The Yeoman Adventurer Part 45

I felt keenly for him, for he was indeed a gracious, likeable young fellow, born to purple poverty and a shadowy princedom, and now, as he thought, with the reality of wealth and power s.n.a.t.c.hed out of his grasp.

"If we go back," said he, turning his eyes on me, so that I saw how life and light had quite gone out of them, "it's all over with my House."

"I hope not, sir," said I.

"I know it is," he cried bitterly, almost rudely. "All over with us--and all over with me. If we go on, I shall at the worst go to my grave strong and sweet. If we go back--"

He paused and looked moodily out of the window. I think now, as I picture him to myself standing there, that he knew himself well enough to know what was coming. For another picture of him comes to my mind, as I saw him in Rome many years later, and shuddered as I saw him.

He turned and smiled at me, as one smiles who sips sour wine.

"If we go back, friend Wheatman, I shall just rot into it."

He spoke truth. I saw him rotting.

And then, because he had more stuff in him than any other royal Stuart that ever lived, he turned round, proud and princely, as the door opened and in came Mr. Secretary with Macdonald of Glencoe, a short-horned bull of a man.

"And when was it," said he, rapping the words out like hammer-strokes on an anvil, "that the Macdonalds got feart?"

The Chief pulled up short, hit clean and hard between the eyes.

"Ye'll never see a feart Macdonald," he said, "if ye live to be as auld as Ben Nevis."

"Ye're in the wrong, Glencoe," said Charles. "I saw one this morning, and he was frightened of the English."

"I'll gie ye the lie o' that," roared Glencoe, "if I hae to scrat my way into London wi' ma nails."

"I'll be glad of the lie from you on those terms," replied Charles calmly, "and you shall ride into London at my right hand while I take my words back."

The Prince went to a table and filled a silver-gilt ta.s.s with brandy. He sipped it and then, handing it to the Chief, said, "We'll share the same gla.s.s to-day, Glencoe, as a pledge that we'll share the same victory to-morrow."

I did not like his brandy-drinking, but he did it well this time. As I have said, he was at his best in dealing with a single man face to face.

It is only the rarest and finest spirits that can dominate a crowd.

At a sign from the Prince the Colonel and I escorted the Chief to the door, bestowing on him, as was due and politic, every courtesy. He looked like a man who, after days of doubt, had newly found himself.

"We've got him!" cried Charles gleefully as the door closed behind him.

"Now, gentlemen, I crave your attendance on a progress round the town. Mr.

Wheatman, bear our compliments to my Lord Elcho, and bid him call out some score or so of our guards to escort us."

We made a gallant show as we walked the streets of Derby in the early grey of that December evening. Ahead of us went a dozen dismounted life-guards to clear the causeways. Then followed Mr. Secretary with a brace or two of town notables unwillingly yoked to the task of giving an appearance of local support; then followed the Prince, between O'Sullivan and the Colonel, with young Clanra.n.a.ld and me at their heels; and another dozen life-guards in the rear. As we pa.s.sed along the causeways, a score or so of mounted guards, with Lord Elcho at their head, kept level with us in the roadways. Volleys of slogans greeted us wherever we went, for the town was full to bursting of the clansmen. The townsmen crowded to doors and windows to watch us pa.s.s.

The Prince doffed to them every other yard, but he and all of us were mere curiosities to most of them.

The progress was stayed at the "White Horse" in Sadler-gate, and the Prince, with us, his immediate attendants, turned into the inn-yard, with its long uneven lines of stables and coach-houses, all packed with Camerons. At the news of the Prince's coming they trooped out, yelling l.u.s.tily. Some sort of order was formed, and the Prince walked up and down among the swaying, uncouth ma.s.ses, with a cheery smile on his face, and with now and again a phrase of their own Gaelic on his lips.

"The men are keen enough," he said to the Colonel apart. "Let us go within and see what mood young Lochiel is in now."

