Broadsword

by R. W. Hughes

  The following morning’s dawn rose on a fine day. The men had already been on the road for two hours, their pony was refreshed, and to quote the words of the innkeeper, ‘The animal was in fine fettle.’ They too were also feeling much brighter and light of foot, as Douglas said; they had been badly in need of the rest. But now they were making excellent time on the good well surfaced road. Information they had obtained the previous night had set them on the road to a town called Macclesfield which was situated at the foot of a range of hills called the Pennines, and on the route taken by the Prince’s Army. The main industry of this town, according to the knowledgeable innkeeper, was the making of silk buttons and scarves. Further enquiries they made from the odd groups of stragglers of the Scottish Army and drivers they had encountered on the road now led to this town where the Prince had stayed the night earlier.

  ‘This is a town of garret workshops and large brick mills,’ commented Douglas as the pair led their pony along the stone cobbled narrow streets and past the ruined remains of what had once been a castle. They stopped at an inn called the “Pig and Whistle” on the outskirts of the town to obtain some refreshment and further information of the whereabouts of the Clan Macleod. There was no information forthcoming from the innkeeper, but two drovers they met further along the road informed them that about six miles on the outskirts of the town was a village called Winkle and that was the place where the Macleods were based as part of Olgilivies and Colonel Stuart’s Regiment of Foot, who along with Elcho’s and Pitsligo’s horses were protecting the rear and left flank of the advancing Scottish Army. Both men could feel the tension building inside them as after several hours walk along a rutted poorly kept track that climbed high into the hills leaving the dim lights of the town far behind and below them. Eventually they saw in the distance down in the valley several camp fires flickering, and apart from the faint light of the moon, it was now a very dark night, making it difficult to follow the narrow cart track on which they were travelling.

  ‘The drop in temperature as we climbed above that town reminded me of the Highlands,’ commented Douglas, as they stopped to regain their breath after the last steep incline.

  ‘It reminds me with these wooded coppices and green fields of the time I with my father visited and stayed for several days at a distant relation in Inverness. He lived in a lodge at Glenspean, and those were happy times with none of the stress and the worry of the present uncertain times,’ answered George.

  ‘Well with a little luck in a short while we could well be on our way back to your Highlands,’ replied Douglas optimistically, and feeling rather embarrassed about his short melancholy lapse.

  After a steep winding descent, they came to a T-junction in the track, and straining in the poor light poor light, they could make out the outline of several cottages and the shape of a church on their left.

  ‘According to the directions we were given, Douglas, we bear to the right at this church, and the camp fires on yon hillside must be the Scottish rear guard.’

  After continuing along the track passing several farm buildings all shrouded in dark shadows with no light showing from any of their windows, they proceeded down a steep hill, and with the camp fires slowly getting closer, they entered a small hamlet with the distant sound of running water carried on the still night air. The only light showing in any of the windows was from a lantern which appeared to be a local ale house.

  ‘Do we enquire here? By the name on the sign over the door it’s called the “Shippon”. What is that the name of I wonder, or do we carry on to the campfires?’ asked Douglas of his friend.

  ‘If I recall correctly, Douglas to answer your first query, I think a “shippon” is for the shelter of animals. In reply to your second question, these places are always a hive of information; I say we enquire here,’ he replied after some deliberation.

  ‘So be it!’ said Douglas boldly entering the building closely followed by his more nervous companion. They stood just inside doorway as it took several seconds before their eyesight had adjusted to the poor lighting in the low ceiling smoke filled public bar. There were only two men in the dimly lit room, and by their attire, they were Scottish. Both were smoking clay pipes adding to the smoke that puffed out from a small fire set in a small stone fireplace at the far end of the room, which was struggling to stay ignited. Both these men turned as one to face Douglas and George as they entered the room.

  George spoke first moving in front of Douglas as he felt his friend stiffen. ‘Can I buy you fellow Supporters of the Cause a dram, on this damp miserable night?’

