The Greatest Adventure Books - MacLeod Raine Edition. William MacLeod Raine

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      “Some of us will never cross the border twice,” I said.

      My news had flung a shadow across the bright track of her gayety. ’Tis one thing for a high-spirited woman to buckle on the sword of her friend; ’tis another to see him go out to the fight.

      “Let us not be thinking of that at all, Kenneth,” she cried.

      “Why not? ’Tis a fact to face,” I insisted cruelly. “There’ll be many a merry lusty gentleman lying quiet under the sod, Aileen, before we reach London town. From the ownership of broad moorland and large steading they will come down to own no more of earth than six foot by two.”

      “They will be dying as brave gentlemen should,” she said, softly, her voice full of tears.

      “And if I am one of them?” I asked, making a more home thrust.

      The girl stood there tall, slim, pallid, head thrown back, the pulse in the white curved throat beating fast.

      “Oh Kenneth, you will not be,” she cried piteously.

      “But if I am?”

      “Please, Kenneth?” Her low voice implored me to desist; so too the deep billowing breasts and melting eyes.

      “The fighting will be sharp and our losses heavy. It’s his death many a man is going to, Aileen.”

      “Yes, and if you will be believing me, Kenneth, the harder part iss for those of us who cannot fight but must wear away the long days and mirk nights at home. At the least I am thinking so whatever. The long live day we sit, and can do nothing but wait and wait. After every fight will not some mother be crooning the coronach for her dear son? Every glen will have its wailing wife and its fatherless bairns. And there will be the lovers too for whom there iss the driech wait, forby (besides) that maybe their dearest will be lying under the rowans with their een steekit (eyes fixed) in death.”

      “There are some of us who have neither mother, wife, nor lover. Will there be none to spare a tear for us if we fall?”

      “Indeed, and there will, but”—a wan little smile broke through the film of gathering tears—“we will be waiting till they are needed, and we will be praying that the evil day may never come.”

      “I’m hoping that myself,” I told her, smiling, “but hope never turns aside the leaden bullet.”

      “Prayers may,” she answered quickly, the shy lids lifting from the blue eyes bravely to meet my look, “and you will never be wanting (lacking) mine, my friend.” Then with the quick change of mood that was so characteristic of her, she added: “But I will be the poor friend, to fash (bother) you with all these clavers (idle talk) when I should be heartening you. You are glad to be going, are you not?”

      All the romance and uplift of our cause thrilled through me.

      “By God, yes! When my King calls I go.”

      Her eyes shone on me, tender, wistful, proud.

      “And that’s the true word, Kenneth. It goes to the heart of your friend.”

      “To hear you say that rewards me a hundred times, dear.”

      I rose to go. She asked, “Must you be leaving already?”

      When I told her “Yes!” she came forward and shyly pinned the cockade on the lapel of my coat. I drew a deep breath and spoke from a husky throat.

      “God bless you for that, Aileen girl.”

      I was in two minds then about taking her in my arms and crying out that I loved her, but I remembered that I had made compact with myself not to speak till the campaign was ended and the Prince seated as regent on his father’s throne. With a full heart I wrung her hand in silence and turned away.

      Prince Charles and his life-guards, at the head of the army, moved from Holyrood to Pinkie-house that afternoon. A vast concourse of people were gathered to cheer us on our way, as we passed through the streets to the sound of the pipes and fife and beating drum. More than one twisted cripple flung himself before the horse of the Prince, begging for “the King’s touch.” In each case the Young Chevalier disclaimed any power of healing, but his kindly heart forbade his denying the piteous appeal. With a slight smile of sympathy he would comply with the request, saying, “I touch, but God heal.” At the head of each clan-regiment rode its chief, and in front of every company the captains, lieutenants, and ensigns, all of whom were gentlemen of the clan related by blood ties to the chief. Though I say it who was one of them, never a more devoted little army went out on a madder or more daring enterprise.

      Just one more glimpse of Aileen I got to carry with me through weary months of desire. From the window of her aunt’s house she was waving a tartan scarf, and many a rugged kerne’s face lighted at the girl’s eager loyalty. Flushed with shy daring, the soft pliant curves of her figure all youth and grace, my love’s picture framed in the casement was an unconscious magnet for all eyes. The Prince smiled and bowed to her, then said something which I did not catch to Creagh who was riding beside him. The Irishman laughed and looked over at me, as did also the Prince. His Highness asked another question or two, and presently Tony fell into narration. From the young Stuart Prince’s curious looks at me ’twas plain to be seen that Creagh was recounting the tale of my adventures. Once I heard the Prince exclaim, “What! That boy?” More than once he laughed heartily, for Creagh was an inimitable story-teller and every point to be scored in the telling gained sparkle from his Irish wit. When he had finished Prince Charles sent for me and congratulated me warmly on the boldness and the aplomb (so he was kind enough to phrase it) which had carried me through devious dangers.

      Chapter X

       Culloden

       Table of Contents

      I have neither space nor heart to attempt a history of our brilliant but ill-starred campaign. Surely no more romantic attempt to win a throne was ever made. With some few thousand ill-armed Highlanders and a handful of lowland recruits the Prince cut his way through the heart of England, defeated two armies and repulsed a third, each of them larger than his own and far better supplied with the munitions of war, captured Carlisle, Manchester, and other towns, even pushed his army beyond Derby to a point little more than a hundred miles from London. Had the gentlemen of England who believed in our cause been possessed of the same spirit of devotion that animated these wild Highlanders we had unseated the Hanoverians out of doubt, but their loyalty was not strong enough to outweigh the prudential considerations that held them back. Their doubts held them inactive until too late.

      There are some who maintain that had we pushed on from Derby, defeated the army of the Duke of Cumberland, of which the chance at this time was good, and swept on to London, that George II would have been sent flying to his beloved Hanover. We know now in what a state of wild excitement the capital city was awaiting news of our approach, how the household treasures of the Guelphs were all packed, how there was a run on the Bank of England, how even the Duke of Newcastle, prime minister of Great Britain, locked himself in his chamber all day denying admittance to all in an agony of doubt as to whether he had better declare at once for the Stuarts. We know too that the Wynns and other loyal Welsh gentlemen had already set out to rally their country for the honest cause, that cautious France was about to send an army to our assistance.

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