Lochiel, 'young' only by way of distinction from a Lochiel still older, wanted no digging out, for, the news having been carried to him, he ran out bareheaded and breathless. He was, in fact, a middle-aged gentleman, broody and melancholy at times, as these men of the mountains are apt to be when they've got brains. At the Council he had been silently set on going back.

"Your men are in fine fettle, Lochiel," said Charles, "and as keen as their claymores to be at it."

"They dinnae see the hoodie-craws gathering for the feast," said Lochiel sombrely.

"They see the battle won and the spoils of victory, after the usual way with the Camerons," replied the Prince.

"They havenae the gift of far-seeing," said the Chief, gloomily proud of his own prophetic powers.

Charles started impatiently, and there would have been a wrangle but for the Colonel.

"Sir," said he, addressing the Prince, "you will forgive an old campaigner for being a stickler for the rules and procedures of military operations. An inn-yard, with soldiery around and townsfolk gaping through doors and windows, is no place for a council of war. The gentleman is pleased to dream, of birds, as I gather. Let him back to the fireside and dream of them in peace."

Without another word the Prince turned on his heel and strode out of the yard. I attended him at first, but missed the Colonel, and turned back to him, for Lochiel was all a Highlander, seer one minute and savage the next. Indeed, I found him, all his moodiness gone, as mad as a hatter.

"I'll hae the heart's blood o' ye for this, prince or no prince," he bawled at the Colonel, who, precisely as I expected, was seizing the welcome opportunity of having a pinch of snuff.

"Good lad!" said he, holding out the box, as indifferent to the crowding Camerons as if they were sheep. "Make it pigeons next time, Mr. Lochiel.

Damme, Oliver, this rappee gets unendurable."

His coolness took Lochiel off the boil, and he and I pa.s.sed out without another word into Sadler-gate and hurried after the Prince. We found the progress somewhat ragged, and, as we were only a few yards from the corner of Rotten Row, which forms the side of the square opposite Exeter House, it was, I suppose, hardly worth while to trim it into shape again. In those few yards, however, an incident much more to my liking occurred, for just as we turned round the leading file of the rear of guards, we found that the Prince had again halted, in the light of a shop-window, and this time it was to talk to Margaret, who was standing there with Master Freake.

It was a large shop with two well-stocked bow-windows. The doorway between them, and half the inwards of the shop, were filled with the shop master, his apprentices, and customers, crowding and craning to get a sight of the Prince. Over the door was a shield-shaped sign, bearing the Derby ram for cognizance, and the legend, "Martin Moyle, Grocer and Italian Warehouseman." I noted it then, because the word 'Italian' carried me back to Margaret's tirra-lirring, and I note it down now because, having looked at it, my eyes ranged over the heads of the gapers in the doorway to where Maclachlan, on the fringe of the group, was dodging about to find a place where he could see Margaret without being seen by the Prince.

Master Freake was talking with the Prince as composedly as if they had been friends of old standing. We had missed the beginning of their talk, but it was plain that Charles had expected a recruit and was disappointed.

"And why do you stand aside from us both?" he asked.

"Sir," said the sedate merchant, "I am not interested in making kings."

"What then?"

"Kingdoms, sir."

"Kingdoms!" cried the Prince.

"Kingdoms!" reiterated Master Freake, with pride and emphasis. "But for me, and men like me, this country would be a waste not worth fighting for."

The Prince looked with astonishment at the calm, solid man who made this strange announcement. After a minute's reflection, he said, "Mr. Freake, I would talk with you in private, if you will."

"With pleasure, sir," replied Master Freake.

"And, naturally, Mistress Waynflete will not be cruel," continued the Prince, offering his arm.

Margaret took it, and the procession moved on again. Master Freake linked his arm in mine, and we walked on together.

"You've had adventures, I hear, since we parted, Oliver."

"I fell into the claws of poetic justice," I answered, "and, having failed as a real highwayman, nearly hanged as an imaginary one."