On a sharp noon in the first week of November he recrossed Severn and came into Worcestershire, having slept at Ludlow the night before. His plan was to return as he had come, by the midlands and Northumberland, for he knew the road and which inns were safe to lie at. Of the doings of his Prince he had heard nothing, and he fretted every hour at the lack of news. As a trained soldier with some experience of war, he distrusted profoundly the military wisdom of Charles’s advisers, and feared daily to hear of some blunder which would cancel all that had already been won.
He rode hard, hoping to sleep in Staffordshire and next day join the road which he had travelled south three weeks before. An unobtrusive passenger known to none, knowing none, he took little pains to scan the visages of those he met. It was therefore with some surprise that, as he sat in the taproom of an alehouse at Chifney, he saw a face which woke some recollection.
It was that of a tall, thin and very swarthy man who was engaged in grating a nutmeg into a pot of mulled ale. His clothes had the shabby finery of a broken-down gentleman, but the air of a minor stage-player which they suggested was sharply contradicted by his face. That was grave, strong almost to hardness, and with eyes that would have dictated if they had not brooded. He gave Alastair good day as he entered, and then continued his occupation in such a way that the light from the window fell very clearly upon his features. The purpose, which involved a change of position, was so evident that Alastair’s attention was engaged, and he regarded him over the edge of his tankard.
The memory was baffling. France, London, Rome—he fitted nowhere. It seemed a far-back recollection, and not a coincidence of his present journey. Then the man raised his head, and his sad eyes looked for a moment at the window. The gesture Alastair had seen before—very long before—in Morvern. Into the picture swam other details: a ketch anchored, a sea-loch, a seafarer who sang so that the heart broke, a cluster of boys huddled on hot sand listening to a stranger’s tales.
“The Spainneach!” he exclaimed.
The man looked up with a smile on his dark face and spoke in Gaelic. “Welcome, heart’s darling,” he said—the endearment used long ago to the child who swam out to the foreign ship for a prize of raisins. “I have followed you for three days, and this morning was told of your inquiries, divined your route, and took a shortcut to meet you here.”
The picture had filled out. Alastair remembered the swarthy foreigner who came yearly at the tail of the harvest to enlist young men for the armies of Spain or France or the Emperor—who did not brag or bribe or unduly gild the prospect, but who, less by his tongue than by his eyes, drew the Morvern youth to wars from which few returned. An honest man, his father had named this Spainneach, but as secret in his ways as the woodcock blown shoreward by the October gales.
“You have a message for me?” he asked, thinking of Cornbury.
“A message—but from a quarter no weightier than my own head. You have been over long in the South, Sir Sandy.” The name had been the title given by his boyish comrades to their leader, and its use by this grave man brought to the chance meeting something of the intimacy of home.
“That’s my own notion,” he replied. “But I am now by way of curing the fault.”
“Then ride fast, and ride by the shortest road. There’s sore need of you up beyond.”
“You have news,” Alastair cried eagerly. “Has his Highness marched yet?”
“This very day he has passed the Border.”
“How—by what route—in what strength?”
“No great increase. He looks for that on the road.”
“Then he goes by Carlisle?”
The Spaniard nodded. “And Wade lies at Newcastle,” he said.
Alastair brought down his fist on the board so hard that the ale lipped from the other’s tankard.
“The Devil take such blundering! Now he has the enemy on his unprotected flank, when he might have destroyed him and won that victory on English soil which is the key to all things. Wade is old and doited, but he will soon have Cumberland behind him. Who counselled this foolishness? Not his Highness, I’ll warrant.”
The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders. “No. His Highness would have made a beeline for Newcastle. But his captains put their faith in Lancashire, and would have the honest men of North England in their ranks before they risked a battle. They picture them as waiting, each with a thousand armed followers, till the first tartans are south of Shap, and then rushing to the standard.”
Alastair, his brows dark with irritation, strode up and down the floor.
“The fools have it the wrong way round. England will not rise to fight a battle, but only when a battle has been won. Wade at Newcastle was a sovran chance—and we have missed it. Blind! Blind! You are right, my friend. Not a second must I lose in pushing north to join my Prince. There are no trained soldiers with him save Lord George, and he had no more than a boyish year in the Royals. … You say he travels by Shap?”
The Spaniard nodded. “And your course, Sir Sandy, must be through West England. Ride for Preston, which all Scots invasions must pass. Whitchurch—Tarporley—Warrington are your stages. See, I will make you a plan.”
On
