Broadsword

by R. W. Hughes

  Just as dawn was breaking, the faint but unmistakeable sound of a horse harness carried on the still night air awoke him again. Slipping out of the ground floor window and keeping to the shadows, he made his way quietly across the courtyard in his stocking feet, gently easing open and taking the weight of the gate to stop the creaking he replaced his shoes and made his way quietly down the lane. After several minutes, he stopped as the low murmur of men’s conversation could be heard in the still night air. Moving slowly towards the sound he eventually made out a group of men being placed either side of the lane. A snort from one of the horses brought a curse from the man obviously in charge.

  ‘Keep them animals quiet! Take them further down the lane.’

  ‘Sorry, Captain Thornton, sir,’ came back the muffled reply.

  George gasped. He had seen and heard enough. They were in the process of arranging an ambush if ever he had seen one. He slowly returned the way he had come deep in thought, taking care to close the gate quietly behind him.

  He again crossed the courtyard in his stocking feet, entered the room through the same window shaking Douglas, who woke with a start reaching instinctively for his nearby pistol. George told him in a whisper of the events during the night and the recent appearance in the vicinity of what appeared a large group of horsemen. ‘I think Douglas, they will not break the sanctuary of the Nunnery, and they are waiting in ambush further down the track that we would have travelled. I suggest we disappoint them and slip away across the fields in the early morning mist.’

  Douglas nodded, grasping the situation instantly. ‘But why would the Mother Superior inform on two supposedly supporters of Prince Charles?’ queried Douglas, as he quickly gathering together his few belongings.

  ‘The Mother Superior obviously realised we were not Catholic which initially made her a little suspicious of our claims to be Jacobite supporters, but I think the information from the translation, even though it gives very little information, confirmed to her that these documents should not be in our possession. So, she came to the conclusion that we are spies for the Crown. She has informed on us to the local Militia possibly indicating to them that we are Jacobite deserters, knowing that our meeting with them the outcome for us could be quite uncertain.’

  Douglas just whistled between his teeth at the conclusion given to him by his friend. ‘The devious old hag!’ the large man retorted.

  The two men slipped out of the ground floor window, then gently and quietly with their shoes fastened by the laces and hanging around their neck crossed the gravel strewn court-yard, easing open the door to the lane. They then followed the boundary wall to the outbuildings that were used as stables and storing of implements by the nuns.

  They quickly harnessed their pack animal, and holding their hand over its nostrils to stop it neighing if it caught the sense of the other nearby horses, they led it across the fields at a steady trot in the opposite direction to the nearby lane—and the group of men in hiding there and waiting to apprehend them. They kept up as fast a jogging pace as the pony would travel in a large circle, until they were well clear of the area and were sure they were not being pursued.

  Then as the morning mist cleared they settled down to a more moderate fast walk, they had a long hard day in front of them if they intended to reach Penrith by nightfall.

  Nine

  There was more than the usual traffic using the road between Carlisle and Penrith; most of these were supply wagons for the Prince’s Army travelling in the same direction as George and Douglas. The two men fitted a white cockade to their bonnets, which indicated they were supporters of the Prince and King James. They were never challenged, and they simply dropped in with the flow of men animals and materials.

  ‘We are making excellent time, Douglas,’ said George.

  ‘Yes, the roads on this side of the border are much better than our own Highland tracks,’ replied his companion. ‘And have you noticed, George, the armed mounted men we have encountered are from the Clan Mackenzie who are patrolling the column? They must feel there is a serious threat from the English Militia, especially as the Highlanders of the Scottish Army make their way deeper into English territory and further from the Scottish border.’

  They were on several occasions confronted by groups of camp followers who looked half-starved and desperate; it was only the fact that they produced their pistols and threatened to use them that they were able to protect and retain their possessions.

  ‘These poor wretches that follow the army are trapped between a rock and a hard place.’ He voiced as he un-cocked his firearm and replaced it back in his belt. ‘The army as no vitals to spare for these penniless people and most of the local population refuse to feed, sell or support Charles’ army in any way.’

  It was during this stretch of the journey that George explained to Douglas the translation of the first page of the document. ‘The man who was carrying the document was an agent for the French Government, and it had been arranged for him to meet a representative of the Prince. There was an offer from the French authorities of assistance, but this page does not say what that assistance would consist of. But what it did say is where and when the shipment would be landed and handed over.’

  ‘So, we need to complete this mission of yours as quickly as possible, George, or abandon it altogether?’

  There was a long silence after Douglas’s last few words, before George replied, ‘I gave my word, Douglas, to do the best of my ability, and I can’a go back on that.’

  Douglas did not reply, he had already known what his friends answer would be.