  There was no response for several seconds which was only broken when one of the men banged on the bar with his pewter jug.

  ‘Landlord! Get yerself out here you have customers with money to spend.’

  It was obvious by the slurred speech of the man that he was already the worst for wear with drink.

  More banging on the counter brought a slightly built man wearing a leather apron from the darkness of a rear room. ‘Serve us four drams of your finest landlord,’ George ordered, placing several copper coins on the wooden bar.

  ‘We only serve ale, there’s no call hereabouts for strong liquor,’ came back the sullen reply.

  ‘Then four jugs of ale it will be,’ he answered with a smile.

  But all the time he did not take his eyes off the two men propping up the far corner of the bar. He could not see the handles of any pistols projecting from their belts just the guard of a broadsword, which left him more relieved.

  ‘I’ve nare seen you here abouts afore,’ said the man who had spoken previously, taking a renewed interest in George and then leaning over slightly to obtain a better view of Douglas. ‘Yon wee friend seems a wee nervous,’ the man continued indicating with a nod towards Douglas who had his hand still on the butt of his pistol sticking from his belt.

  ‘Well you can’a be too careful with the English Militia hereabouts,’ replied George smiling at the man in an attempt to ease the tension.

  ‘Aye, that’s true. There’s been a mounted group shadowing us for the last few days,’ the man replied before taking his jug and banging it down on the bar. ‘Fill that up landlord our friend is paying for a full measure and nothing less.’

  The man behind the bar proceeded to pour with a shaking hand more ale from his large jug to fill the last half inch of the tankard placed in front of him, so much so that it over spilled onto the already badly stained wooden bar top. He then quickly filled the other tankard before quickly retreating into his rear room.

  ‘We’re moving forward to join the Prince’s forces in the Army’s other column at a place they call Congleton, but at his mother’s request we were asked to look at the welfare of a drummer boy by the name of Collain, Collain Morgan who I believe you have in your column.’ He was interrupted by the landlord entering with a jug of ale and two extra mugs which he placed on the bar in front of them filling the mugs from the jug. Then without saying a word retired back into the dimly lit rear room. George waited impatiently while the two Jacobites took a long swig from their tankards before replying.

  ‘Young Morgan’s with our column, or what’s left of it, and in a short while you’ll hear him he’ll be beating his drum on yonder hilltop. We’ve called it “Drummers Knoll” just head in that direction, and you’ll come across him as he does the same every night at this time, just to antagonise the English Militia who’ve camped nearby. They fire a couple of rounds in his direction but the lad his canny enough to keep just out of range of their muskets. If you hang about for a few minutes while I finish this tankard, I’ll take you there myself.’

  George and Douglas quickly finished their ale, then waited while their fellow Scot took a frustrating long time finishing his. Then all three hurried off ignoring the pleadings for several coins for another tankard of ale from the remaining customer. They had only moved several steps from the inn when their guide sto
pped suddenly with a curse. ‘Damn! Hold a moment, gentlemen. I’ve left ma bonnet in the inn, bear with me while I retrieve it, the wind can be biting on this side of the hill.’

  When the man returned George queried him why he was not carrying a firearm especially with them being so close to the English Militia. The man hesitated obviously embarrassed by the question.

  ‘We have pawned our musket to the landlord, but only on a temporary basis,’ he added hastily.

  They had left the track and were half way up the slope of the hill with their guide leading in front when the rat-a-tat-tat distinct beating of a drum started from the crown of the hill.

  ‘There I told you so,’ gasped their companion as he stopped to regain his breath.

  George suddenly had a great feeling of foreboding come over him, from their position their guide pointed out the campfires of the main Jacobite camp on one side of the hill and the smaller number of fires from the local area Militia that had been shadowing them on the other side.

  ‘As long as they don’a bother us, we don’a bother them,’ he volunteered.

