James arose and staggered off the cart. The two brothers followed the Chief into his stark old Hall, where Tom Errington was casting accounts at a desk by the window. He gaped at the farmers, and said with disapproval, “Since when do you bring the likes of them into your Hall, sir, send them to the kitchen.”
The old man ignored his nephew, and turned to James. “My lord,” he said in a sad dragging voice, “are they after ye? Does this mean what I fear it does?”
James threw off his hat and kerchief, and young Errington jumped to his feet. “It means,” said the Earl, “that I am going out for King James.”
The old man’s face crumpled, he drew a difficult breath. “I didn’t think ye would, my boy,” he said. “And I didn’t think ye should. Look!” He pointed to the window. “D’ye see Dilston over there across the Tyne? D’ye see your fair bonny home? D’ye know what ye risk by going out with the Rising?”
“I know,” said James. They all stared at him, at the small figure in the farmer’s dirty smock and the shaven pate above it. A figure of fun it might have been, but it was not. James’s strength and dignity filled the hall, and the old man bowed his head. “So be it. If ye go we must be with ye. What’s to be done?”
“I will tell you,” said James. “I have made careful plans, and the first ones must be carried out from here since Dilston is under surveillance.”
SIX
During the next frantic days Charles marveled often at the speed and decision with which James went into action. While they were sheltered by the old Chief at Beaufront, James set up an organization of secret messengers who rallied all the Jacobite families in Northumberland. For these messengers James selected the most trustworthy among his own servants and tenants. He consigned the list to Charles an hour after the brothers reached Beaufront, since James had made all his plans during that night of hiding at the mouth of the tunnel.
“Is this all?” asked Charles dismayed, when James gave him the list. “Why, you could call out hundreds more.”
“But I will not,” said James quietly. “These men I’ve chosen because I know them to be Catholics or personally dedicated to King James. And they are young, without families who might suffer. I’ll have none of my people jeopardized because of personal loyalty to me alone.”
“Ah, ye’re a good lad, m’lord!” cried the Chief tremulously. “I wish I could go out wi’ ye, but I canna ride hard any more. Tom, you’re going!” It was a command, not a question, but his nephew had already decided.
“Aye,” he said in his precise way. “If Derwentwater goes, I will.” He sat down at the desk and picked up the pen. “At Capheaton,” he said thoughtfully, “I doubt Sir William’ll come out, but his brothers should. And we can count on Shaftoes, Claverings, Stockoes, my Lord Widdrington, of course ...”
“Not ‘of course,’ “ said James with a grim smile. “But I shall write him a letter which’ll bring him, if he’s not decided yet.” James glanced at the paper, where Errington was neatly putting down names as they occurred to him. “You’ve not forgotten Tom Forster, who’s to be our general, I believe?”
“No,” said Errington. “But he’s on the run. There was a warrant for him, too. Fenwick of Bywell knows where he is.”
“Find Forster,” said James, “and bring him to me!”
“At Dilston?”
“Not at Dilston Hall, that’s too risky. I know a place where we can all meet and our enemies’ll never think to look.
At dawn on Thursday morning the sixth of October, Charles and thirty-three of the Earl’s men waited impatiently on the lawn in front of Dilston Hall while James made his final farewell to Ann, who was sobbing on the doorstep. “Pray for us, darling, and be brave,” James said, kissing his wife, then snatching up little John for another hug.
“I’ll pray,” she whispered, “and each night a lamp’ll burn in the tower to guide you home again. Oh, my dear love, the Rising can’t fail, can it? Not when our cause is just!”
“We must trust in God, Ann.”
“Aye, trust in God,” said Mr. Brown from the doorway, where he had given James his benediction.
“Where’s your ring?” cried Ann, her distraught eyes suddenly noticing an empty space on her husband’s middle finger. He always wore the Stuart diamond ring which King Charles had given to little Moll Davis, his grandmother. James perfectly hid his discomfiture. The ring had unaccountably fallen from his finger while he dressed an hour ago. James had searched as long as he dared yet he could not find it. “I thought it might encumber me,” he answered. “Ann, you know what to do with the Radcliffe papers in case there should be ill news.”
