“I, too, had a pleasant dream, dearest Jemmy,” she rejoined. “I thought I saw my mother. She had a seraphic aspect, and seemed to smile upon me. That smile has comforted me greatly. Ha! what sound is that?”
“’Tis the guard assembling in the court-yard,” he replied. “We must part. Do not give way.”
“Fear me not,” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck.
At this juncture, the sheriffs entered the room, attended by the keeper of the prison. The sheriffs wore black gowns, and were without their chains.
While the sheriffs were exchanging a few words with Colonel Townley and the other prisoners, Mr. Jones conducted Monica to the mourning-coach which was waiting for her at the gates of the prison.
Meanwhile, a guard of grenadiers had been drawn up in the court-yard, and the ignominious conveyances, destined to take the prisoners to the place of execution, had been got ready.
By-and-by, the unfortunate men were brought down, and in the presence of the sheriffs and the keeper of the prison were bound to the hurdles with cords.
This done, the dismal procession set forth.
At the head of the train marched a party of grenadiers. Then followed the sheriffs in their carriages, with their tipstaves walking beside them.
Those about to suffer came next. On the foremost hurdle were stretched Colonel Townley, Captain Deacon, and Jemmy Dawson. The remaining prisoners were bound in like manner. Another party of grenadiers followed.
Next came several hearses, containing coffins, destined for the mangled bodies of the victims.
After the hearses followed a number of mourning-coaches, drawn by horses decked with trappings of woe. In the foremost of these coaches sat Monica, with her attendant, Lettice.
In this order the gloomy procession shaped its course slowly towards the place of execution. The streets were crowded with spectators anxious to obtain a sight of the unfortunate men who were dragged in this ignominious manner along the rough pavement. But no groans were uttered — no missiles thrown. On the contrary, much commiseration was manifested by the crowd, especially when the mourning-coaches were seen, and great curiosity was exhibited to obtain a sight of their occupants. For Monica, whose story had become known, unwonted sympathy was displayed.
At length, the train drew near Kennington Common, where a large assemblage was collected to witness the dreadful scene. Hitherto, the crowd had been noisy, but it now became suddenly quiet. In the centre of the common, which of late years has been enclosed, and laid out as a park, a lofty gibbet was reared. Near it was placed a huge block, and close to the latter was a great pile of faggots. On the block were laid an executioner’s knife and one or two other butcherly instruments.
At the foot of the fatal tree stood the executioner — a villainous-looking catiff — with two assistants quite as repulsive in appearance as himself. The two latter wore leather vests, and their arms were bared to the shoulder.
On the arrival of the train at the place of execution, the sheriffs alighted, and the grenadiers formed a large circle round the gibbet. The prisoners were then released from the hurdles, but their limbs were so stiffened by the bonds that they could scarcely move.
At the same time the faggots were lighted, and a flame quickly arose, giving a yet more terrible character to the scene.
Some little time was allowed the prisoners for preparation, and such of them as had papers and manifestoes delivered them to the sheriffs, by whom they were handed to the tipstaves to be distributed among the crowd.
At this juncture a fair pale face was seen at the window of the foremost mourning coach, and a hand was waved to one of the prisoners, who returned the farewell salute. This was the lovers’ last adieu.
The dreadful business then began.
Colonel Townley was first called upon to mount the ladder. His arms were bound by the executioner, but he was not blindfolded. His deportment was firm — his countenance being lighted up by a scornful smile. After being suspended for a couple of minutes, he was cut down, and laid, still breathing, upon the block, when the terrible sentence was carried out — his heart being flung into the flames and consumed, and his head severed from the body and placed with the quarters in the coffin, which had been brought round to receive the mangled remains.
Colonel Townley’s head, we may mention, with that of poor Jemmy Dawson, was afterwards set on Temple Bar.
Many of the spectators of this tragic scene were greatly affected — but those about to suffer a like fate witnessed it with stern and stoical indifference.
Amid a deep and awful hush, broken by an occasional sob, Jemmy Dawson stepped quickly up the ladder, as if anxious to meet his doom; and when his light graceful figure and handsome countenance could be distinguished by the crowd, a murmur of compassion arose.
Again the fair face — now death-like in hue — was seen at the window of the mourning coach, and Jemmy’s dying gaze was fixed upon it.
As his lifeless body was cut down and placed upon the block to be mutilated, and the executioner flung his faithful heart, which happily had ceased beating, into the flames, a cry was heard, and those nearest the mourning coach we have alluded to pressed towards it, and beheld the inanimate form of a beautiful girl lying in the arms of an attendant.