  After several minutes of drumming as the Macleods in the ale house had predicted, there were several small explosions from the militia men as they discharged their muskets and the faint sound of cursing that carried in the night air from that direction. At the sound of the muskets, the drumming increased in tempo. The three men changed their direction of ascent slightly to avoid any stray shot that may inadvertently come their way, but at the same time placing them in a better position to see the young Collain Morgan standing on a rock outcrop situated by the pale moon light that appeared in the gaps of the passing clouds, merrily playing his drum and out of range of the Militia’s muskets.

  ‘The lad is a fool, but a brave fool at that,’ gasped Douglas, as he struggled to pull the reluctant tired pack animal behind him up the steep incline.

  Before George could reply there was a sharp crack of a discharging weapon from the Militia’s camp, different to the previous muskets, but the same as the two men had heard when coming under fire from the Marines in the coastal transporter. It was the distinct sound of one of the new long barrelled rifled muskets. The drumming also stopped suddenly in mid beat. The pack pony was abandoned as the three men as one rushed upwards as fast as possible, to reach the brow of the hill where they had last seen the outline of young Collain Morgan.

  What they found at the foot of a raised stone outcrop was the crumpled form of the young lad, his drum was several paces away but he was still holding on tightly to his drum sticks. As Douglas and then George reached him they could see he had taken the shot in the chest, Douglas holding the lad in his arms as he knelt beside him could see he was barely conscious.

  ‘Am I goin’ to die?’ he said in a loud whisper. Before George or Douglas could reply, the young lad’s eyes closed and his small frame shivered violently for several seconds and then he lay still.

  ‘I think the lads passed on,’ exclaimed Douglas.

  ‘The poor bairn!’ was all George could say.

  ‘Aye! So near yet so far,’ his friend replied, more to himself than to George, while the other man joined them gasping for breath after the exertions of climbing the steep hill. All three men were stationary for several moments by the still form of the young drummer. It was Douglas’ shout of alarm that snapped George out of his grief.

  ‘There is movement in the Jacobite camp, George,’ exclaimed Douglas with a start as he pointed to the sudden light of several brush torches being fired in the distance below them.

  ‘The Macleods seemed to have organised themselves very quickly! I think we should leave this place before we are mistaken for the local Militia; they will be shooting at shadows, you can do no more for the lad, George, and you’ve fulfilled your promise to the widow Morgan.’

  Reluctantly he allowed Douglas to pull him away from the still form of the young drummer boy. Douglas was right. There was no more he could do for the lad, whatever dreams or aspirations young Collain had ever had were brought to an abrupt end so far from his home, by a militia marksman on a desolate hilltop near an isolated village on the edge of the wild moors in the North of England. As they had been in their deep conversation, their guide unobserved had stepped several paces away from them.

  ‘I know who you are now! I thought a recognised you before! You’re that bastard loyalist, George MacKay! You’re a spy!’ The man’s voice had now reached a high-pitched scream. As he pointed a shaking finger at George while at the same time with his free hand reached for a hidden pistol in his belt. It was the ever- vigilant Douglas who quickly stepped forward, grabbing at the drawn pistol with one hand while directing a well-aimed blow to the man’s chin with the other. The man’s ranting stopped in mid-stream, as he collapsed in a crumpled heap on the peaty soil.

  ‘He sent his companion to warn the encampment when we he went back to the inn, that’s why we thought they were organised so quickly; they were coming to hunt us!’ shouted Douglas as both men struggled down the steep slope slipping and stumbling on the greasy wet surface in their haste.

  ‘That was a brave action on your part, Douglas; you risked being shot!’

  ‘Aye! It was most fortunate,’ replied Douglas, sucking his bruised thumb which had luckily stopped the hammer and flint striking the powder pan.

  George kept close behind Douglas as they made their way quickly down the steep incline, both men in the process desperately searching the hillside for their pack animal they had abandoned earlier. Fortunately, the pony had made its own way back down the slope and they caught up with the animal just before the path joined the rough track at the bottom of the steep incline. At the same time, the sound of horsemen travelling in great haste coming in their direction forced them to shelter in a nearby coppice. They covered the ponies muzzle as they watched a group of mounted Highlanders pass, travelling as fast as was safely possible by the dim light of the moon and the light of their tarred brush torches.

