“I am overjoyed to see you again, Mr. Maclean. … Nay, I never forget a name or a face … I do not ask your business here, nor will I permit you to ask mine, save in so far as all the world knows it. I have my regiment billeted at Marlock, and am on my way across England to Hull, there to join General Wade. In that there is no secret, for every old woman on Trent side proclaims it. … Let us fall to, sir, for I am plaguily hungry with the frosty air, and this house has a name for cookery.”
General Oglethorpe proved himself a trencherman of the calibre of Mr. Samuel Johnson; that is to say, he ate heartily of everything—beefsteak pie, roast sirloin, sheep’s tongues, cranberry tarts and a London bag-pudding—and drank a bottle of claret, a quart of ale, and the better part of a bottle of Madeira. But unlike Mr. Johnson he did not become garrulous, nor did the iron restraint of his demeanour relax. The board was cleared and he proceeded to brew a dish of punch, mixing the several ingredients of limes, rum, white sugar and hot water with the meticulosity of an alchemist. Then he produced from a flat silver box which he carried in his waistcoat pocket a number of thin brown sticks, which he offered to his companion.
“Will you try my cigarros, sir? It is a habit which I contracted in Georgia, and I find them mighty comforting to a campaigner. … You journey northward, Mr. Maclean, but you make slow progress.” He smiled with a quizzical kindliness which stripped the martinet’s cloak from him and left only benevolence.
Alastair smiled back. “I journey slowly for I have had mischances. But I must mend my pace, for I am still far from my home, and my time of leave passes quick.”
“From the French King’s service?”
“From the French King’s service.”
“You are aware that there are certain rumours of war in this land?”
“I heard gossip to that effect in Paris.”
General Oglethorpe laughed. “I can guess where your sympathies lie, Mr. Maclean. Your name, your birthplace and your profession are signposts to them.”
“I too have heard tales from which I could hazard a guess at General Oglethorpe’s sentiments,” said Alastair.
“Tut, tut, sir. I bear His Majesty’s commission and am embarked in His Majesty’s service.”
“I could name some in the same case—and with the same sympathies.”
The other’s brows had descended and he was staring in the fire like a perplexed bird of prey.
“I do not altogether deny it. I have been a Member of Parliament for years and I have never concealed my views on politics, sir. I regret that England ever lost her natural and rightful line of kings. I have no love for Ministers with their courting of this neighbour, and baiting of that, and bleeding the commonalty of England for their crazy foreign wars. I detest and abhor the cabal of greedy bloodsuckers that call themselves Whigs. I am a Tory, sir, I serve the ancient constitution of this realm, I love and reverence its Church, and I hold this mongering of novelties an invention of the Devil. But—and it is a potent but—I cannot wish that this attempt of the Chevalier should succeed. I must with all my soul hope that it fail and do my best to ensure that failure.”
“Your conclusion scarcely accords with your premises, sir.”
“More than may at first sight appear. What has a young man bred abroad in a vapid Court, and suckled into Papistry, to say to the people of England?”
“His church is the same as mine, sir. But he is no bigot, and has sworn to grant to all beliefs that full tolerance which England has denied to his.”
“It is not enough. He is the young gallant, a figure from an old chivalrous world. Oh, I do not deny his attraction; I do not doubt that he can charm men’s hearts. But, sir, there is a new temper in the land. You have heard of the people they call Methodists—humble folk, humble servants of Almighty God, who carry the Gospel to dark places at the expense of revilings and buffetings and persecutions. I have had them with me in Georgia, and they fight like Cromwell’s Ironsides, they are tender and merciful and brave, and they preach a hope for the vilest. With them is the key of the new England, for they bring healing to the souls of the people. … What can your fairy Prince say to the poor and the hungry?”
General Oglethorpe’s eye was lit with a fervour which softened the rigour of his face into something infinitely gentle. Alastair had no words to answer so strange a plea.
“But—but King George is no more of that way of thinking than my Prince,” he stammered.
The other nodded. “I am not arguing on behalf of his present Majesty. I plead for the English people and I want no change, least of all the violent change of revolution, unless it be to their benefit. A mere transfer of monarchs will do small good to them, and it will bring needless suffering to the innocent. Therefore, I, James Oglethorpe, who am reputed a Jacobite, will do my utmost to nip this rising in the bud and confine it to the barbarous parts of the North. In the service of my country I will pretermit no effort to keep England neutral in the quarrel, for it is in England’s participation that the danger lies.”
Alastair deemed it wise not to answer, but, as he regarded this man who was now his declared opponent, he felt the satisfaction of a fighter who faces an honourable foe. Here was one whose hand he could clasp before he crossed swords.
“I am no Englishman,” he said, “and therefore I am remote from this particular controversy.”
The other’s eye burned with a fanatic’s heat. “I will fight like a tiger for England against all who would do her