All was over.
The story spread from lip to lip among the deeply-sympathising crowd, and many a tear was shed, and many a prayer breathed that lovers so fond and true might be united above.
Before allowing the curtain to drop on this ghastly spectacle, which lasted upwards of an hour, we feel bound to state that all the sufferers died bravely. Not one quailed. With his last breath, and in a loud voice, Captain Deacon called out “God save King James the Third!”
When the halter was placed round poor Tom Syddall’s neck, the executioner remarked that he trembled.
“Tremble!” exclaimed Tom, indignantly. “I recoil from thy hateful touch — that is all.”
And to prove that his courage was unshaken, he took a pinch of snuff.
The heads of these two brave men were sent to Manchester, and fixed upon spikes on the top of the Exchange.
When he heard that this had been done, Dr. Deacon came forth, and gazed steadfastly at the relics, but without manifesting any sign of grief.
To the bystanders, who were astounded at his seeming unconcern, he said:
“Why should I mourn for my son? He has died the death of a martyr.”
He then took off his hat, and bowing reverently to the two heads, departed.
But he never came near the Exchange without repeating the ceremony, and many other inhabitants of the town followed his example.
CHAPTER VII.
FIVE YEARS LATER.
Once more, and at a somewhat later date, we shall revisit Rawcliffe Hall.
It still wears an antique aspect, but has a far more cheerful look than of yore. Internally many alterations have been made, which may be safely described as improvements. All the disused apartments have been thrown open, and re-furnished. That part of the mansion in which the tragic event we have recounted took place has been pulled down and rebuilt, and the secret entry to the library no longer exists. Everything gloomy and ghostly has disappeared.
Father Jerome no longer darkens the place with his presence, but before his departure he was compelled to give up all the documents he had abstracted. A large establishment is kept up, at the head of which is worthy old Markland.
Sir Conway Rawcliffe has long been in possession of the estates and title. Moreover, he is wedded to the loveliest woman in Cheshire, and their union has been blessed by a son. It is pleasant to see the young baronet in his own house. He has become quite a country gentleman — is fond of all country sports, hunts, shoots, and occupies himself with planting trees in his park, and generally improving his property. So enamoured is he of a country life, so happy at Rawcliffe, that his wife cannot induce him to take a house in town for the spring. His uncle, Colonel Conway, wished him to join the army,
but he declined. He avoids all dangerous politics, and is well affected towards the Government.
Lady Rawcliffe is likewise fond of the country, though she would willingly spend a few months in town, now and then, as we have intimated. She looks lovelier than ever. Five years have improved her. Her figure is fuller, bloom has returned to her cheeks, and the melancholy that hung upon her brow has wholly disappeared. Need we say that her husband adores her, and deems himself — and with good reason — the happiest and luckiest of men?
They often talk of Monica and Jemmy Dawson. Time has assuaged their grief, but Constance never thinks of the ill-fated lovers without a sigh. Poor Monica sleeps peacefully beside her mother in the family vault.
Sir Conway and Lady Rawcliffe frequently pass a day at Manchester with the Byroms. The closest friendship subsists between them and that amiable family. Wonderful to relate, Beppy is still unmarried. That she continues single is clearly her own fault, for she has had plenty of offers, not merely from young churchmen, but from persons of wealth and good position. But she would have none of them. Possibly, she may have had some disappointment, but if so it has not soured her singularly sweet temper, or affected her spirits, for she is just as lively and bewitching as ever. She is a frequent visitor at Rawcliffe Hall.
Dr. Deacon is much changed, but if he mourns for his sons it is in private. After a long imprisonment, his youngest son Charles has been sent into exile.
A word in reference to the unfortunate Parson Coppock. He was imprisoned in Carlisle Castle with the other non-commissioned officers of the Manchester Regiment, and brought to the scaffold.
For many months after the suppression of the rebellion the magistrates of Manchester held constant meetings at a room in the little street, most appropriately called Dangerous Corner, to compel all suspected persons to take oaths to the Government, and abjure Popery and the Pretender.
Denounced by some of his brother magistrates, and charged by them with aiding and abetting the cause of the rebels, Mr. Fowden, the constable, was tried for high treason at Lancaster, but honourably acquitted.
On his return the worthy gentleman was met by a large party of friends on horseback, and triumphantly escorted to his own house.
