The flight of the heron, p.12
The Flight of the Heron, page 12
part #1 of The Jacobite Trilogy Series
And after a few minutes the Prince became aware of his aide-de-camp’s attitude. He turned his head.
‘What a plague ails you, Captain Cameron, standing there like a grenadier! Sit down, man, and do not so insult our hostess’s excellent vintage.’
‘I had rather, with Your Highness’s and Lady Easterhall’s leave,’ replied Captain Cameron, ‘post myself in some part of the house hence I can get a view of the approach to it. Does not the close run up towards the Castle Hill, madam?’
‘You are very nervous, sir,’ commented O’Sullivan, half-sneeringly. ‘Why should the nearness of the Castle trouble Lady Easterhall, since his Royal Highness’s presence cannot possibly be known there? And of what use is the guard at the Weigh-house—your own clansmen, too—if they cannot prevent the garrison from coming out?’
But Lady Easterhall herself seemed of Ewen’s opinion. ‘The young gentleman is verra richt,’ she declared. ‘He shall keep watch if he’s minded tae, though, as ye say, sir, the Castle’s little likely to trouble my hoose. Isobel, gang ye with Captain Cameron and show him the best windy for the purpose. Though even if they should send a picket here,’ she added, smiling, ‘His Royal Highness and all could be oot of the hoose before they could win entrance. There’s secret stair, gentlemen, leads frae this verra room doun under the hoose to a bit door in the West Bow, and the entry to’t lies ahint yon screwtore at the side of the chimley, sae ye may be easy.’
All eyes turned towards the spot indicated, where, not far from the hearth, an ebony writing-table with inlay of metal and tortoiseshell—evidently a French importation—stood against the panelling. ‘A secret stair!’ exclaimed the Prince, and, in a lower tone, Ma foi, rumour was right!—You hear, Ardroy? So now you need not deprive us of your society...nor of Miss Cochran’s.’
‘Miss Cochran’s I need not in any case take from your Royal Highness,’ responded Ewen, preparing to leave the room, ‘for I doubt not I can find a suitable lookout without troubling her. But, even with the secret stair, I think it would be better to post a sentry.’ A laugh from O’Sullivan followed him as he closed the door, and stirred his simmering wrath against the Quartermaster-General and Strickland to a still higher temperature. That they should without remonstrance allow the Prince to remain here, under the very shadow of the Castle, for no more valid object than to drink Lady Easterhall’s claret—and, of course, to give her pleasure by the honour done to her—was monstrous! It was true that it needed a certain amount of skill and courage to make a dash from the Castle, on account of the Highland guards in its neighbourhood, but it was dark, and he was still uneasy about the man who had passed them in the close.
The landing and stairway were ill lit, and he hesitated; he had better summon Saunders, perhaps. Then the door behind him opened and shut, a rather timid voice said ‘Captain Cameron—’ and turning, he beheld Miss Isobel Cochran with a lighted candle in her hand.
‘I came, sir, because I thought you would need this.’ She held it out, none too steadily. ‘Oh, sir, you are the only one right of all of us! The Prince should not abide longer; it is too dangerous.’
‘So I think,’ said Ewen, looking down at her gravely. ‘I thank you, Miss Cochran.’ He took the light from her. ‘Could you not persuade Lady Easterhall to hasten his departure?’
‘Hardly,’ answered the girl regretfully. ‘You can see what it means to her to have the Prince under her roof...If you will go along that passage, sir, you will find a window out of which you can see some way up the close...Stay, I will show you, since I am here.’
She slipped along the passage in front of him, and he followed with the candlestick.
‘There,’ said Miss Cochran, ‘this window.’ She unlatched it, Ewen setting down the light at some distance. He saw the girl put her head out...and then draw back, her hand over her mouth as though to stifle a scream. ‘Too late, too late already! Look, look!’
Ewen leaned out. Down the dark alley, already echoing to the quick tramp of feet, a file of soldiers were advancing two by two, an officer leading. He drew in his head.
‘Go back at once and warn the Prince, madam. I will stay a moment to watch. Blow out the light, if you please; I do not want them to see me.’
