“It need not be observed on the present occasion,” said Colonel Johnstone. “I will answer for the prisoner’s quiet deportment.”
“You need fear nothing from me, sir,” said Dickson.
“I will take your word,” rejoined the provost. “Let his arms remain free,” he added to the men.
The order to march being given, the door was thrown open, and all passed out.
Outside was a detachment from the corps to which Sergeant Dickson had belonged. With them was the execution party, consisting of a dozen picked men from the Manchester Regiment, commanded by Ensign Syddall, who looked very sad. The detachment of Highlanders likewise looked very sorrowful. With them were a piper and a drummer. The pipes were draped in black, and the drum muffled. Though the morning was dull and dark, a good many persons were looking on, apparently much impressed by the scene.
Having placed himself at the head of the detachment, Colonel Johnstone gave the word to march, and the men moved slowly on. The muffled drum was beaten, and the pipes uttered a low wailing sound very doleful to hear.
Then came Erick, with Helen by his side, and attended by the chaplain.
The sergeant’s deportment was resolute, and he held his head erect. He was in full Highland costume, and wore his bonnet and scarf.
All the spectators were struck by his tall fine figure, and grieved that such a splendid man should be put to death.
But Helen excited the greatest sympathy. Though her features were excessively pale, they had lost none of their beauty. The occasional quivering of her lip was the only external sign of emotion, her step being light and firm. Her eyes were constantly fixed upon her lover.
Prayers were read by the chaplain as they marched along.
The execution party brought up the rear of the melancholy procession. As it moved slowly through a side street towards the field, the number of spectators increased, but the greatest decorum was observed.
At length the place of execution was reached. It was the spot where the attempt had been made to capture the prince; and on that dull and dismal morning had a very gloomy appearance, quite in harmony with the tragical event about to take place.
On reaching the centre of the field, the detachment of Highlanders formed a semicircle, and a general halt took place — the prisoner and those with him standing in the midst, and the execution party remaining at the back.
Some short prayers were then recited by Mr. Coppock, in which both the sergeant and Helen joined very earnestly.
These prayers over, the sergeant took leave of Helen, and strained her to his breast.
At this moment, her firmness seemed to desert her, and her head fell upon his shoulder. Colonel Johnstone stepped forward, and took her gently away.
The provost then ordered a handkerchief to be bound over the sergeant’s eyes, but at the prisoner’s earnest request this formality was omitted.
The fatal moment had now arrived. The detachment of Highlanders drew back, and Erick knelt down.
The execution party made ready, and moved up within six or seven yards of the kneeling man.
“Fire!” exclaimed Syddall, and the fatal discharge took place — doubly fatal as it turned out.
At the very instant when the word was given by Syddall, Helen rushed up to her lover, and kneeling by his side, died with him.
Her faithful breast was pierced by the same shower of bullets that stopped the beating of his valiant heart.
CHAPTER X.
MR. JAMES BAYLEY.
In spite of the exertions of the magistrates, only a very small sum could be obtained from the inhabitants of the town, upon which another meeting took place at the Bull’s Head, and a deputation was formed to wait upon the prince.
Accordingly, a large body of gentlemen proceeded to the prince’s head-quarters, and some half-dozen of them, including the two magistrates and Mr. James Bayley, were ushered into the council-chamber, where they found Charles and his secretary.
Mr. Fowden, who acted as spokesman, represented to the prince the utter impossibility of raising the money, and besought that the payment might be excused.
Charles, however, answered sternly:
“Your fellow-townsmen have behaved so badly that they deserve no consideration from me. The subsidy must be paid.”
“I do not see how it can be accomplished,” said Mr. Fowden.
“If it is not paid by one o’clock, you will incur the penalty,” rejoined Mr. Murray. “Meantime, stringent measures must be adopted. I am aware, Mr. Bayley, that you are one of the wealthiest merchants of the town, and I shall therefore detain you as a hostage for the payment. If the money is not forthcoming at the appointed time, we shall carry you along with us.”
“Surely your royal highness will not countenance this severity,” said Mr. Bayley, appealing to the prince. “I have not slept out of my own house for the last two years, and am quite unable to travel. If I am forced off in this manner I shall have a dangerous illness.”
“I cannot part with you, Mr. Bayley,” said the prince. “But I will put you to as little personal inconvenience as possible. You shall have my carriage.”
“I humbly thank your royal highness for your consideration, but I still hope I may be excused on the score of my age and infirmities.”
“You cannot expect it, Mr. Bayley,” interposed Mr. Murray. “Your case is not so bad as that of the two magistrates, who will certainly be shot if the money is not forthcoming.”
“We have done our best to raise it, but we find it quite impossible,” said Mr. Fowden. “The amount is too large. I do not think there is five thousand pounds in the whole town.”
“I am sure there is not,” added Mr. Walley, with a groan.
“Since you give me this positive assurance, gentlemen,” said Charles, “I consent to reduce the amount to half. But I will make no further concession. Meantime, Mr. Bayley must remain a prisoner.”
