And why, if the Government forces were so anxious to change sides, did no message come from them, nor any inkling of their precise whereabouts?
James was inclined to share Forster’s annoyance at these questions, and therefore avoided the Scottish earl.
On Saturday morning, November 12, the weather still being fine, James and Charles decided to exercise their troop in a meadow on the far side of the river Ribble. They extricated their men from the various lodgings, bawdyhouses, and taverns with some difficulty, and here Alec Armstrong, Charles’s knowing valet, was useful. By ten o’clock Alec had rounded up the last straggler and Charles, galloping back and forth, had got the foot into fine and ready to drill when James called, “Hark!”
Charles rode up to him and listened. Faint on the south wind they heard in the distance toward Wigan the tramp of marching feet, and a drum beating. “‘Tis the Government army come to join us!” James cried happily. “We’ll go meet them!”
Charles frowned, uncertain, and felt a tug at his boot. He looked down to see Alec standing there. “Don’t go, sir,” cried the valet vehemently. “Don’t let his lordship go!”
“Why not?” asked James sternly, wheeling his horse to face the valet. “What’s wrong?”
“I believe they’re coming to attack us, my lord. There’s a whore in the White Bull was boasting this morn that she’d been in Wigan the night before, and General Wills was planning to surprise us. I didn’t believe her, but--”
James swallowed. Before he could speak, Charles cried “Wait here!” and was off in a flash, galloping across the meadow and into a sheltering copse. He came back in twenty minutes. “They’re against us, James!” he cried, his eyes aglow. “I got near enough to see them -- the vanguard of the Royal Dragoons near Walton-le-Dale -- marching slow but sure, and they saw my white cockade and shot at me.”
James swallowed again, then his small erect body stiffened. “Hurry! Flee back to town!” he shouted to their men. “You, Colingwood and Thornton, come here, ride with me to protect the foot. Charles, go on ahead, give the alarm!”
Charles nodded and sped off, across the bridge into town, and galloped to the Mitre, where he found that Patten had already given Forster the news. Forster was slumped in a dressing gown, his nightcap askew, for he had been dragged out of bed. As Charles ran in, Brigadier Mackintosh was standing rigid, while Patten was shaking Forster’s shoulders and crying, “I tell you ‘tis true, sir! Wills is marching to attack Preston -- another of our messengers just slipped in!”
“Aye, ‘tis true!” Charles shouted into Forster’s gaping, pop-eyed face. “I’ve just seen ‘em. In the name of God send men to the bridge! Block the bridge!”
Forster swayed his head slowly like a bewildered bull. “But ye said they wouldn’t attack!” he muttered, glaring at Patten. “Everybody said so. They’ll not fight for Geordie. We was told that.”
“They are attacking, you fool!” Charles shouted. “Get off your fat bum and give orders. Or I will!”
Tom transferred his bloodshot glare to Charles. “How dare ye speak --” he began, then the meaning of these warnings penetrated. He sat up, beads of sweat dotted his forehead. “Where’s Oxburgh?” he cried in a high, squeaking voice. “Get me Oxburgh!”
“Nae time,” said Mackintosh grimly. “I’ve some o’ m’Scots outside. I’ll to the brig wi’ ‘em. How fast’re they coming?” he said to Charles.
“Slowly,” said Charles. “I saw only the vanguard. I suppose they’ll wait for Wills. We’ll have an hour anyway.”
Mackintosh glanced at Forster, who nodded shakily. “Do as ye like,” he mumbled. The Brigadier and Charles ran out of the inn together.
In the ensuing desperate confusion, and lacking any orders from their commander-in-chief, it was each officer for himself and his troops, though Mackintosh took charge and directed the tactics as best he could. And they had time, mercifully, for their preparations. The enemy did come slowly. General Wills expected a battle at the Ribble Bridge, which was a mile from Preston, and he waited far from the riverbank until all his mounted and foot dragoons were assembled. Then he formed his troops into a wedge and prepared to assault the bridge. His dragoons fired several shots and ran up to the bridge with bayonets fixed.
The bridge was totally undefended, which greatly puzzled General Wills. Nor was there any sniping from the hedges which lined the narrow lane that led to town. Unopposed, the Government forces marched towards Preston.
