he hardly spoke, and now and then would groan lamentably. The weather
was mist and driving rain, and the travellers' prospect was little
beyond the puddles of the road and the wet glistening stone of the
roadside dykes. That night they had risen into the hills, where the
snow lay in the hollows and at the dyke-backs, and slept at a wretched
hovel of a smithy on a bed of bracken. The smith, a fellow with a
week's beard and red-rimmed eyes, gave the news of the place. The
Scots, he had heard, had passed Macclesfield the night before, and all
day the militia, horsed by the local squires, had been scouting the
moors picking up breechless stragglers. He did not appear to suspect
his sullen visitors, who proclaimed their hurry to reach Manchester on
an errand of trade.
Thereafter to both men the journey was a nightmare. In Manchester,
where they slept a night, the mob was burning Charles in effigy and
hiccuping "George is magnanimous"--that mob which some weeks before had
worn white favours and drunk damnation to Hanover. They saw a few
miserable Highlanders, plucked from the tail of the army, in the hands
of the town guard, and a mountebank in a booth had got himself up in a
parody of a kilt and sang ribaldry to a screaming crowd. They heard,
too, of the Government troops hard on the trail, Wade cutting in from
the east by the hill roads, Cumberland hastening from the south,
Bland's and Cobham's regiments already north of the town, mounted
yeomen to guard the fords and bridges, and beacons blazing on every
hill to raise the country.
"The Prince must halt and fight," Alastair told his companion as they
rode out of Manchester next morning. "With this hell's pack after him
he will be smothered unless he turn and tear them. Lord George will
command the rear-guard, and I am positive he will stand at Preston.
Ribble ford is the place. You may yet witness a battle, and have the
chance of fleshing that blade of yours."
But when they came to Preston--by circuitous ways, for they had to keep
up the pretence of timid travellers, and the main road was too thick
with alarums--they found the bridge held by dragoons. Here they were
much catechised, and, having given Newcastle as their destination, were
warned that the northern roads into Yorkshire were not for travellers
and bidden go back to Manchester. The Prince, it seemed, was at
Lancaster, and Lord George and the Glengarry men and the Appin Stewarts
half-way between that town and Preston.
That night Alastair implored Johnson to return. "We are on the edge of
battle," he told him, "and I beseech you to keep away from what can
only bring you ruin." But the other was obstinate. "I will see you at
any rate on the eve of joining your friends," he said, "We have yet to
reach Ramoth-Gilead."
The Preston dragoons were too busy on their own affairs to give much
heed to two prosaic travellers. Alastair and Johnson stole out of the
town easily enough next morning, and making a wide circuit to the west
joined the Lancaster road near Garstang. To their surprise the highway
was almost deserted, and they rode into Lancaster without hindrance.
There they found the town in a hubbub, windows shuttered, entries
barricaded, the watch making timid patrols about the streets, and one
half the people looking anxiously south, the other fearfully north to
the Kendal road. The Prince had been there no later than yesterday, and
the rear-guard had left at dawn. News had come that the Duke of
Cumberland was recalled, because of a French landing, and there were
some who said that now the Scots would turn south again and ravage
their way to London.
The news, which he did not believe, encouraged Alastair to mend his
pace. There had been some kind of check in the pursuit, and the Prince
might yet cross the Border without a battle. He believed that this
would be Lord George's aim, who knew his army and would not risk it, if
he could, in a weary defensive action. The speed of march would
therefore be increased, and he must quicken if he would catch them up.
The two waited in Lancaster only to snatch a meal, and then set out by
the Hornby road, intending to fetch a circuit towards Kendal, where it
seemed likely the Prince would lie.
The afternoon was foggy and biting cold, so that Alastair looked for
snow and called on Johnson to hurry before the storm broke. But the
fall was delayed, and up to the darkening they rode in an icy haze
through the confused foothills. The mountains were beginning again, the
hills of bent and heather that he knew; the streams swirled in grey
rock-rimmed pools, the air had the sour, bleak, yet invigorating tang
of his own country. But now he did not welcome it, for it was the
earnest of defeat. He was returning after failure. Nay, he was leaving
his heart buried in the soft South country, which once he had despised.
A wild longing, the perversion of homesickness, filled him for the
smoky brown champaigns and the mossy woodlands which now enshrined the
jewel of Claudia. He had thought that regrets were put away for ever
and that he had turned his eyes stonily to a cold future, but he had
forgotten that he was young.
In the thick weather they came from the lanes into a broader high road,
and suddenly found their progress stayed. A knot of troopers bade them
halt, and unslung their muskets. They were fellows in green jackets,
mounted on shaggy country horses, and they spoke with the accent of the
Midlands. Alastair repeated his tale, and was informed that their
orders were to let no man pass that road and to take any armed and
mounted travellers before the General. He asked their regiment and was
told that it was the Rangers, a corps of gentlemen volunteers. The men
were cloddish but not unfriendly, and, suspecting that the corps was
some raw levy of yokels commanded by some thickskulled squire, Alastair
bowed to discretion and bade them show the way to the General's
quarters.