After being exposed for some time on the Exchange, the heads of poor Theodore Deacon and Tom Syddall were carried away one night — perhaps by the contrivance of the doctor — and secretly buried.
Though disheartened by recent events, the Jacobites still continued in force in Manchester. They greatly rejoiced at the escape of the young Chevalier to France, after his wanderings in the Highlands, and the more hopeful of the party predicted that another invasion would soon be made, and frequently discussed it at the meetings of their club at the Bull’s Head.
At length, a general amnesty was proclaimed, and several noted Jacobites, compromised by the part they had taken in the rebellion, reappeared in the town.
Amongst them was the Rev. Mr. Clayton, who was reinstated as chaplain of the collegiate church.
Long afterwards, whenever allusion was made at a Jacobite meeting to the eventful year of our story, it was designated the “fatal ‘Forty-Five.”
A sad period no doubt. Yet some ancient chroniclers of the town, who have long disappeared from the scene, but to whom we listened delightedly in boyhood, were wont to speak of the prince’s visit to Manchester as occurring in the Good Old Times.
The Good Old Times! — all times are good when old!
THE END
PRESTON FIGHT
OR, THE INSURRECTION OF 1715
CONTENTS
BOOK I. — THE EARL OF DERWENTWATER
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
BOOK II. — BAMBOROUGH CASTLE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X.
BOOK III. — THE INSURRECTION IN SCOTLAND
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
BOOK IV. THE RISING IN NORTHUMBERLAND
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
BOOK V. — THE MARCH FROM HEXHAM TO LONGTOWN
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
BOOK VI. — THE MARCH FROM PENRITH TO PRESTON
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
BOOK VII. — THE ATTACK
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
BOOK VIII. — THE DEFENCE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
BOOK IX. — THE SURRENDER
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
BOOK X. — THE DUNGEON
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
BOOK XI. — THE SCAFFOLD
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
The Earl of Mar did vow and swear,
If that proud Preston he came near,
Ere the Right should starve,and the Wrong shall stand,
He would drive them into some foreign land.
OLD LANCASHIRE BALLAD
DEDICATION
TO WILLIAM FRANCIS AINSWORTH, ESQ., PH., F.S.A., F.R.G.S., ETC., ETC.
PRESTON FIGHT
THE details of Preston Fight, given in the Tale, which I have the gratification of inscribing to your name, may be new to you; inasmuch as you may not have seen DOCTOR HIBBERT WARE’S very curious historical collections relative to the great Jacobite movement of 1715, published, several years ago, by the Chetham Society, from which my materials have been derived.
But I am sure you will share my feelings of sympathy with the many gallant Roman Catholic gentlemen, who, from mistaken feelings of loyalty, threw away life and fortune at Preston; and you cannot fail to be struck with admiration at the masterly defence of the town made by Brigadier Mackintosh-the real hero of Preston Fight.
I hope I may have succeeded in
giving you some idea of that valorous Highland commander.
Nothing can be better than the description of him given in the old Lancashire ballad:
Mackintosh is a soldier brave,
And of his friends he took his leave;
Unto Northumberland he drew,
And marched along with a jovial crew.
What a contrast to the brave brigadier is General Forster, by whose incompetency, or treachery, Preston was lost! — as the same old ballad says:
“Thou Forster hast brought us from our own home,
Leaving our estates for others to come;
Thou treacherous dog, thou hast us betrayed,”
My Lord Derwentwater thus fiercely said.
But the hero of my tale is the ill-fated Earl of Derwentwater — by far the most striking figure in the Northumbrian insurrection.
The portrait I have given of him I believe to be in the main correct, though coloured for the purposes of the story. Young, handsome, chivalrous, wealthy, Lord Derwentwater was loyal and devoted to him whom he believed his rightful and lawful sovereign.
His death was consistent with his life. On the scaffold he declared, “I intended wrong to none, but to serve my king and country, and without self- interest, hoping by the example I gave to induce others to do their duty.”
My Lord Derwentwater he is dead,
And from his body they took his head;
But Mackintosh and the rest are fled
To fit his hat on another man’s head.
Lord Derwentwater was strongly attached to his ancestral mansion, and deeply mourned by his tenants and retainers. In the “Farewell to Dilston,” by Surtees, he is made to say:
Farewell to pleasant Dilston Hall,
My father’s ancient seat;
A stranger now must call thee his,
Which gars my heart to greet.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 722