Earlier Brigadier Mackintosh had changed his mind about defending the bridge, saying that his Highlanders were no good at a mass maneuver against heavy horse, also that holding the bridge was futile, since there must be fords, downriver. So, to the anger of Charles and the tight-lipped dismay of James, he ordered the Jacobites to stay in town, where they might barricade the streets and force the Royal Dragoons to dismount for hand-to-hand fighting.
“My God!” Charles cried to James, after they had been told to withdraw into town. “This old Scotchman’s as big a fool as Forster! We could’ve held the bridge.”
“Mackintosh at least is a fighting man, and may know what he’s doing,” James answered. “Never mind that now. Here, give me a hand with this stone, and pile that table here! Faster! Faster!” he cried to his men. His Northumbrians were scurrying about in the street below the church, building a barricade of anything they could find in the neighboring houses -- tables, chairs, bedsteads, sacks of grain. James had flung off his coat, waistcoat, and peruke. In his frilled white shirt, panting a little, he shoved, pushed and hauled with the rest of them. As did Charles.
While they worked Mackintosh dashed from this barricade to the three others he had ordered built across the streets at different sites. Presently he galloped back to James’s barrier. “Guid!” he shouted. “That’ll do! Post some o’ your men i’ the houses, m’lord! They’ll shoot frae the windows, when I gi’e the signal. I’ll see to this barricade m’sel.”
James nodded, and nodded again as Mackintosh told him to go to the churchyard, which was on high ground, to build entrenchments there, and to maintain as replacements a force of men not already stationed elsewhere.
In the churchyard they found the Scottish lords Kenmure, Nithsdale, and Winton. “So ye’ve brought shovels!” cried Winton, when he saw the Northumbrians. “And can use’em too!” His face broadened in a grin, as he noted the Earl of Derwentwater’s dishevelment, his torn white shirt, his dirty sweat-streaked face, his small scratched and bleeding hands, and saw also that Charles Radcliffe -- even sweatier and dirtier than his brother -- was stripped to the waist.
“Aye, we’re to dig fortifications here,” said James.
“That I can do,” said Winton seizing James’s shovel. “Having blacksmith’s hands. Ye’d do better to encourage the men!”
They were two hours in the churchyard before anything happened, though they heard distant scattered shots. By tacit consent James took command. He went from one trench to the next, praising, cajoling, exhorting the workers as they dug. Once a lad from Hexham turned hysterical and flung down his shovel and gun, blubbering that he wanted none of this, that he wished he was home with his mother.
James clapped him on the shoulder, crying, “Back to work! And when you’ve dug your stint, I’ll give you a sovereign to soothe your mother!” The boy quieted and went to work. There was not one of them in that churchyard, noble or commoner, who did not look to, and derive strength from that small active figure in the torn white shirt. Charles did too, as the tension mounted. The scattered shots came nearer, they watched the Highlanders dragging up a cannon to Mackintosh’s barricade. “And much good it’ll do ‘em,” observed Winton grimly. “I’ll warrant there’s not a soul there knows how to fire it!”
“Look!” cried Charles, pointing. “Strike me dead if it’s not our brave General!” They all stared at Tom’s stout figure in a steel cuirass astride his huge black horse, the cock plumes waving on his laced hat. Forster had fortified himself with several brandies, dr
essed, and sallied from the Mitre. From the churchyard they watched as Forster, brandishing his sword, approached Mackintosh and shouted something in obvious fury.
“Go see what’s ado, Charles,” James said, and his brother ran to obey. He soon came back and reported. “Forster’s trying to countermand all Mackintosh’s orders. Wants Mackintosh to lead a charge now. Mackintosh refused. Says it would be mad. Cut him off from the body of his horsemen in the marketplace. Forster said he’d have him court-martialed when this was over.”
Nobody said anything. Silently they watched Forster shake his fist, then gallop back towards the Mitre. James went off again to inspect the earthworks, which were nearly ready. Lord Winton went to join his fellow Scottish peers in the church porch. Old Kenmure’s eyes were shut, his lips moving in prayer. Lord Nithsdale was seated with his naked sword across his knees, staring into space. There was a lull.
