Devil Water (26 page)

“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 ache.

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.”

“What excellent news indeed,” said James, while Charles broke in with heat, “But, Holy Mary --aren’t we going
after
‘em?”

The curate gave him an indulgent smile. “Later, perhaps, when we’ve all breakfasted and aligned our forces -- so the General says. Plenty of time.”

Charles scowled, then shrugged. His arm throbbed, and though he had been ready for the expected charge he knew he could not have acquitted himself well. He reached for a sausage from the platter the serving maid had banged on the table. James stopped him. “Wait,” he said. “ ‘Tis Sunday, Charlie. And we must go to Mass, take the sacrament. A Mass of thanksgiving it shall be.”

“Yes, to be sure, my lord. There’s a priest called Littleton at the White Bull,” the curate said helpfully, “has been tending to the wounded Catholics.”

“Thank you,” said James, chiding himself for his unreasonable distrust of this man, who had done nothing to warrant it. Charles sighed and relinquished thoughts of breakfast as yet. They went out and down the street to the White Bull. At the inn they found the priest in a small room with two wounded Lancashire men. One had a bayonet gash through his bowels, and the other’s leg had been amputated by the surgeon. Both were dying, and Father Littleton was preparing to administer the last rites.

James and Charles withdrew to wait. “Thank God,” said the Earl, “that we’ve lost none of
our
men. I think I couldn’t bear to bring mourning to any of my people at Dilston.”

“Aye -- Lady Luck is with us!” said Charles, who had recovered his usual spirits and amused himself, while they waited, by waving through the window at a girl who scuttled by.

At last the priest was ready, and said that he would like to celebrate Mass in his own chapel, though it was situated on the Ribble side of town, rather near the enemy camp, and to go there would be dangerous. James assured him that it wasn’t. That there was nothing more to fear from General Wills. The priest’s eyes shone with happy tears, his earnest face reddened with relief, while he said, “The Blessed Virgin has then granted all our prayers!”

They walked through back lanes and dark smoky streets to a tiny hidden chapel, where a handful of Mr. Littleton’s parishioners were waiting patiently.

An hour later they left the chapel, and James was exalted. The priest had done full justice to the beautiful thanksgiving Mass, and in his sermon he had pointed out that this November 13 was the Feast of St. Didacus, a humble lay-brother who in his own life had shown how God’s Divine Providence could choose the weak things of the world to confound the strong. So it had proved for them gathered here now -- the Defenders of the True Faith, of the True King -- on this day of rejoicing. Even Charles had been powerfully moved, and had taken the sacrament with a contrite and grateful heart.

Once in the street again the brothers walked in contented silence until they heard the clop of hoofs, and Charles, peering ahead towards the rider, said sharply, “Who’s that coming?”

“Colonel Oxburgh?” said James squinting. “He must be searching for the chapel.”

“I don’t think so,” said Charles holding his breath as he stared. “What’s that he’s carrying? What’s that white thing on his arm?”

James looked again, and saw what Charles’s stronger eyes had already seen. Oxburgh, in his full dress military uniform, his chin sunk on his chest, carried a small white flag, and had a white band tied around his sleeve. James stepped into the street directly in front of Oxburgh’s oncoming horse and cried, “Halt!”

The Colonel pulled up the horse, his face remained expressionless. “Good day, my lord,” he murmured.

“Where are you going?” James demanded, catching the horse’s bridle. “Why do you carry a white flag?”

There was silence in the street, broken only by the switching of the horse’s tail and the clatter of a pan from behind a shuttered window. Then Oxburgh spoke in a toneless voice. “I am going, my lord, at General Forster’s command, to see what terms I can get.”

“Terms?” James repeated. “I don’t understand you. Terms from whom?”

“From King George’s army, from General Wills and General Carpenter.”

“But you’re mad!” Charles shouted. “Wills has retreated with all his men, and Carpenter’s up in Scotland.”

“General Carpenter is
here,
Radcliffe. With near three thousand fresh dragoons, he arrived two hours ago to join Wills, who was waiting for him. We are now surrounded. General Forster has ordered me to ask for surrender terms.”

James stood rooted, his hand trembling on the bridle. There was rushing as of water in his ears, while Charles made a gasping noise like a sob. “I’ll kill him,” Charles whispered. “I’ll kill the whoreson buggering coward -- but
you
first, Oxburgh!” Frantically, with his good arm, Charles struggled to get at his pistol. He hauled it from the holster and James knocked it out of his hand. “No, Charles!”

Charles turned furiously on his brother. ‘“No, Charles. No, Charles.’ Damn you, is that all you can say! You’d let this bastard tamely trot off begging for surrender terms? You’d let that bloated farting toad up there at the Mitre bring shame on us, like this? Well, by God,
I
won’t!” Charles flung wildly around, picked up the pistol, stumbled, then righting himself began to run towards the Mitre.

“He’ll kill Forster, if he can,” said James in a voice as toneless as Oxburgh’s.

“Others have already tried this morning,” answered the Colonel. “But Forster’s well guarded. My lord, stand aside, I must continue my mission.”

“I forbid it!” James looked up at Oxburgh; his eyes held the cold gray authority born from generations of ruling. Oxburgh’s own glance wavered. He turned away, while he said, “Be reasonable, my lord. Leaderless as we are, inexperienced in real war as most of us are, we’d be cut to pieces now, if we fought. You don’t want all your men massacred, do you?”

“Then we will barricade ourselves in town and take them on as we did yesterday,” James said after a moment in which he tried to think.

“We cannot, my lord. The town isn’t provisioned for a siege, and we’ve only a few more rounds of powder left. They’ve trapped us. If we surrender now, for sure they’ll give us honorable terms, and King George is known to be clement!”

“So it’s ‘King George’ from you now!” James cried, his nostrils dinting, his cheeks going white. “You sang a very different tune in Dilston! What of King
James?
What will
he
say when news of this degraded treachery reaches him in Scotland!”

Oxburgh’s shoulders slumped. He shut his eyes for an instant. “King James has not left France,” he said very low. “An express came from Lord Mar yestermorn. Just before the battle.”