Part 50 (1/2)

”Say no more!” he cried earnestly. ”It's a boon you've conferred on me, if you only knew it. _Nemo repente turp.i.s.simus_, as we say.”

”_Video proboque_, as we also say,” I countered, smiling.

”Oddones! A brother of the lamp!” he cried, laughing shortly, and suddenly sobering. ”I must be on. Sorry to leave you, sir, but I think you're all right. Take care, however. I was touched myself t'other day, and the d.a.m.ned hole in my ribs still bleeds if I exert myself too much.”

”You should surely be in bed, if there's a hole in your ribs.”

”In bed!” he sniffed. ”I took to bed, egad, and nearly got pinched. Now I've no need for exertion. In this gap between the Highlanders, I'm as snug as a flea in a blanket.”

After helping me into my clothes and on to my horse, he strolled up to the dead man.

”Well, Turnditch,” he said, ”you know everything now, or nothing.” Then, dropping lightly on his knee, he turned gaily to me, and said, ”Always plunder the Egyptian, dead or alive.”

He rifled the spy's pockets with the easy indifference of an expert, singing as he turned them out:

”The priest calls the lawyer a cheat; The lawyer beknaves the divine; And the statesman because he's so great, Thinks his trade is as honest as mine.”

He stopped his singing and, tossing a well-stuffed leather bag up and down in his hand, said, ”There's really no objection to virtue when the jade is not her own reward. Chunk! chunk! There's alchemy for you! Half an ounce of lead into half a pound of gold!”

He stowed the bag in his pocket, jumped on his mare, and together we walked our horses to the turnpike, where we halted side by side, our horses' heads to their respective destinations.

”Sir,” said I, holding out my hand, ”I am greatly in your debt. My name is Oliver Wheatman, of the Hanyards, Staffords.h.i.+re. May I have the pleasure of learning yours?”

He took my hand, looked at me intently, with his grey eyes very thoughtful and steady, and then said quietly, ”Samuel Nixon, Bachelor of Arts, sometime Demy of Magdalen College, Oxford.”

”Commonly called 'Swift Nicks,'” I added, smiling.

”Right first time,” he cried gleefully, and shot off like an arrow towards Manchester.

So Nance Lousely had not got her pinnerfull of guineas after all.

CHAPTER XXIII

DONALD

I got my wound in the early forenoon of December the 10th. About eight o'clock on the night of the 17th I sat down in a deserted shepherd's hut to the meal Donald had got ready for me. The week had been in one respect a blank, for I had not seen Margaret. In every other respect it had been laborious, strenuous, and exciting, and we had just seen the end of the toughest job so far. We, meaning my dragoons and myself, were on the top of Shap. Some ammunition wagons had broken down on the upward climb, bunging up the road at its stiffest bit and delaying us for hours. His lords.h.i.+p and the Colonel, with the infantry of the rear-guard, were in Shap village a mile or two ahead. The Prince was still farther on, probably in Penrith.

The delay was dangerous. Our army had rested one full day at Preston and another at Lancaster. Even at Preston the Colonel and I, with my dragoons, had barely ridden out of the town when a strong body of enemy horse rode in from the east, sent by Wade to reinforce the Duke. Our margin of safety was being cut down daily. We should have to fight before long, and I was posted here, on the top of Shap, to see that no surprise was sprung upon us.

The s.h.i.+eling, as Donald called it, was about a hundred yards past the highest point of the road, where a picket was on the watch. Across the road was a bit of a dip, and here my dragoons were making themselves comfortable round a roaring fire, fuel for which was provided by the smashed-up carca.s.s of a derelict wagon. The country was as bare as a bird's tail, but by a slice of great good luck one of them had shot a stray sheep on the way up, and the air was thick with the smell of singed mutton.

Here I must say of my dragoons that they were men I loved to command.

After twelve days' work of a sort to knock up an elephant they were as fresh as daisies. Donald they all feared, and as Donald, for my behoof, made no bones about telling them how the laddie's nief, sma' as it lookit, 'ad dinged 'im, Donald, oot o' his seven senses, they feared me. I think they even liked me. Anyhow, I never had an ugly look or a glum word from one of them. Some people express surprise at the splendid Highland regiments now, thanks to Mr. Pitt's politic genius, serving in our army.

It is no surprise to me who have commanded a body of clansmen for a fortnight in the back-end of a retreat.

Donald was a very jewel of a man. He was servant, sergeant, nurse, and companion, and unbeatable in all capacities. My wound had given me more trouble than I expected, even though Mr. Bamford had told me that one of the larger arteries was injured. Once or twice since, as occasion served, a doctor had dressed it, but it was Donald's incessant care that did most for it. I still wore my left arm in a sling.

He had made me a fire of wood and turfs; given me roast mutton, a slice of cheese sprinkled with oatmeal, and good bread to eat, and a pint of milk laced with whisky to drink. Refinements which he would have scouted for himself in any place, he had taken thought to provide for me in these wilds--a pewter plate and a silver beaker, both stolen. The only furnis.h.i.+ng in the hut was a squat log, almost the size of a butcher's block, which served as a table. For seat, Donald rigged up half the tail-board of the wagon across two heaps of turfs. He completed his work by producing a tallow candle stuck in a dab of clay by way of candlestick.

Donald had left me to my food and gone over to the camp to get his own. I made a nourishable meal and then sat down before the fire to smoke and think.