by R. W. Hughes
The driver had noticed the silk scarf around Douglas’s neck as the big man had climbed into the seat beside him but made no comment. He could feel the coldness of little man’s pocket watch in the breast pocket of his shirt. He felt quite pleased with himself at the deftness of his hand as he had helped to remove the body from his coach, before the two Scotsmen had taken him to the stable. He too had no qualms about robbing the dead. After all, had he not risked his life by not stopping the coach for the group of highwaymen? He had therefore saved the possessions and possibly the lives of all the passengers on the coach.
Indeed, the pocket watch was small payment for such a brave action on his part.
The passengers were rather tense during the rest of the journey having been shaken by the attempted robbery. That was with the exception of the bank clerk who had quickly fell into a drunken slumber. He too had benefited from the passenger’s death by relieving him of his purse from the inside pocket when he was thrown on top of the wounded man during the bundled robbery. This had given him the funds and spending some of its contents on brandy at the staging post. The clerk even slept through the changeover of horses at the relay station in the small hamlet of Ayton.
It was dusk when the coach eventually pulled into the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed. It was at this coach house that overlooked the river that George and Douglas managed to find a room for the night. They sat down to their evening meal with the businessman in the room that also served as a public bar. George noticed he seemed ill at ease and not as talkative as he was in the coach, and he quickly finished his meal, made his excuses and retired to his room. The bank clerk had never appeared; they assumed he was still sleeping off the large amount of brandy he had consumed previously. It was while they were both alone that they became aware of the hostile looks that were being cast in their direction by the few people that were also frequenting that room.
‘We are close to the border and the natives are already hostile,’ said Douglas, at the same time moving his chair around the table so that his back was protected by the wall.
‘I feel that your observations are correct,’ George replied, glad that he had taken the precaution to load and prime the small pistol that was sitting comfortably in his inside pocket. ‘I do not think we will be sharing any drams with the customers at this bar, and I am inclined to leave quickly and barricade ourselves in our room with pistols primed until the morning.’ Douglas nodded in agreement.
With a signal from him both men rose as one, leaving the dining room before the other men frequenting the bar realised that they had gone.
The room they had been given for the night was quite sparse. There were three single bunks and two flimsy chairs, a jug of water and a shallow bowl sitting on a small rickety stand. They quickly wedged the spare bunk against the door, loaded and primed their pistols then settled down for the night on the other bunks.
The two Highlanders felt reasonably secure. They would be on their way again come the morning. Anyone attempting to break into the room that night would pay most dearly for their foolishness. Before retiring Douglas attempted to try on the fancy waistcoat. From his bunk George watched in amusement as by the light of a lantern as the big man struggled to get both of his broad arms into the openings.
With a supreme effort he succeeded, and then as he straightened his shoulders the material parted in a great tear down the rear and at the same time several buttons also sprung from the front of the garment. He was holding his stomach trying to control his laughter at the sight of his friend wearing what was now a waistcoat in two parts held together by a few silk threads. Douglas then threw the waistcoat in the corner of the room in disgust, and it was only then he noticed his friend doubled-up and holding his stomach trying to contain his laughter. He too saw the funny side of the episode and both men burst into laughter. He returned to his bunk and they eventually settled down for the night, feeling quite secure with the precautions they had taken for their safety.
‘The coach is leaving.’ The blunt statement from Douglas squatting in front of the window greeted George as he sat up in the bunk rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He had a good night’s rest, secure in the fact that the precautions they had taken it would have been difficult and noisy for anyone to enter the room during the night.
‘Do not concern yourself, Douglas. The coach is travelling only as far as Newcastle. It is of no use to us, and we were fortunate to have found transport at all in these troubled times. This coach is only travelling because it is using the coast road, away from the centre of the troubles.’
‘Where do we go from here, George?’ Douglas queried, as he rose from his crouching position in front of the window.
‘According to my friends in Aberdeen, the Prince and his supporters were heading for Carlisle, from there they would continue to Manchester. It is there they hope to collect more followers for his cause that his unless he is unfortunate to clash with English forces in the meantime. So, we need to make our way to Carlisle, from here we need to travel across country, so I suggest we see if any transport barges are still travelling along the River Tweed. If so, we’ll purchase transport as it will be much safer than travelling overland in this area and risk being stopped and questioned by Jacobite patrols.’
As he looked around the room just before he left, he smiled as he saw the tattered remains of the waistcoat in the corner of the room near the window, thrown there in disgust by a disappointed Douglas. He closed the door and went as to follow his friend down the passage. But then he stopped and returned to the room. Something had just registered in his mind. He went over to the crumpled waistcoat, and sticking out of the lining was the corner of a parchment, not noticed in the half-light of the previous night. He quickly ripped the rest of the lining away and retrieved a neatly folded document.