  They made excellent time that day, camping for the night on the far side of Penrith, using one of the many wagons as shelter. The following night they camped again outside the town of Kendal with a group of wagons and drivers—all these men had been paid a deposit to deliver their goods to the Scottish Army. On delivery, they had been promised by the Prince’s agents to be paid the balance of the money owing. But the impression George obtained by talking to many of the traders was they were becoming more disillusioned the farther they travelled into a hostile English countryside. The only Scottish accents were with the column of wagons and pack animals’ drivers. It was unnerving for both he and Douglas that the residents of the villages and towns they passed through were openly very hostile aggressive to anyone connected in any way with the Scottish Army. It was with great reluctance that they sold them any provisions at all, but they obviously realised that not to do so their goods could well be taken by force anyway.

  It was obvious to the two friends that there seemed little sympathy on this side of the border for the Prince’s and his father, King James’s, cause. Rumours abounded on the journey amongst the drivers and carriers, one quickly following another, but the one that seemed to be most consistent was that there was much bickering and disagreement amongst the Clan Chiefs and the Prince’s advisers, and that the Prince had to intervene on several occasions between these argumentative parties.

  ‘If this rumour has any truth, it does not bode well for the Prince’s cause,’ George said to Douglas as they left a group of waggoneers who had been discussing the rumour during their stop for the night. They continued the following morning and were making good time; soon, they had left the slow-moving wagons far behind, continuing to travel with the faster-moving pack animals and their handlers.

  There journey was uneventful and they kept as much to themselves as was possible only coming into close contact with their fellow travellers at their night time stops.

  ‘The lines of supply for this Prince’s Army seems to be piecemeal and disorganised,’ George said to his friend as they passed another broken-down carriage, this one was carrying a piece of field artillery. The cart was in the process of being ransacked by four men, who stopped and stared sullenly as the two Highlanders, whose hands they had placed firmly on the butts of their pistols until they well clear.


  ‘Aye! And have you noticed,’ replied Douglas, ‘the deeper we travel into England, the more men we meet making their way back towards the Scottish border.’

  Their third day on the road brought them between Lancaster and the industrial town of Preston. They were fortunate; their constant enquiry to the drivers returning with empty wagons if they knew of the whereabouts of the Clan Macleod, eventually brought results, as one driver remembered delivering his supplies to a group of Macleods who were at the rear of the Scottish Army. But the two men’s excitement was quickly dashed, as further enquiries revealed that the driver did not recall seeing a young drummer boy in their party.

  ‘We can do no more than proceed, Douglas,’ said George as they made their way back to their small bivouac and camp fire.

  ‘Aye! And at least we know that the Macleods are at present still at the rear of the army, so we will not have to risk going through all the camp making our enquiries that would certainly arouse suspicion.’

  George nodded as they settled down to another cold damp night in the open, keeping their pistols primed, ready, and close at hand.

  The following morning started wet and miserable. The sky was black with the never-ending layers of storm clouds, the rain varying from light drizzle to heavy unrelenting downpours, which continued throughout the day. They managed to find lodgings with a stable for their pack animal in a village coaching inn just on the outskirts of the city of Manchester. The coaches traveling the route had been suspended during this invasion by the Scottish army, so there was ample accommodation for the two travellers. Their spirits were lifted and they quickly forgot their water sodden clothes when their usual enquiries from the innkeeper of the Clan Macleod brought further positive results. The group in question, including a young drummer boy, had billeted in the very barn the previous night, the same barn in which their pack pony was now stabled.

  They rose early, being ready to leave before daylight the following morning; their clothes were still wet from the soaking the day before, even though they had kept the fire in their room blazing for most of the night in a vain attempt to dry them.

  It was when they attempted to load their pack pony they found they had problems. The pack animal was not young, but they had known this when they first purchased him.

  ‘I know how the animal feels,’ said Douglas as he stood shivering watching George as he rubbed down the small pony with a hand full of straw as it lay on its side.

  ‘Your animal needs some bran, covering with a warm blanket, and rest.’ The voice was that of the innkeeper speaking from the barn’s open door.

  ‘You have experience with these animals, Innkeeper?’ enquired a sceptical Douglas.

  ‘I oversaw a string of ponies the same breed as yours; they are used in the coal mines of which there are many in this region. Once they are taken down the mines, these poor beasts never see the light of day again, and your pony is old and weary. I doubt very much if it has had the best of feed over the last few days, to force the animal on now will be a false economy. It needs rest, otherwise it will just keel over and die on you.’

  ‘I know just how it feels,’ laughed George, repeating Douglas’s earlier statement, as he took a thick horse blanket handed him by the innkeeper and spread it over the pony.

  ‘What’s your name, Innkeeper, and what made you leave your work in the mines?’ Douglas was inquisitive; a man with knowledge of horses was always in great demand either in Scotland or here in England, being able to obtain good wages and conditions.

  ‘My name his Tom, Thomas Surtees, and I left the mines two years ago. I couldn’t bear to see those poor animals suffering as they were. I manage this inn for a businessman who lives in the city. And by the look of you two, a day’s rest will not do you two gentlemen any harm either. It’ll also give you chance to dry your clothes properly, and your people the Macleods, were only travelling slowly, so I doubt very much if they have travelled that far.’