But the moorland farmhouse to which they were led awoke his doubts. The
sentries had the trimness of a headquarters guard, and the horses he
had a glimpse of in the yard were not the screws or cart-horses of the
ordinary yeoman. While they waited in the low-ceiled kitchen he had
reached the conclusion that in the General he would find some regular
officer of Wade's or Cumberland's command, and as he bowed his head to
enter the parlour he had resolved on his line of conduct.
But he was not prepared for the sight of Oglethorpe; grim, aquiline,
neat as a Sunday burgess, who raised his head from a mass of papers,
stared for a second and then smiled.
"You have brought me a friend, Roger," he told the young lieutenant.
"These gentlemen will be quartered here this night, for the weather is
too thick to travel further; likewise they will sup with me."
When the young man had gone, he held out his hand to Alastair.
"We seem fated to cross each other's path, Mr Maclean."
"I would present to you my friend, Mr Samuel Johnson, sir. This is
General Oglethorpe."
Johnson stared at him and then thrust forward a great hand.
"I am honoured, sir, deeply honoured. Every honest man has heard the
name." And he repeated:
"One, driven by strong benevolence of soul,
"Shall fly like Oglethorpe from pole to pole."
The General smiled. "Mr Pope was over-kind to my modest deserts. But,
gentlemen, I am in command of a part of His Majesty's forces, and at
this moment we are in the region of war. I must request from you some
account of your recent doings and your present purpose. Come forward to
the fire, for it is wintry weather. And stay! Your Prince's steward has
been scouring the country for cherry brandy, to which it seems His
Highness is partial. But all has not been taken." He filled two glasses
from a decanter at his elbow.
Looking at the rugged face and the grave kindly eyes, Alastair resolved
that it was a case for a full confession. He told of his doings at
Brightwell after the meeting with Oglethorpe at the Sleeping Deer, and
of the fate of Mr Nicholas Kyd, but he made no mention of Sir John
Norreys. He told of his ride to Derby, and what he had found on the
Ashbourne road. It is possible that there was a break in his voice, for
Oglethorpe averted his eyes and shook his head.
"I cannot profess to regret a failure which it is my duty to ensure,"
he said, "but I can pity a brave man who sees his hopes destroyed. And
now, sir? What course do you shape?"
"I must pursue the poor remains of my duty. I go to join my Prince."
"And it is my business to prevent you!"
Alastair looked at him composedly. "Nay, sir, I do not think that such
can be your duty. It might be Cumberland's or Wade's, but not
Oglethorpe's, for you can understand another loyalty than your own, and
I do not think you will interfere with mine. I ask only to go back to
my own country. I will give you my word that I will not strike a blow
in England."
Again Oglethorpe smiled. "You read my heart with some confidence, sir.
If I were to detain you, what would be the charge? You have not yet
taken arms against His Majesty. Of your political doings I have no
experience: to me you are a gentleman travelling to Scotland, who has
on one occasion rendered good service to myself and so to His Majesty.
That is all which, as a soldier, I am concerned to know. You will have
quarters for the night, and tomorrow, if you desire it, continue your
journey. But I must stipulate that the road you follow is not that of
the Prince's march. You will not join his army till it is north of Esk."
Alastair bowed. "I am content."
"But your friend," Oglethorpe continued. "This Mr Samuel Johnson who
quotes so appositely the lines of Mr Pope. He is an Englishman, and is
in another case. I cannot permit Mr Johnson to cross the Border."
"He purposes to keep me company," said Alastair, "till I have joined
the Prince."
"Nay, sir," cried Johnson. "You have been honest with us, and I will be
honest with you. My desire is to join the Prince and fight by my
friend's side."
Oglethorpe looked at the strange figure, below the skirts of whose old
brown coat peeped a scabbard. "You seem," he said, "to have fulfilled
the scriptural injunction 'He that hath no sword, let him sell his
garment and buy one.' But, sir, it may not be. I would not part two
friends before it is necessary, but you will give me your parole that
you will not enter Scotland, or I must hold you prisoner and send you
to Manchester."
Johnson turned to Alastair and put a hand on his shoulder.
"It seems that Providence is on your side, my friend, and has
intervened to separate us. That was your counsel, but it was never
mine. . . . So be it, then." He walked to the window and seemed to
be in trouble with his dingy cravat.
* * * * * *
Next morning when Oglethorpe's Rangers began their march towards Shap,
the two travellers set out by an easterly road, forded the Lune and
made for the Eden valley. The rains filled the streams and mosses, and
their progress was slow, so that for days they were entangled among the
high Cumbrian hills. News of the affair at Clifton, where Lord George
beat off Cumberland's van and saved the retreat, came to them by a
packman in a herd's sheiling on Cross Fell, and after that their
journey was clear down the Eden, till the time came to avoid Carlisle
and make straight across country for Esk. The last night they lay at an
ale-house on the Lyneside, and Alastair counted thirty guineas from his
purse.
"With this I think you may reach London," he told Johnson, and when the
latter expostulated, he bade him consider it a loan. "If I fall, it is
my bequest to you; and if I live, then we shall assuredly meet again
and you can repay me. I would fain make it more, but money is likely to
be a scarce commodity in yonder army."
