“I agree,” said Charles eagerly.
“Pen and paper, Mr. Secretary!”
It at once became clear, however, that Murray had
taken the measure of the men he had to deal with.
“Why make flesh of one and fish of another?”
asked O’Sullivan, and old Sir Thomas nodded
approval of the question.
“The decision should be the decision of the
Council,” said the Duke of Perth.
“Will ye write your names to it, or will ye
not?” demanded Murray.
No one spoke.
“That settles it, sir,” said Murray.
“But I desire you, Mr. Secretary, to make a
note of my offer and its reception.”
“Have your way!” said Charles, in sullen
anger. “But it settles another thing for
ye. I call no more councils.”
He turned and strode out of the room. The Stuart
cause was in its coffin, and it only remained for
us to give it a fair burial.
When the door closed behind the Prince, the Colonel
whispered in my ear, “Slip off and tell Freake!”
I did the journey at a run, and found Master Freake
sitting, quietly meditative, but booted and spurred
for his journey.
“Well, Oliver?”
“We go back to-night.”
In five minutes I was standing in the Ironmarket at
his grey mare’s head.
“I’m not deserting you, lad,” said
he, gripping my hand heartily.
“Of course not, sir. Good-bye, and good
luck!”
“My love to Margaret. Look out for the
sergeant. Good-bye!”
A BROTHER OF THE LAMP
Two days afterwards, towards six o’clock on
a bitter evening, I rode wearily into Leek. I
was having a hard apprenticeship in soldiering under
a master who had no idea of sparing either me or himself.
For the Colonel had accepted the post of second, under
Murray, in command of our rear-guard, and had made
it a condition of acceptance that I should be with
him. Some thirty Highlanders, mostly Macdonalds,
picked dare-devils, had been mounted and turned into
dragooners, and I, thanks to the Colonel, had been
made Captain over them.
“The lad’s no experience, but he’s
got sense,” he said to my lord George Murray.
“I ken him weel aneugh,” said his lordship.
“He threatened to knock my head off. D’ye
ca’ that sense, Kit Waynflete?”
“Since your head’s still on your shoulders,”
said the Colonel, fumbling for his snuff, “I
do. He knocked Maclachlan’s Donald into
a log of timber, and, damme, I hardly saw his hand
move.”
“That’s only a trick, sir,” I protested.
“Weel, Captain Wheatman,” said Murray,
“keep your ugly English tricks to y’rsel.
Mind ye, colonel or no colonel, I’ll break ye
first chance ye gie me.”
Maclachan was, I must say, very obliging and complimentary
over my promotion. He gave me Donald to be my
sergeant and personal servant, finding him, how I
knew not, a horse strong enough to carry him easily.