Before he had time to inspect it in detail, a shout from Douglas broke his concentration. ‘What’s your delay, George? We will have to hurry to catch the tide.’ Douglas was right; any barges leaving Berwick would sail up the river on the incoming tide. He stuffed the parchment into his inside pocket as he left the room; he would study it closer when more time was available. Both men warily left the inn, expecting the local Militia to pounce at any moment, but there was no one in the vicinity, and once they were well clear of the buildings, they relaxed a little, perhaps after all they were being overcautious.
There was only one barge in the port and that was in the process of loading the last goods for delivery far up the river, it would load bails of wool for its return journey, these in turn would be loaded onto the larger sea going boats for transport further down the coast. The operator of the barge had no qualms about giving the two men transport to his destination which was the town of Norham especially when he was offered a few copper coins for his troubles.
There was a small cabin that doubled as a general utility room, for eating of meals, storage of dry clothes, extra ropes and equipment that may be needed on the journey, plus a couple of small bunks. It was in these cramped but dry surroundings that both men settled down. ‘These are luxurious conditions to what we experienced the last time we travelled by water,’ laughed Douglas as he tried to lie on the bunk but found it was far too short for his large frame.
The barge started its journey up the River Tweed to the town of Norham, which at present according to George’s friends, occupied by supporters of the Prince. This could cause further problems for him and Douglas if they did not keep their wits about them.
The time spent on the barge travelling up the River Tweed that day was the most peaceful episode on their journey, so different from the wild rough waters in the coastal transporter. There George had stood at the rail as the wind waves and driving rain had battered into his upturned face, he felt he was facing the worst of the elements that nature could throw at him, and he was winning. It was that thrill and the danger that came with it that gave him a great feeling of exaltation. He wondere
d if he could really exchange this life of excitement and adventure he had experienced in the last few months with the steady position he had held in the solicitor’s office of Forbson and Forbson. But then while he was working there he was in constant contact with the woman he now realised he loved, and with whom he desperately wanted to spend the rest of his life. It also gave him the opportunity to study the parchment taken from the waistcoat abandoned by Douglas. And excitedly share with his friend the part he could decipher that was written in Latin.
‘I think we may have stumbled upon a courier from the French Court Douglas, this gentleman was carrying information of a delivery, which I can only assume was of either soldiers, guns powder and shot, or gold, or possibly all three. But the rest of the document is in French and until we have that translated we are in the dark.’
‘You will not be short of volunteers from our Clans to meet this vessel if you can find when and where it arrives George.’ Replied Douglas with a twinkle in his eyes and a broad smile on his face..
They left the barge at the weir at Norham, and the skipper had informed them it may be possible to join one of the strings of pack ponies that were still carrying goods between the various villages. These traders were using the lesser frequented tracks to avoid the groups of either Whig or Jacobite supporters who were roaming the main routes in large armed groups. He also recommended they would require more suitable clothes than what they were wearing; they would be travelling across high exposed areas of the border, and it may be necessary to camp out in the open.
Accommodation would be difficult to find in these unruly times, people were very wary of strangers. Little did the skipper of the barge realise that living rough in wild desolate country was part of their way of life. But they did follow the skipper’s advice, feeling more comfortable in the rough but warm clothes of a local countryman that Douglas had obtained.
He had also managed to purchase a pack pony, as all similar types of animals had been sold to or taken by the Prince’s forces, and George had been very fortunate to find one. The animal was old but still sound in wind and limb. The pony was loaded with provisions they had purchased for the several days of cross-country travelling that lay ahead of them. They also became more confident, as they saw no sign in the town or the surrounding area of any of Prince Charles’s forces. They were also fortunate to come across and persuade a family of drovers going in their direction to allow them to join the group. They were glad of the extra men, or more important fire power in the event of a confrontation, as groups of armed ruffians were reputed to be roaming the local countryside.
The train of pack animals’ first stop was the town of Coldstream which was on the route that he and Douglas were following. Their plan was to stay with this team until their paths parted at the Scottish/English border at Gretna. Here the drovers’ pack ponies would be loaded up with goods for trading on their return journey in the outlying hamlets back to Norham, and where he and Douglas would continue their journey along the road towards the city of Carlisle.
During the first part of the journey, he was impressed with the pace set by the ten-strong line of heavily loaded pack animals. These were fastened nose to tail and were controlled by three handlers. The owner of the business was a stocky sixty-year-old Lowlander by the name of William Stewart; he rode a small pony at the front of the line. His much younger brother, Robert, walked in the centre followed by his son Roy bringing up the rear. It was with the younger man that he and Douglas kept company, and the young man was glad of the companionship, being very talkative on what was for him usually a very long lonely journey. This suited George who was a ready listener; he needed as much information as possible from any source that was available if he and Douglas were to succeed in their quest.