"You have a duty clear before you," said the other dismally. "For me, I
have none such; I would I had. But I will seek no opiates in a life of
barbarism. I am resolved to spend what days the Almighty may still
allot me on the broad highway of humanity. When I have found my task I
will adhere to it like a soldier."
Next morning they rode to a ridge beneath which the swollen Esk poured
through the haughlands. It was a day of flying squalls, and the great
dales of Esk and Annan lay mottled with sun-gleams and purple shadows
up to the dark hills, which, chequered with snow, defended the way to
the north. Further down Alastair's quick eye noted a commotion on the
river banks, and dark objects bobbing in the stream.
"See," he cried, "His Highness is crossing. We have steered skilfully,
for I enter Scotland by his side."
"Is that Scotland?" Johnson asked, his shortsighted eyes peering at the
wide vista.
"Scotland it is, and somewhere over yon hills lies Ramoth-Gilead."
Alastair's mind had in these last days won a certain peace, and now at
the sight of the army something quickened in him that had been dead
since the morning on the Ashbourne road. Youth was waking from its
winter sleep. The world had become coloured again, barriers were down,
roads ran into the future. Hazard seemed only hazard now and not
despair. Suddenly came the sound of wild music, as the pipers struck up
the air of "Bundle and go." The strain rose far and faint and elfin,
like a wandering wind, and put fire into his veins.
"That is the march for the road," Alastair cried. "Now I am for my own
country."
"And I for mine," said Johnson, but there was no spring in his voice.
He rubbed his eyes, peered in the direction of the music, and made as
if to unbuckle his sword. Then he thought better of it. "Nay, I will
keep the thing to nurse my memory," he said.
The two men joined hands; and Alastair, in his foreign fashion, kissed
the other on the cheek. As they mounted, a shower enveloped them, and
the landscape was blotted out, so that the two were isolated in a world
of their own.
"We are naked men," said Johnson. "Each must go up to his own
Ramoth-Gilead, but I would that yours and mine had been the same."
Then he turned his horse and rode slowly southward into the rain.
_Postscript_
Thus far Mr Derwent's papers.
With the farewell on the Cumberland moor Alastair Maclean is lost to us
in the mist. Of the nature of Ramoth-Gilead let history tell; it is too
sad a tale for the romancer. But one is relieved to know that he did
not fall at Culloden, or swing like so many on Haribee outside the
walls of Carlisle. For the Editor has been so fortunate as to discover
a further document, after a second search among Mr Derwent's archives,
a document in the handwriting of Mr Samuel Johnson himself; and there
seems to be the strongest presumption that it was addressed to Alastair
at some town in France, for there is a mention of hospitality shown one
Alan Maclean who had crossed the Channel with a message and was on the
eve of returning. There is no superscription, the letter begins "My
dear Sir," and the end is lost; but since it is headed "Gough Square,"
and contains a reference to the writer's beginning work on his great
dictionary, the date may be conjectured to be 1748. Unfortunately the
paper is much torn and discoloured, and only one passage can be given
with any certainty of correctness. I transcribe it as a memorial of a
friendship which was to colour the thoughts of a great man to his dying
day and which, we may be assured, left an impress no less indelible
upon the mind of the young Highlander.
". . . I send by your kinsman the second moiety of the loan which you
made me at our last meeting, for I assume that, like so many of your
race and politics now in France, you are somewhat in straits for money.
I do assure you that I can well afford to make the repayment, for I
have concluded a profitable arrangement with the booksellers for the
publication of an English dictionary, and have already received a
considerable sum in advance. . . .
"I will confess to you, my dear sir, that often in moments of leisure
and in quiet places, my memory traverses our brief Odyssey, and I am
moved again with fear and hope and the sadness of renunciation. You
say, and I welcome your generosity, that from me you acquired something
of philosophy; from you I am bound to reply that I learned weighty
lessons in the conduct of our mortal life. You taught me that a man can
be gay and yet most resolute, and that a Christian is not less capable
of fortitude than an ancient Stoic. The recollection of that which we
encountered together lives in me to warm my heart when it is cold, and
to restore in dark seasons my trust in my fellow men. The end was a
proof, if proof were wanted, of the vanity of human wishes, but sorrow
does not imply failure, and my memory of it will not fade till the hour
of death and the day of judgment. . . .
"I have been at some pains to collect from my friends in Oxford news of
my lady N----. You will rejoice to hear that she does well. Her
husband, who has now a better name in the shire, is an ensample of
marital decorum and treats her kindly, and she has been lately blessed
with a male child. That, I am confident, is the tidings which you
desire to hear, for your affection for that lady has long been purged
of any taint of selfishness, and you can rejoice in her welfare as in
that of a sister. But I do not forget that you have buried your heart
in that monument to domestic felicity. Our Master did not place us in
this world to win even honest happiness, but to shape and purify our
immortal souls, and sorrow must be the companion of the noblest
endeavour. Like the shepherd in Virgil you grew at last acquainted with
Love, and found him a native of the rocks. . . ."
THE END
_Made and Printed in Great Britain,
Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld. London and Aylesbury._