Obeying him, the girl fled, while Ewen, crouching by the open window, held his breath as the heavy, hasty footsteps drew nearer and nearer, and he was looking down at last on three-cornered hats and tilted bayonets. There were fully a score of soldiers, and they were stopping at Lady Easterhall’s entrance; he saw the officer raise a lantern to make sure of the door. Waiting no longer, he ran back along the passage and pelted down the stairs. ‘Saunders, Saunders!’
Fortunately the old man heard him at once, and emerged from some lair of his own on the ground-floor. ‘What’s to do, sir?’
‘There are soldiers from the Castle at the door. Don’t admit them, on your life! They are after...“Mr. Murray”. Is the door stout?’
‘No’ by-ordinar’ stout. Dod, they’ll be for coming in; nae doot o’ that!’ For a sword-hilt, it might have been, was clamouring on the door. ‘If I’m no’ tae open, they’ll ding the door doun!’
‘Let them,’ commanded Ewen. ‘’Twill take some time to do it. And remember, you know nothing at all about her ladyship’s visitors!’
He ran up again, thanking Heaven with all his heart for the secret passage, and its exit in a spot where the redcoats would never dare to show their faces—since there was a Highland post in the West Bow also.
Three minutes, perhaps, had elapsed since the first discovery and Miss Cochran’s return to the drawing-room; Ewen hoped, therefore, as he burst into that apartment, to find no one but the ladies remaining. To his dismay, however, they were all there, in a group against the wall on the right of the hearth. The writing-table had been pushed aside, Strickland was holding a candle close to a panel, and O’Sullivan seemed to be struggling with something in the carving of this. Lady Easterhall, looking incredibly old, was clinging to her great-niece, and the eyes of both were fixed agonizedly on the Irishman and his efforts. The Prince, though he too was watching O’Sullivan narrowly, appeared the most unconcerned of the five.
‘Ah, Ardroy, it seems you were justified of your nervousness, then,’ he observed coolly. ‘And the spring of the panel is unfortunately stiff. It is long, evidently,’ he added in a lower tone, ‘since a lover left this house by that road!’
‘The soldiers are at the door,’ said Ewen in a stifled voice. His heart felt like hot lead within him; was all to end thus, so foolishly, and so soon? The dull sound of battering came up from below.
‘Let Miss Cochran try,’ suggested the Prince. ‘I think it is rather skill than strength which is needed.’ And O’Sullivan relinquished his place to the girl. He was very pale, and Strickland had obvious difficulty in keeping the candle upright.
‘Isobel, Isobel, can ye no’ stir it?’ exclaimed Lady Easterhall, wringing her old hands.
The girl’s slender fingers were striving with the boss of carved woodwork which concealed the spring. ‘O God!’ she whispered, and shut her eyes. ‘Is there no other possible hiding-place-’ Ewen was beginning in desperation when, with a loud grinding noise, the panel ran back, revealing a dark wall and the first few steps of a winding stair, which plunged steeply downwards.
‘Quick!’ said O’Sullivan, seizing Strickland by the arm. ‘You first, to light the stair. Now, your Highness!’ The Prince stepped through the aperture, and O’Sullivan himself followed. But Ewen lingered a moment on the threshold of safety.
‘Madam,’ he said earnestly to the shaken old lady, ‘if I may advise, do not you or Miss Cochran stay a moment longer in this room! To be in your bedchambers retiring for the night, when the soldiers succeed in forcing an entrance, as I fear they will, is the best answer you can make to the charge of entertaining the Prince. Do not, I beg of you, be found here—for he has still to get clear of the house!’
‘Ye’re richt,’ said Lady Easterhall. The frozen terror had left her face now. ‘’Tis you hae had the wits all along, young sir! In wi’ ye! Noo, Isobel, pit tae the door—and then let’s rin for it!’
Behind Ewen came grinding and a snap, and he was left in almost complete darkness to find his way as best he could down the stair. Somewhere below he heard echoing steps and cautious voices, so the Prince and his companions were still in the house. There must, indeed, be a passage as well as a stair, if one was to emerge into the West Bow right on the other side of it. For him there was no hurry; it was just as well to play rearguard. He started leisurely to descend, feeling his way by the newel, and hoping that he would never again go through another five minutes like the last.