“Yes, yes,” she said crossing herself. “Take them to Capheaton where the Swinburnes’ll hide them. But there won’t be ill news, why even if -- if the Rising should fail they’d dare not touch you.”
“My lord!” Charles called out urgently, reining in his prancing horse. “ ‘Tis almost sunup.”
James nodded, kissed Ann again, and rapidly mounted his gray stallion, Monarch. James dug in his spurs, but the great horse refused to budge, he stiffened his forelegs and lay back his ears. James felt the gasp of superstitious fear Ann gave, because its counterpart was in his own throat.
“Damme,” cried Charles giving the stallion a whack on the rump. “This beast’s grown lazy at pasture. Move along, you scamp!”
Monarch snorted, then bounded forward resentfully. James had so much ado controlling him that he did not see Ann, the child, and the priest waving from the doorstep, nor Lady Mary’s handkerchief fluttering in a window. By the time the stallion was trotting quietly at the head of the cavalcade, Dilston was only a fair white blur among the trees.
James did not look back again. While they followed a track south along the burn he constrained himself to think only of the matter at hand. Though some of his men were riding coach horses, on the whole the company was well mounted. There had been a slight difficulty in arranging for the return of the best horses, but the neighbor in whose keeping they were, had overcome his Whiggish scruples when Busby offered him a hundred pounds “as a gift.” The men were well armed too, each with a pistol, or musket, and they wore stout leather doublets to protect their vitals. Charles had done well, James thought gratefully, glancing at his brother, who rode a fleet raw-boned gelding. James had issued directions from his hiding places, either in the Queen’s Cave up Dipton Burn, or in a ruinous shepherd’s cot on the edge of the moor. Here Charles brought for inspection the men James had picked, then went back to Dilston and made necessary arrangements there. One of these was to get rid of the Newcastle bailiff, and of another bailiff who presently arrived.
The two bailiffs were now snugly ensconced in the lightest and airiest of Dilston’s dungeons, with Busby as warder. And a mercy it is, James thought, that I didn’t destroy the old tower when I rebuilt. A further mercy had been the loyalty of all his people. Word had got around, of course, that the Earl was hiding somewhere on his estates, and there had been many who knew the exact spots yet not a whisper had reached the authorities at Hexham or Newcastle.
Several miles from Dilston but still on Derwentwater land the Earl turned his horse away from the burn and struck out into rough hilly country north of Hexhamshire Common. “Can Forster find Greenriggs, d’you think?” James asked of Charles as they entered a purple waste of heather and began to look for the old farmhouse which was the landmark.
“If he doesn’t,” said Charles, “his head’s even thicker than I think it. I made him a map.”
“Brother,” James said reining in the stallion, and speaking sternly, “Tom Forster is our general. He’s received his commission from our King himself. You must remember this, obey his orders, and from now on speak of him with respect.”
“Aye, my lord,” said Charles after a moment. “Needs must, since I obey you. And there’s Forster now, on yonder hill!”
The new General, on a huge black horse, was easy to identify since he had dressed himself in a scarlet coat tr
immed with gold braid and wore a general’s hat tufted with cock feathers. He carried a large green taffeta standard on which King James’s emblem was emblazoned. Forster had about twenty horsemen with him, and the two parties galloped to meet each other. “Thought ye’d never come, m’lord,” said Tom somewhat peevishly. “Began to think ye’d got cold feet again. No matter since ye’re here,” he added hastily, seeing both James and Charles stiffen. “There’s some officers for ye to meet. One ye already know -- that’s Colonel Oxburgh. I’ve made him me aide-de-camp.”
Henry Oxburgh came forward and bowed to James. “It does my heart good to see your lordship again, and Mr. Radcliffe. Our cause is mightily prospering in Scotland, I’ve much news for you. And may I present two young Irish officers who’ll ride with us? Captains Nicholas and Charles Wogan.”
The Irish brothers were startlingly young, both in their teens, but were already trained soldiers. They had twinkling eyes and a dashing gallantry.
“Now we’ll have a drop all around, afore we plan our march,” said Forster, struggling to reach the flask which was wedged between his rump and coattails.
