where an officer sat up, perhaps, discussing the situation. Was there no way out? he wondered. His aimless steps were taking him towards the barricades. Perhaps, perhaps. It would be suicide, but what of that? Better for Frances to think of him dying in battle than hanged as a traitor. And as to his immortal soul - he thought perhaps God would understand.

  The thing was not to be seen too soon, or he might just be turned back. He crept along, low and quiet, keeping to the shelter of bushes and walls. He was in a little lane called Back Ween, where heavy fighting had taken place earlier on. It smelt of blood, and his nostrils twitched like a horse's. Beyond was one of the fording places of the river, and still further on he could see the flickering of firelight from the enemy's camp, and the great black shadows of people moving back and forth. He stepped out towards the river.

  ‘Halt! Who goes there?' came a voice at once. One of his own side, or the enemy? No Scots accent, but that made no difference. He walked on. 'Halt or I fire,' the voice said, less certainly. He turned towards it, and made a gesture as if lifting his gun to his shoulder. It was enough for the nervous guard. John heard the crack of the explosion and, to his stretched nerves, it seemed like an endless time before the ball smacked into his chest. He was amazed at the force of it, enough to make him stagger backwards. His foot was on something that gave under him, crumbling, and he fell backwards and downwards into cool dampness.