She flicked the mare sharply and cantered up to the
level, whither Maclachlan raced after her with the
speed of a hound.
BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE
On our way into the town a thing happened which greatly
shook me, being, as I was, nothing in the world but
a small farmer who had never seen the wars. At
a point where the rough road cut across a fold in the
moorlands we saw, half a mile to our right, a herd
of cattle being lashed and chivvied away to the remoter
crannies among the hills by a throng of sweating hinds
and fanners. Had it happened our way, thought
I broodily, Joe and I would be there among the like,
saving our own stock from the marauders. Donald
looked at them longingly, but our haste brooked no
delay, and besides, as he put it to me later, “It’s
a puir town, but, after a’ said, better than
a wheen lousy cattle, for I’ve come by a fine
pair o’ progues for a twa-three bawbees.”
Leek was as full of Highlanders as a wasp-cake is
of maggots, and still they were swarming in.
Donald and the clansmen, indifferent to the crush
and hubbub, clave a way for us to the market-place,
where, on the Colonel’s advice, they were dismissed
to beat for billets. I then took charge and led
my companions across to the “Angel,” where
the throng was so dense that they might have been
giving the ale away.
To get the horses stabled and baited was easy enough,
for few of the Highlanders rode south, although it
was different going north again. Then, leading
my companions into the yard, I pushed into the inn
and, by good hap, lighted on the host, nearly out
of his five wits with trying to understand one word
of English in a score of Gaelic.
“Hello, surry!” said I.
“Gom!” said he, “Staffordsheer at
last.”
“I’ve heard a lot about Leek ale,”
said I. “Draw me a mug of it!”
He brought it in a trice, and his face beamed with
honest pride as he said, holding it up between my
eyes and the light, “What do you think o’
that for colour and nap? Damn my bones! None
of your London rot-gut, master, but honest Staffordsheer
ale. Damme, you can fairly chew the malt in it.”
“I’ll bet you a guinea I’ve drunk
better,” said I, with the aleyard at my lips.
“I’d bet on my own ale,” said he,
“if the ‘Angel’ was full of devils
let alone petticoats. An’, as between friends,
y’r ’onour, win or lose, dunna tell my
missus you’ve ’ad better ale than ourn.”
I drank off his ale and said judiciously, “No,
I haven’t. That’s the best ale I’ve
ever drunk,” and handed him his guinea.
“This’n’s a bit of fat along with
the lean,” said he, spinning the guinea up in
the air, and, countrywise, spitting on it for luck.
“Be there owt I can do for y’r, sir?
A gentleman as knows good ale when he drinks it shudna
be neglected for a lot of bare-legged savages that
’anna as much judgment in beer as a sow ’as
in draff.” He leaned towards me and added
in a whisper, “I’m giving ’em bouse
I wudna wesh my mare’s fetlocks in, an’
they’re neckin’ it as if it was my rale
October.”