Charles was carefully inspecting his pistols, when Alec came up to him carrying a large bundle. “Your clothes, sir,” said the valet gravely. “ ‘Tis not meet for a gentleman to look like a scullion.”
“I expect you’re right,” said Charles, allowing Alec to put on his shirt, ruffled cravat, brown braided coat, tie-wig, and hat. “I’ve his lordship’s attire too,” said Alec pointing to the remaining contents of the bundle. “Since Wesby couldn’t mind them.” James’s servant, Wesby, had been posted at the window of a house overlooking the barricade.
“You’re a good man, Alec,” Charles said suddenly feeling the whole worth of the loyalty he usually took for granted. “We’ve been through many a merry bedroom romp together, but this is different.”
“I was born to serve Radcliffes in any way I can, sir,” said Alec with a moving sincerity quite unlike his usual blitheness. He walked off to find Lord Derwentwater, who was relieved to be properly dressed, now that the strenuous preparations were over. And they waited.
The dragoons charged Mackintosh’s barricade at two o’clock. In the churchyard they could not at first see the onrushing regiment of foot, who were screened by the barrier and the turn of the street, but they heard an outburst of wild battle cries from the Highlanders, and Mackintosh’s bloodcurdling shouts in Gaelic. Then there was a volley of shots, and the red-coated dragoons began assaulting the barricade. “There they are!” said Charles under his breath. His heart pounded with a triumphant excitement. He stood up behind the earthwork, and a bullet whizzed past his head to bury itself in the church wall.
“Down, Charles! Get down!” James shouted.
Charles did not hear him, nor remember the orders that those in the churchyard were to stay under cover, until they were summoned by Mackintosh. Charles leapt from the trench, and ran down the slope to the street, his pistols cocked. As he dashed in among the Scots their cannon went off. The ball went wide, as Winton had prophesied. It knocked down a nearby chimney, yet the explosion served to check for a moment the attack. Wills’s forces had no cannon. During the pause there was constant gunfire from the windows. A dozen of the dragoons fell sprawling on the cobblestones, which turned slimy red. Their brigadier, Honeywood, then called again for attack. They reformed and charged the barrier. Charles saw a pointed hat and scarlet coat clambering to the top between the sheltering angles of furniture. He aimed his pistol and pulled the trigger. The dragoon gave a high thin scream, and falling forward, crumbled near Charles’s feet. The limbs jerked in convulsions, then were still. I killed him! Charles thought in amazement. He’s dead. He was aiming the other pistol when Mackintosh saw him.
“Get ye gone frae here, Radcliffe!” the Brigadier shouted furiously. “Gang back where I told ye to!”
Charles heard this but he did not heed. A Highlander beside him was engaged with a dragoon who had pushed through the now crumbling barricade. The Scot, grunting and drenched with blood from a chest wound, was weakly flailing his opponent with the claymore, while the dragoon, having spent his gunshot, was waiting for a chance to sink home the bayonet. The Scot gasped and fell to his knees. Charles took aim and killed the dragoon. Then there was a skirmish behind him. Charles, whirling, spitted another dragoon on his sword. At last he heeded the Brigadier’s command, since he could not reload here.
As he scrambled up the bank to the churchyard he barely noted a sharp sting in the flesh of his right arm. He jumped down in the trench beside James. “I got three of ‘em!” he cried exultantly. “Where’s the powder? I’ll load again and get more of ‘em!” His eyes were wild with battle lust.
“No, Charles,” said James trying by a voice of angry command to hide the fear he had felt for his brother. “You’ll stay here, until we’re needed -- look, you’re wounded! You damned reckless young idiot!”
Charles looked down at his arm in surprise. His coatsleeve was shredded, blood was spreading over the dark cloth and dripping on the ground. “Just a nick,” said Charles, tossing his head.
“Alec, come here!” called James. The valet was stationed nearby. He came fast, stooping low inside the trench. “Get your master’s coat off, stanch the blood, take him inside the church, and keep him there!” said James.
Charles felt a stab of rage. He wanted to defy James, even to knock him down. Then suddenly came weakness, giddiness, and a wave of nausea. He let Alec shove him into the church.