  ‘They will start searching the hillside for us and they may continue to chase after the Militia, but they will be lucky to catch them, as they will be long gone by now,’ George whispered.

  ‘And I think we should also beat a hasty retreat from this area, come dawn it will be a very dangerous place for the likes of us,’ commented Douglas as the last of the horsemen disappeared into the night.

  George did not reply as he suddenly felt very, very weary.

  Their entire journey had been in vain, if only he had pushed harder? If only they had arrived half a day—no half an hour—earlier would have been sufficient to have possibly saved the Morgan lad. That bastard Barnes the ship’s captain was the major cause of their delay, what a useless waste of a young life.

  Even though both they and their pack pony were so weary, they needed desperately to place as much distance as was possible between them and the incident at the village of Winkle. They had been recognised and the alarm had been raised, so it would not be long before they too would be hunted as spies. After a brief discussion between themselves, they decided to travel through the night. It was their pony, after several hours at a fast jog, that eventually forced them to halt by stubbornly refusing to move any further, and compelling them to make camp in the corner of a field, where they managed to obtain a little shelter and out of the way of inquisitive eyes by the right angle of a tall dry-stone boundary wall.

  Ten

  During the days that followed, they were fortunate that the weather, although cold, managed to keep fine. They were also making excellent time on the better surfaced roads. They were never approached or appended on this journey. They were just two more travellers on a very busy thoroughfare, with traffic travelling to and from the Scottish border. George was reluctantly forced to sell his pocket watch, which had been his fathers, for a quarter of its true value, in the town of Preston. But he’d no choice. They had no money left for food for them or fodder for
their faithful pony.

  It was while he was feeding the hungry pack animal that a very agitated Douglas joined him. ‘The Prince and the Jacobite Scottish Army are in full retreat. They are heading back to Scotland as fast as possible before they become cut off by the advancing English armies. There is also talk of a French invasion fleet gathering at Dunkirk.’

  He could not believe his friend’s news which he had passed on in such an exciting manner. ‘It is just another rumour Douglas,’ he replied to Douglas’ obvious frustration.

  ‘Believe me, George, everyone is talking about the retreat even the supply wagons are turning back from whence they came.’

  George pondered on how, if these rumours were true, it would affect their position. ‘I think, Douglas,’ he said thinking aloud, ‘walking with the pack pony is to slow. We need to return as quickly as possible, and we have been away from the Highlands far too long. It is now obvious that the clans supporting the Whigs will come under increasing pressure as the Prince’s army returns back to Scotland.’

  ‘The Scottish army have horses but they are in poor condition and they will also be extremely well guarded in the present circumstances,’ said Douglas.

  ‘No! We need horses—good horses like those that the Captain Thornton rode who was in charge of the local Militia from near the Priory at Wetheral, the same Captain Thornton who had set an ambush for us.’ A sudden thought struck him; stopping him in mid-sentence. ‘I think we should gamble Douglas. I think we should find this Captain Thornton, and if possible borrow two of his fine steeds.’

  The large grin on Douglas’s face showed that his friend readily agreed with his every word. ‘Aye! Two of his finest mounts, only the best for us,’ quipped Douglas as both men continued laughing at the audacity of the scheme.

  It was several days later that the two Highlanders reached the outskirts of Wetheral where they traded in their faithful pack pony for more basic provisions. Even though the local population were hostile to the retreating army, they would still trade for a good profit. It was during the bartering for the goods needed for their return journey that they managed to obtain directions to the home of Captain Thornton, who was well known in the area, being the local squire. It was late in the afternoon and the light was fading fast as they observed the squire’s residence from the safety of a thick wood that bordered the edge of his extensive gardens.