“I pray your royal highness to listen to me,” said the old gentleman. “By detaining me you will defeat your object. If I am kept here I can do nothing, but if you will allow me to go free I may be able to borrow the money.”
Apparently convinced by this reasoning, Charles spoke to his secretary, who said:
“Mr. Bayley, if you will give the prince your word of honour that you will bring him the sum of two thousand five hundred pounds in two hours, or return and surrender yourself a prisoner, his royal highness is willing to set you at liberty.”
“I agree to the conditions,” replied the old gentleman.
With a profound obeisance to the prince, he then withdrew with the magistrates.
Accompanied by the rest of the deputation, who had waited outside in the hall, Mr. Bayley returned to the Bull’s Head, where a conference was held.
After some discussion, Mr. Bayley thus addressed the assemblage: “You see, gentlemen, the very serious position in which I am placed — and our worthy magistrates are still worse off. The money must be raised — that is certain. Let us regard it as a business transaction. You shall lend me the sum required. I and my friend Mr. Dickenson will give you our promissory notes at three months for the amount.”
The proposition was immediately agreed to. The meeting broke up, and in less than an hour the money was brought to Mr. Bayley. Promissory notes were given in exchange, and the sum required was taken to Mr. Murray by the two magistrates, who were thus freed from further responsibility.
CHAPTER XI.
THE VISION.
Nearly a fortnight had passed since Constance’s return to Rawcliffe Hall, and during that interval much had happened. Sir Richard had been laid in the family vault. The interment took place at night, and was witnessed only by the household, the last rites being performed by Father Jerome. Mrs. Butler and her daughter were now inmates of the hall, but the old lady seldom left her chamber. Gloom seemed to have settled upon the mansion. The two young damsels never strayed beyond the park, and rarely beyond the garden. As yet, they had received no tidings of t
he Highland army, except that it had arrived at Derby. They knew nothing of the retreat, and fancied that the prince was on his way to London. The next news they received might be of a glorious victory — or of a signal defeat. Rumours there were of all kinds, but to these they attached no importance.
It was a dark dull December afternoon, and the principal inmates of the hall were assembled in the library. A cheerful fire blazed on the hearth, and lighted up the sombre apartment. Father Jerome was reading near the window. Mrs. Butler was reciting her prayers, and the two girls were conversing together, when the door opened, and an unexpected visitor entered the room. It was Atherton. Uttering a cry of delight, Constance sprang to her feet, and was instantly folded to his breast.
Before he could answer any questions, Monica rushed up to him, and said:
“Oh! relieve my anxiety. Is Jemmy safe?”
“Safe and well,” replied Atherton. “He is in Manchester with the regiment, but Colonel Townley would not allow him to accompany me.”
“What am I to understand by all this?” cried Constance.
“All chance of our gaining London is over,” replied Atherton. “The prince has retreated from Derby, and is now returning to Scotland.”
“Without a battle?” cried Constance.
“Ay, without a battle,” he replied, sadly.
“I can scarcely believe what I hear,” cried Monica. “I would rather a sanguinary engagement had taken place than this should have happened.”
“The prince was forced to retreat,” rejoined Atherton. “The Highland chiefs would proceed no further.”
“Will Jemmy retire from the regiment?” cried Monica.
“No, he will proceed with it to Carlisle. I shall go there likewise. I have obtained leave from the prince to pay this hasty visit. I must return in the morning. We may yet have to fight a battle, for it is reported that the Duke of Cumberland is in hot pursuit, and Marshal Wade may cut off our retreat.”
“I will not say that all is lost,” observed Constance. “But it seems to me that the prince has lost all chance of recovering the throne. His army and his friends will be alike discouraged, and the attempt cannot be renewed.”
“Such is my own opinion, I confess,” replied Atherton. “Nevertheless, I cannot leave him.”
He then addressed himself to Mrs. Butler and Father Jerome, who had been looking anxiously towards him, and acquainted them with the cause of his unexpected return. They were both deeply grieved to hear of the prince’s retreat.
Tears were shed by all the ladies when they were told of the execution of poor Erick Dickson, and they deplored the fate of the faithful Helen Carnegie. Atherton had a long conversation with Constance, but they could not arrange any plans for the future. At last the hour came for separation for the night, and it was in a very depressed state of mind that he sought his chamber.
It was a large apartment, panelled with oak, and contained a massive oak bedstead with huge twisted columns, and a large canopy. Though a wood fire blazed on the hearth, and cast a glow on the panels, the appearance of the room was exceedingly gloomy.
“’Tis the best bedroom in the house, and I have therefore prepared it for you,” observed old Markland, who had conducted him to the room. “You will easily recognise the portrait over the mantelpiece. I have not removed it, as I have not received orders to do so.”
Atherton looked up at the picture indicated by the old butler, and could not repress a shudder as he perceived it was a portrait of his uncle, Sir Richard.
However, he made no remark, and shortly afterwards Markland quitted the room.
Seating himself in an easy-chair by the fire, Atherton began to reflect upon the many strange events that had occurred to him, and he almost began to regret that he had ever joined the unlucky expedition.