  George realised that the innkeeper thought that they were of the Macleod clan and were hurrying to join their comrades; it was obviously by his tone that he sympathised with King James.

  ‘You speak words of wisdom, Thomas,’ he replied. ‘We are both indeed weary, the pony needs rest, and we will find it hard without his services, so we can catch up with our friends within the next few days. This area is not as aggressive to us Scots as the other parts we have passed through recently.’

  ‘No! There is a lot of sympathy around these parts for your cause, indeed several men from the village joined the group you are trying to catch up with. But I’m afraid I cannot say the same for the rest of the country, support there is rather thin on the ground as you might say.’

  When they were back in the safety of their room, and in the process of stripping off their still damp clothes to hang in front of what was now a blazing fire, Douglas commented, ‘He thinks we are supporters of the Prince.’

  ‘Yes! And I think it will be to our advantage for us to let him continue with those thoughts,’ replied a smiling George returning to his bunk and pulling the thick blanket over his shoulders. ‘I think we should follow his advice and catch up on our sleep, he obviously knows about horses and our pony will be in good hands. I feel we are as safe here as anywhere.’

  The thought of several more hours in a warm bed were most inviting, he would let his thoughts drift, and dream as if he was with his beloved Fiona and without the chaperone duties of her Auntie.

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with you George,’ replied Douglas’ as he also returned to his dry bunk and warm blankets.

  It was late afternoon before he eventually awoke with a start at the late hour, waking his companion both men quickly dressing with a sense of urgency in their now dry, though somewhat crumpled clothes. He made a point of placing the document from the Frenchman’s waistcoat in his inside jacket pocket; also as an added precaution on the other side pocket he placed the small pistol. There were several men at the bar as they entered the large room that served both as a public bar and a place for simple basic meals. No one gave them a second glance as they took a seat at a nearby table. The accent of several men at the bar was Scottish and they were speaking Gaelic although it was of the Lowland dialect, and on closer inspection he recognised them as drivers of some of the wagons they had passed several days previous. There were also several local men sitting at a table at the far end of the room.

  The only food available was a hot stew of vegetables with strands of rabbit meat. This was served to them on two deep pewter plates along with several thick slices of warm, freshly baked oatmeal bread—a wonderfully filling and tasteful meal. After drinking several tankards of local ale while sitting in front of a hot roaring fire, they felt quite relaxed and at ease with the world. Their past wet miserable cold and uncomfortable days of travelling over the moor seemed far behind them.

  The conversation in the bar was mainly about the Scottish Army and its advance into England, also the rumours about the English General Wade who was advancing with one army from the North East, while George II’s young fat lump of a son, this derogative remark about the Duke of Cumberland who was advancing through the Midlands, brought laughter from the group of men in the room.

  ‘It bolds bad for the Prince and his followers,’ claimed one of the drivers speaking generally to the people in the room.

  ‘You’re a defeatist! The shout came from another man at the far end of the bar.

  ‘No! I’m a realist,’ came back the prompt reply. ‘All of us drivers here are owed money for the goods we carry, and who will pay us if the Prince’s forces are defeated?’ I can’a live on promises. I have a wife and bairns to feed back in Scotland.’

  There were mutterings of agreement from the rest of the men in the room, conversation carried on during the rest of the evening becoming louder and more heated the more alcohol was consumed, having to be calmed down on several occasions by the innk
eeper, Thomas Surtees.

  It was interesting for George to hear the views of the local inhabitants and drivers, as these men usually had their ear to the ground, and the information they received was usually correct, especially about the positions of the English Armies.

  All though he and Douglas listened with great interest, they themselves did not get involved in any of the heated discussions, but only to enquire if anyone knew of the whereabouts of the Macleods.

  The conversation confirmed to him what he had thought previously: that they had inadvertently stumbled on a section of the English community that fervently supported the Prince’s cause. They were a small island that was surrounded by a very hostile anti-Scottish population.

  The discussions came to an abrupt halt with the shattering of glass as a rock flew through the bar room window. For a second everyone in the room froze, but a second rock quickly following the first which shattered another window galvanised the men into action.

  Douglas upturned one of the heavy bar tables with one heave of his powerful arm, pulling George down beside him behind the table. There was some shouting of ‘Scottish Scum!’ from outside, and the sound of clogs on stone cobbles running down the road.

  ‘As you can see gentlemen the natives are not overfriendly.’ The statement from the landlord as he appeared from behind the bar with a short-barrelled blunderbuss in his hands which helped to relieve the tension in the room. ‘I doubt whether they will return tonight, as they know they will receive a warm reception. You can lower your flintlocks now, gentleman.’ He continued nervously, he was referring to the drivers who had all produced pistols of various shapes and sizes.

  ‘Nevertheless, I think we’ll keep our pistols handy tonight, Douglas,’ murmured George to his friend, as they made their way to their room.