“May I speak with my Lord Derwentwater?” murmured a meek oily voice, at Tom’s elbow. “I’d like his lordship to know I’ve joined the Rising.”
“Begock!” said Tom. “I forgot ye, Patten!” He shoved forward a meager man with a knobbly head and a sharp nose, who wore the black suit and round collar of an Episcopal curate. “Robert Patten from Allendale,” said Tom carelessly. “Wants to be me chaplain.”
“Yes, I know Mr. Patten,” said the Earl without enthusiasm. He had met the clergyman a year ago at the Alston lead mines over a matter of arranging burial service for one of the Earl’s Protestant miners, and he had then thought Patten both greedy and servile.
Yet King James had directed that they enlist as many Protestants as possible. And a cleric might be useful as spy or messenger.
“Now ‘tis time we march to Coquetdale,” said Tom wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Oxburgh says there’s a moor near Rothbury’s to be our next rally ground.”
Coquetdale! Charles thought. So he was to go back to that wild Border where lived Meg -- and Jenny.
“I suggest,” James said, “that we march by way of Beaufront, where Tom Errington awaits us with whatever men he’s been able to muster.”
“And I quite agree, sir,” said Oxburgh to Forster, who was frowning while he mulled over this new idea. In a moment, having nothing better to suggest, Tom nodded graciously. “So be it. We’ll march through Corbridge wi’ drawn swords, show ‘em our mettle, eh? Now we’re fifty strong.”
“And maybe have a skirmish!” cried Charles, delighted. “Some action at last after all this while of skulking about!”
“I doubt ye’re so pleased wi’ action when ye get it, m’lad,” said Tom repressively. “And don’t ye start anything, young buck, d’ye hear!”
“Yes, sir,” said Charles, trying to sound properly submissive to a general who had somehow been metamorphosed from Tom Forster, the fat, pompous, turnip-headed country squire.
They certainly saw no action that day, nor for many weeks thereafter. Wherever they marched the people ran from their houses, stared at the Jacobite standard, then drew back murmuring, watchful. But nobody challenged them. Occasionally a cheer was raised for King James -- usually in a female voice. Twice they picked up a recruit, but Forster refused several who were not already furnished with arms or horses. “Ye can come out later,” he said to these volunteers, “when we’ve taken Newcastle. Then we’ll have gear for foot-soldiers.”
At dusk they reached the Coquet River, crossed it at Hepple, and went to Plainfield moor, a lonely heath some miles west of Rothbury. Here there was already a campfire burning and a party of horsemen were waiting as Forster’s troops rode up.
Charles listened rather absently to the greetings and information from the Coquetdale contingent, none of whom he knew, with the exception of young George Collingwood of Eslington. Some stonemason called Robson seemed to be spokesman, and assured Forster that the little town of Rothbury was chiefly Jacobite and therefore quite safe to use as headquarters. That enough lodging for all had been commandeered, and it was thus not necessary to camp on this comfortless moor.
While the parley was in progress, Charles kept gazing across the Coquet to the jagged black outline of the Simonside Hills. The highest peak was Tosson. And beneath it--not three miles from here -- the Snowdon peel huddled in its narrow glen. I have a wife and child there, Charles thought. An incongruity which moved him to painful amusement. And he stared again across the river.
“Come along, Charlie,” said James in surprise, seeing by the firelight an odd expression on his brother’s face. “We’re off to Rothbury for the night. What ails you, are you weary?”
Charles started to explain, then thought better of it. James had quite enough to worry him without reminder of his brother’s predicament. Besides, Charles had just made a decision, and did not wish to provoke a restraining command.
The whole company rode along the Coquet into Rothbury, where the men of rank were quartered at the Three Half Moons next the church. Others went to the Black Bull, and the rest were bedded down in various lodgings.
The Earl had a room to himself up under the inn’s thatching, and Charles was relieved when James, after eating and drinking moderately, said that he would retire. “You’ve a bed with the Swinburne lads, haven’t you? Mind you don’t get drunk, Charles. We’ve a hard march to Warkworth tomorrow. And leave the town lasses be!”