The bullet had gone clean through the muscles of the upper arm, and just grazed the bone, Alec thought. He applied his own kerchief as tourniquet, and the bleeding presently stopped. Alec gave Charles some brandy from a cask they had hidden earlier, and the giddiness passed. But even Charles was forced to admit that his prowess with pistols or sword was seriously lessened. “I can fight with my left arm,” he said glumly. “I know I can.”
“You’ll not fight again, unless his lordship permits it, sir,” said Alec. “Nor is it needful. We was watching how it went at the barricade. And the enemy’re giving up that spot.”
Charles brightened. They listened a moment to the shots outside, which were fewer and growing more distant. At that moment Patten came running down into the nave from the bell tower, where James had sent him to reconnoiter. The curate’s bumpy, long-nosed face was beaming above the round collar. He gave a shocked exclamation when he saw Charles’s wound, then said, “Take heart, sir. I could see up there that the enemy’s retreating from all the barricades. Wills has ordered them out of town. He’s not got many men, either. Not near as many as we have!” He rushed from the church to report to Lord Derwentwater.
There was little more fighting that day. The wounded were gathered up and conveyed to the White Bull, where there was a surgeon of sorts. The dead were piled behind the churchyard for burial later. The Jacobites were triumphant. They found only fifteen of their men lying dead in the streets, and they found 130 dragoons.
At dusk, having as a last resort set fire to some houses in a spot which would prevent the Jacobites from attacking, Wills encamped his much weakened forces near the Ribble Bridge outside Preston.
In the Mitre taproom there was qualified rejoicing. Mackintosh received warm congratulations from his fellow Scots, and from James; while Forster, at the moment half sober, did nothing but berate him shrilly for not defending the bridge, for not leading a charge against the enemy. “And I’m still your general, I’ll have ye know,” Tom shouted, banging a rolled parchment on the table. “D’ye need to see again me commission from King James himself?”
“I dinna need to,” said the Brigadier sullenly, “but this verra morn ye had nae plans yoursel’, ye told me to tak’ charge. I’ve done as I thought fit, an’ canna see aught to regret.” He stalked out of the room to write a letter to Lord Mar in Scotland reporting the day’s victory. The other Scots followed him.
“Insolent knave,” remarked Lord Widdrington languidly of Mackintosh. Widdrington had been carried down from his chamber and sat drinking soup, with his gouty foot on a stool. He knew nothing of the day’s event, except what Forster had told him. And he had been much annoyed by the noise in the streets; it had made his head a
che.
Forster’s purple flush faded. His mood suddenly rocketed to elation. “Tomorrow,” he said, laughing, his piggy eyes roving happily from Widdrington to Patten and Colonel Oxburgh, “ye’ll see real generalship! Charge the enemy! Wipe ‘em out. That’s what we’ll do --eh, Oxburgh?”
“No doubt, sir,” said the Colonel in a flat muted voice, which satisfied Forster but clearly conveyed to James the Colonel’s hopeless view of their general. Oxburgh had been fighting that afternoon at the windmill barricade, after finding Forster snoring drunkenly in the Mitre at noon.
Still, James thought, they could do without Forster. See, how well the day had gone! Tomorrow, please God, would see their troubles over. “Get some rest, Charles,” he said to his brother, who looked a bit feverish. “I’m sure your wound troubles you, though you won’t admit it.”
‘‘It’s nothing,” said Charles. Then he gave a deep contented sigh. “D’you think I mind a little thing like this, when we have at last done battle and won? You were right, James, to think the Stuart doom has lifted.”
SEVEN
The long black November night gave way to a cold dark morning. Charles and James had dozed fitfully, alert against any untoward move by the enemy, but there was no sound near the Mitre, nothing to be seen except a distant red glow from the burning houses.
The town was still hushed when the brothers went downstairs and found Patten munching on a lump of bacon. The curate looked up as they entered. For a second James fancied he saw a sly look in the near-set eyes, yet as the man jumped to his feet, bowing, his knobbly face showed nothing but welcome. “More good news, my lord!” he said. “I’ve been out to reconnoiter, got right into the enemy camp on pretense of needing their chaplain. They’ve lost heart, and are fleeing from us. Must be across the Ribble by now.”