He had certainly not accomplished more than a dozen steps of the descent when he stopped and stiffened, his heart jumping into his throat. There had suddenly floated down from above an ominous dragging, rasping sound which he had heard too recently not to recognize. It was the panel sliding open again! Had the soldiers found it already? It seemed almost impossible.
Tugging at his sword, Ewen half leapt, half stumbled, up the dark twisting stair again, and was met by an oblong of light, barred across its lower half by the replaced writing-table. But, as he was instantly aware, the room, though still brilliantly lit—for there had been no time to extinguish the sconces—was empty, and silent save for the sounds of furious battering which came up from below through its closed door. It was clear what had happened. The spring of the secret entrance, damaged perhaps, had failed to catch, and after the hurried departure of the two ladies it had released the panel again...and so the first thing to attract the notice of anyone entering the room would be that yawning gap in the wall.
Ewen sprang at the sliding door and tried to push it to again, but on its smooth inner surface there was nothing by which to get sufficient purchase. Closed it must be, at whatever cost, and on whichever side of it he was left. He thrust aside the escritoire, stepped out into the room, and pressed the boss which concealed the spring. The panel obediently returned...to within half an inch of its place. By getting hold of a projecting line of carving with his nails, Ewen feverishly contrived to push it completely home, but was instantly aware that it would no longer engage itself securely in whatever mechanism usually kept it fast there—in short that, having first refused to open, it now refused to shut. And if the Prince were not yet clear of the passage down below, if the fastenings of the door into the West Bow, for instance, were rusty from disuse, as well they might be, he would yet be taken.
There was a final crash from below; the door was undoubtedly down and the invaders in the house. If only the existence of the sliding panel could be concealed for a few moments longer! To stand before it sword in hand (as was Ewen’s impulse) were only to advertise its presence. He looked round in desperation. Perhaps the corner of the escritoire, pressed well against the line of carving, would eliminate that betraying crack in the woodwork? Yes, the escritoire was sufficiently heavy to keep the panel in place, and, provided that it was not itself moved away from its position, all might yet be well...though not for him, who must now throw himself to the wolves to keep the secret inviolate.
To ensure that the writing-table stayed as he had put it he must be near it, and have a reasonable excuse, too, for his position. The mos aural was the best; so, throwing off his hat and cloak, he pulled up a chair, sat down—unfortunately this necessitated his having his back to the door—and, seizing a sheet of paper and a quill, began hastily to write a letter. His heart might be beating faster than usual, but his hand, as he saw with pleasure, was quite steady.
‘My dear Aunt Margaret—I told you in my last Letter of the Victory gain’d—’ They were coming up the stairs now, and at the noise of their approach he realized how unnatural it would look to be found writing a letter in the midst of such a disturbance as had been going on below. He let his head sink forward on his arm as if he were overcome by sleep; and so was sitting when a second or two later the door was flung violently open, heavy feet came tumbling in, and there was a triumphant shout of: ‘Here’s one ’them, sir.’
Ewen judged it time to wake. He lifted his head and turned in his chair with a start; and then sprang to his feet in simulated astonishment. “Soldiers! What are you doing here?’
There were a sergeant and three men of Lascelles’ regiment in Lady Easterhall’s drawing-room, and the sergeant advanced resolutely towards the tall gentleman in amber satin. ‘’Tis for us to ask that of you, sir.’ Then he stopped, his face lighting up with a sort of incredulous joy. ‘Lord, it’s him himself!’ he exclaimed. ‘Call the officer quick, one of ye! Bide where ye are, sir,’ he said with a mixture of triumph and respect. ‘If ye don’t stir, ye’ll not be harmed.’
Ewen saw that the man took him for the Prince—a mistake well worth encouraging if possible, though it was not very likely that an officer from the Castle would make the same mistake. In any case he had no intention of stirring from his place; as it was he imagined that the crack of the panel was widening behind his back, and dared not turn his head to look. What would be the end of this? Edinburgh Castle and captivity, at the best; perhaps a fate even less agreeable.
Ah, here was the officer pushing eagerly through the soldiers round the doorway. One glance at the figure in front of the escritoire and that eagerness was wiped away.
‘That is not the Prince, you fool!’ he said to the sergeant. ‘What was he doing when you came in—did he offer any resistance?’