While indulging these meditations, he fell into a sort of doze, and fancied that a figure slowly approached him.
How the person had entered the room he could not tell, for he had not heard the door open, nor any sound of footsteps. The figure seemed to glide towards him, rather than walk, and, as it drew nearer, he recognised the ghastly and cadaverous countenance.
Transfixed with horror, he could neither stir nor speak. For some time the phantom stood there, with its melancholy gaze fixed upon him.
At last a lugubrious voice, that sounded as if it came from the grave, reached his ear.
“I have come to warn you,” said the phantom. “You have neglected my counsel. Be warned now, or you will lose all!”
For a few moments the phantom continued to gaze earnestly at him and then disappeared.
At the same time the strange oppression that had benumbed his faculties left him, and he was able to move.
As he rose from his chair, he found that the fire was almost extinct, and that his taper had burnt low.
On consulting his watch he perceived that it was long past midnight. He could not be quite sure whether he had been dreaming, or had beheld a vision; but he felt the necessity of rest, and hastily disrobing himself, he sought the couch, and slept soundly till morning.
He was awake when old Markland entered his room, but he said nothing to him about the mysterious occurrence of the night.
Determined to abide by his plans, and fearing his resolution might be shaken, he ordered his horses to be got ready in half an hour. He did not see Constance before his departure, but left kind messages for her, and for Mrs. Butler and Monica, by Markland.
The old butler looked very sad, and when Atherton told him he should soon be back again, he did not seem very hopeful.
A fog hung over the moat as he crossed the drawbridge, followed by his groom. On gaining the park, he cast a look back at the old mansion, and fancying he descried Constance at one of the windows, he waved an adieu to her.
As it was not his intention to return to Manchester, but to rejoin the retreating army at Preston, he forded the Mersey at a spot known to Holden, and avoiding Warrington, rode on through a series of lanes to Newton — proceeding thence to Wigan, where he halted for an hour to refresh his horse, and breakfast, after which he continued his course to Preston.
On arriving there he found the town in a state of great confusion. The Highland army was expected, but it was also thought that Marshal Wade would intercept the retreat.
To the latter rumour Atherton attached very little credence, but put up at an inn to await the arrival of the prince.
CHAPTER XII.
THE RETREAT FROM MANCHESTER TO CARLISLE.
On the evening when Atherton visited Rawcliffe Hall, intelligence was received that the Duke of Cumberland was advancing by forced marches to Manchester, and as it was not the prince’s intention to give the duke battle, he prepared for an immediate retreat.
Early on the following morning, therefore, the main body of the army, with Charles at its head, quitted the town, and crossed Salford Bridge on the way to Wigan.
Very different was the departure from the arrival. Those who witnessed it did not attempt to conceal their satisfaction, and but few cheers were given to the prince.
At a later hour the Manchester Regiment commenced its march. Its numbers had again been reduced, several desertions having taken place. Some of the officers went on very reluctantly, and one of them, Captain Fletcher, who had refused to proceed further, was dragged off by a party of soldiers.
Shortly after Colonel Townley’s departure an express from the Duke of Cumberland was received by the magistrates, enjoining them to seize all stragglers from the rebel army, and detain them until his arrival. The duke also promised to send on a party of dragoons, but as they had not yet come up, and several regiments had not yet quitted the town, the magistrates did not dare to act.
However, as the rear-guard of the army was passing down Smithy Bank to the bridge, a shot was fired from a garret-window, by which a dragoon was killed, upon which the regiment immediately faced about, and the colonel commanding it was so enraged that he gave orders to fire the town.
On that night the prince slept at Wigan; on the following day he marched with his whole forces to Preston, and here Atherton joined him.
Next day, Charles pursued his march to Lancaster, where he remained for a couple of days to recruit his men before entering upon the fells of Westmoreland.
After quitting Lancaster, the army moved on in two divisions, one of which rested at Burton, and the other at Kirkby Lonsdale, but they joined again at Kendal, and then continued their march over Shap Fells. The weather was exceedingly unpropitious, and the fine views from the hills were totally obscured by mist.
The prince’s deportment seemed entirely changed. He had quite lost the spirit and ardour that characterised him on the onward march, and he seemed perpetually to regret that he had turned back. He thought he had thrown away his chance, and should never recover it.
One day he unburdened his breast to Captain Legh, for whom he had conceived a great regard, and said:
“I ought to have gone on at all hazards. The army would not have abandoned me — even if their leaders had turned back. By this time I should have been master of London — or nothing.”
In vain Atherton tried to cheer him. For a few minutes he roused himself, but speedily relapsed into the same state of dejection.
Heretofore, as we have stated, the prince had marched on foot at the head of one column of the army, but he now left the command of this division to the Duke of Perth, and rode in the rear, attended by the Marquis d’Eguilles, Sir Thomas Sheridan, Secretary Murray, and Captain Legh.
Lord George Gordon commanded the rear-guard, and was more than a day’s march behind the van — great fears being entertained lest the retreating army should be overtaken by the Duke of Cumberland, who was in full pursuit. At length, these apprehensions were realised.
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