‘We have not had any problems up to now. My uncle says it is because our route is well off the regular tracks, but even so, we travel well-armed.’ The youngest Stewart indicated the muskets that were easily accessible on the nearest pack animal and the pistol in his belt. George thought at the time the information may well have been for their benefit also. ‘Several of the goods wagons supplying the Prince’s forces that had been using the main highways have been robbed by gangs of ruffians, so they now only travel with armed guards,’ continued the youngest Stewart. ‘But our customers are well off-the-beaten-track, and though our profits are small in the present situation, they are regular, and we are still in business which cannot be said for many of our fellow traders who have financially failed.’
George smiled; the young man was obviously quoting from his uncle’s observations.
What had seemed on the face of it a quick route that would bypass many of the checkpoints operated by both forces on the main highways had turned out much longer than he had anticipated. The group visited every isolated crofter and small hamlet on route. Even if a sale was not made, William Stewart would try and obtain an order for the return journey, and he would also spend the time of day discussing the events overtaking the country, passing on any local news and gossip collected from various sources in his travels.
George was frustrated to say the least, and brought the subject up with his friend, Douglas. ‘We could travel on our own much faster; so much time is being wasted with tittle-tattle, that old man Stewart his like an old washer-woman when he stops to trade, and why do we have to travel along the backbone of these hills when it is more sheltered in the valleys below?’
‘I advocate caution, George,’ replied Douglas thoughtfully. ‘We are unsure of the route over these hills and on these faint paths and tracks we could easily get lost in the mists that constantly cover these peaks at this time of year. With regards to your other question, it is safer on the tops of these hills. There is little cover for potential footpads, where below in the valleys there is ample cover to instigate an ambush.’
So, after more discussions with Douglas, it was decided that they would sacrifice speed for prudence on this particular stretch of their journey.
It was the Stewarts’ policy that wherever possible to plan the stops for the night at crofters’ cottages or larger farms. Especially those that had outbuildings where they could obtain shelter for themselves and their animals, but as it happened on their first night, they were forced to camp out in the open. They had been travelling that day in heavy showers of freezing rain and sleet; the farm where they were hoping to stay had been raided by marauding robbers. Everything that was of any value had been stripped from the building, and all had been removed along with the crofter’s livestock before being set alight. The group had been forced to shelter under a makeshift bivouac that night, having just cold food to eat. Both men shivered uncontrollably as they huddled together amongst the shell of the building—finding it was impossible to avoid the freezing wind, in conditions which left them both very depressed.
The following day was a little better than the previous night, but they were struggling to keep warm in their damp clothes as they could only walk at the speed of the slowest pack animal, and stand around waiting while William Stewart discussed his business with the crofters. Both men were forced along with the other Stewarts stamping their feet and swinging their arms attempting to keep warm, looking on wishfully at the smoke rising from the chimneys of the occasional dwelling they passed.
Eight
On their second night, as storm clouds were beginning to form, it looked as if both he and Douglas were going to have another miserable wet and wild night as well as being bitterly cold. But the Stewarts were more fortunate finding shelter with their animals in a small barn belonging to the farm where they had managed to do some trading. In the shelter of the barn, both men stripped off their sodden clothes and replaced them with their dry Highland kilt and cloak that Douglas had kept in the large holdall, and then settled down amongst the loose straw in the barn for what was a very warm and luxurious comfortable night after their previous experiences.
They had all risen early b
iding their time until it became light, listening to the heavy rain as it splashed in the puddles at the barn entrance. They were all dreading the thought of leaving the dry barn for the rain swept moor they would be crossing that day. It had been the continuous barking earlier of the farmer’s dog that had woken the travellers from their shallow sleep. Douglas had walked to the barn entrance, but it was still too dark to see what had disturbed the animal.
As he turned back, the dogs barking suddenly stopped in a gurgling yelp. Douglas and George were immediately on the alert. They proceeded to prime their pistols, putting their fingers to their lips to the enquiring glances of the Stewarts, indicating for them to also prime their weapons. For all their previous show of bravado, the travellers had obviously never had to use their weapons in anger. Both George and Douglas could see as they fumbled with the priming caps they were decidedly nervous, constantly looking to the two Highlanders for guidance with their weapons. Without any warning, there was a loud crash of splintering wood from the direction of the main farm building, as a large heavy object was used against the door of the farmhouse.
But the occupants had been warned by the now deceased dog. And though the door had been smashed from its hinges, it had also been barricaded from within.
There was the sound of breaking glass as several of the intruders turned their attention to a nearby window, followed by the discharge from what sounded like a blunderbuss. From the screams that followed, the scattershot fired from inside the house through the broken window, indicated it had found a target. It was just becoming light; and Douglas could now see the farmhouse from his position at the side of the barn opening. There were several figures still attempting to break through the front entrance, while two more were helping their wounded comrades to the shelter of a nearby low stone wall. As Douglas watched, two more of the gang fired their pistols through the now broken window.