Through the sergeant’s reply that the gentleman was sitting at the table and seemed to be asleep, Ewen was striving not to manifest a surprise which, this time, was perfectly genuine. For, however he had become part of the marooned garrison of Edinburgh Castle, his captor was no officer of Lascelles’ regiment from that fortress; he was Captain Keith Windham of the Royal Scots.
Chapter 3
But Ewen’s own powder, satin, and lace were, apparently, as good as a disguise to him, for it was quite clear that Captain Windham had not recognized in this fine gentleman the tartan clad victor of Loch Oich side, nor even his seven days’ host—no, even though he was now looking at his capture more directly, and saying, with military abruptness: ‘You are my prisoner, sir!’
Ewen drew himself up. ‘By what right, if you please?’ he demanded. ‘By what right, indeed, do you break at all into a private house? The Lord Provost shall know of this tomorrow,’ he went on, with a sudden idea of passing himself off as an ordinary peaceful burgess. ‘The Lord Provost shall know of it, and will require an explanation from General Guest.’
Alas, his voice, at any rate, was not unfamiliar, like his hair and costume. Captain Windham suddenly strode forward, gave an exclamation, and recoiled a little. ‘What! It is you, Ardroy! Then I know that the Pretender’s son is in this house, for you are one of his aides-de-camp! Sergeant, leave a couple of men here, and search the next floor with the others; I will follow in a moment.’
‘Is that your pretext for breaking into an old lady’s house at this hour of night?’ asked Ewen with a fine show of indignation, as the sergeant withdrew. ‘Surely you know the way to Holyrood House, Captain Windham—though in truth it may not be so easy to force an entrance there!’
In spite of his anxiety, he was able to view with pleasure Captain Windham’s visible annoyance at this speech. ‘Mr. Cameron,’ said the soldier, with a steely light in his eyes, ‘I am not to be played with like this! The Pretender’s son, with three companions, was seen to enter this house a short while—’
‘I am sorry to disappoint you, sir,’ broke in Ewen, ‘but it was I who entered with three companions. As you see, I have just been mistaken anew for the Prince. My three friends have left—yes, those are their wine-glasses on the table—Lady Easterhall has retired, and I was beginning to write a letter, when I fell into the doze which your noisy and illegal entry has cut short.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Keith starkly, though at the mention of the letter his eyes had strayed for a second to the escritoire—and Ewen immediately wished he had not called attention to it. ‘Nor do I believe that our informant mistook you for the Pretender’s son; tall though he is, you are much taller. He is somewhere hidden in this house.’
‘Tall...taller...’ observed Ewen meditatively. ‘Ah, yes, I was forgetting your opportunities of observation at Glenfinnan. I suppose you were able to tell them his exact height at Fort William, after you had so craftily given me the slip.’
This effort at provoking an argument about the ethics of that action was unsuccessful, though he could see that his late prisoner did not relish the expression which he had applied to it. But Captain Windham merely repeated, with more emphasis: ‘He is somewhere hidden in this house!’
‘If so, then perhaps you will have the good fortune to find and recognize him,’ said Ewen with an air of levity. ‘Or if not His Royal Highness, one of the other two, perhaps.’
‘I have no doubt I shall,’ replied Keith shortly. ‘Meanwhile—your sword, if you please, Mr. Cameron!’
This object Ewen had not the slightest intention of surrendering. But any kind of parley with the enemy gained time, which was the important matter. So, after a long look at the floor, as though seeking counsel there, he put his hand to the hilt, and very slowly drew the small-sword from its velvet sheath. But, once the blade was out, his fingers retained their grip.
‘After all, I find that I dislike making you an unconditional gift of it,’ he announced coolly, while the candlelight played menacingly up and down the steel. ‘But I cannot prevent your taking it, Captain Windham—if you think it worth the trouble.’ And with his free hand he tucked his lace ruffle out of the way.
But, as he had expected—half hoped, yet half feared, for at bottom he was pining for a fight—the Prince’s pursuer did not wish to engage either himself or his men in personal conflict, while part of the house still remained unexplored. ‘I’ll deal with you later, Mr. Cameron,’ he replied curtly, and turned to the soldiers. ‘See that the prisoner does not move from that spot, men! I am going to fasten the door.’ He went out and, sure enough, could be heard to bolt the door on the outside.