“Aye, my lord,” said Charles grinning. He glanced into the crowded taproom, where Forster was waving a tankard and singing “Though Geordie Reigns in Jamie’s Stead,” and “The Wee Wee German Lairdie” at the top of his lungs. Then Charles slipped around to the inn kitchen and asked for Alec Armstrong, his valet.
Alec, with his mouth full of oatcake, ran to his master. “Are ye ready for bed, sir?”
“No. Saddle a horse and fetch me a lantern.”
“Shall I come?” asked Alec eagerly, and when Charles shook his head, he added, “Ye’ll be prudent, sir? Might be dangerous to ride out.”
“Bosh,” said Charles. “This junket’s like no war I ever heard of. Tame as milk. Don’t wait up for me.”
Charles rode unnoticed out of Rothbury, where the two inns and many houses were crammed with noisy celebrating Jacobites. He crossed the bridge and turned west for Tosson. The road was good so far, he had fitful moonlight and the lantern to guide him, also his excellent memory of the silent ride along this road with John Snowdon on the way back to Dilston. When he came to a farmhouse at Ryehill, the farmer’s wife, though obviously startled, acceded to his courteous insistence and gave him further directions.
In a while he turned south up a cart track and followed a burn until it reached the moors, and he saw ahead the dark boxy shape of the Snowdon peel. Intermingled with the gurgle of a little cascade he heard the droning of the small-pipes and the sound of a boyish voice singing. As Charles’s horse clopped up, a big shock-haired lad ran out from the cow-byre in the peel, crying, “Wot the de’il do ye want here, stranger?”
Charles raised his lantern and with some surprise recognized Rob Wilson, but before he could speak, the door above the stone steps opened and Meg called down sharply, “What i’st, Rob? Who’s belaw?”
“It’s Charles Radcliffe, Meg,” said Charles guiding his horse to the foot of the steps. “I’ve come to see you and the child.”
He saw her stiffen, and put her hand to the doorpost. She flung a quick look over her shoulder into the room behind. Then she shut the door behind her and came down the steps. Charles dismounted and waited for her. She seemed much older, almost gaunt. Her brown hair hung in wisps on her shoulders. Her feet were bare, and filthy.
“Gan awa’,” she said in a tense breathless voice. “Ye mustna come here. Ye’re one o’ the Jack rebels, one o’ the foul traitors who’re o’errunning Coquetdale.”
&n
bsp; Charles controlled a spurt of anger. “And if I am one of those who ride for King James, yet I have a right to see my wife and my child.”
She shook her head and interlaced her fingers tight in the way he remembered. “Faither’d kill ye gin he found ye here! He’d kill ye. M’brothers would too. Kill any rebel like a dog.”
“Where are your menfolk?” asked Charles dryly.
“Up i’ the hills bringing down the sheep. Oh gan awa’ -- and leave us be. We’ve all forgot ye lang syne.”
“I’ll leave when I’ve seen Jenny,” said Charles. “Meg, I used to think you gentle and just. You have altered indeed. You’ve grown harsh like your father.”
“That’s naught to you.” She lifted her chin, and her face was somber in the flickering light.
“Let him see his bairn, Meg,” said Rob Wilson suddenly, from the shadows by the byre. “I’ll keep watch belaw here, an’ warn ye gin I hear the men.”
Meg turned on Rob furiously. “Oh, ye’re besotted over the bairn! Ye think our life here’s not good enow fur her! Na doubt ye’d like Jenny to mince around in silks an’ satins!”
Charles was startled and glanced at the boy, but this was no time for wonderings. And he spoke in cold determination. “I insist upon my right to see my daughter, and will do so, Meg -- whether you wish it or no.” He started to push her aside and mount the stairs, but she made a rough sound in her throat, let her hands fall open and led the way silently. They entered the square dark room, which smelled stronger than ever of peat smoke and dung and mutton fat. A tallow dip flickered on the clumsy table. In the corner cubicle boarded off from the room, the five-year-old child slept on a straw-stuffed pallet. Charles held his lantern high and walked into the tiny room. Meg made a quick restraining gesture, then checked it.