The Adventurers Read online

  A hundred yards down the road, Nick put his horse at a low post and rails and, clearing it effortlessly, led them in single file along the edge of a ploughed field and into a stand of thickly growing beech and hazel. Screened from the road, they all drew rein and Nick said curtly, “Right, off with your lag’s gear, Murdo, and get into these. “

  He dropped a rolled-up bundle at Murdo’s feet and added, eyeing his cropped head critically, “I should have brought a wig for you, damme, to go with that gentlemanly accent of yours. Well, you’ll have to make do with a hat. Cram it well down on your head ... and hurry, boy, for the Lord’s sake! I want to put a few miles between us and that infernal prison van before someone spots it and calls in the law. They’ll have their work cut out, rounding up the others, which will give us a few hours’ start on ’em, but ...” He shrugged. “Bury those filthy garments, Liam—you don’t need to dig a hole. Under the leaves’ll do.”

  The young Irishman, Liam O’Driscoll, clapped Murdo on the shoulder and, as he divested himself of the coarsely woven grey jacket and trousers that were the mark of a felon, took them from him and hid them under a pile of rotting leaves. Their masks were off now, the men beaming their pleasure at the success of the rescue and calling out in ribald encouragement as Murdo donned the garments Nick had brought for him.

  “How’s it feel to be out o’ lumber, Murdo old son?”

  “Bet you’re mightly glad we saved you from bein’ boated, ain’t you?”

  “That’ll do, lads.” Nick was in no mood for premature celebration. “Time enough for crowing when we’re home and dry,” he cautioned them. “Bestir yourself, Murdo, and let’s be on our way. We’ve a tidy ride ahead of us.”

  Murdo wasted no time. His jacket still unbuttoned but the ill-fitting tricorne crammed hard down to hide his shaven head, he was back in the roan mare’s saddle before Liam had remounted.

  “Where are we going, Nick?” he ventured, as they again set off across open country.

  “To Buck’s Oak,” Nick answered shortly. “And the Alton Arms, where I’ve arranged for someone to take care of you for a while.”

  He lapsed into moody silence and rode on, making it plain that further questions would be unwelcome.

  “Murdo!” Joss Gifford motioned to him to rein in. When they were riding side by side at the rear of the cavalcade, the older man said, lowering his voice, “We’re heading for Hinton Marsh, son, and I fancy Nick means to ride through the night. He’s a mite nervous these days, and small wonder—we’ve had a few close calls o’ late.”

  “Close calls?” Murdo echoed, frowning.

  “Aye, very close. ’Twasn’t only your caper that went sour. We lost old Harry—Harry Lee—and Barney Deakin. They was nabbed ten days since, and they come up before the beak next Monday. The heat’s on, Murdo, in this part o’ the country. Nick’s thinking o’ going north. If they top Harry and Barney, I reckon he will.”

  Murdo was deeply shocked. This part of the country—the pleasant, rural area between Guildford and the coast—had always been Nick’s stamping ground. He had been born in Farnham and had friends everywhere—innkeepers, cottagers, small farmers, and a host of others. Even a few of the local constables and excisemen were well-disposed toward him. He knew every nook and cranny, every road, and he had ostlers and postilions in his pay, who tipped him off concerning the coaches and post chaises, plying between London and the coast, that were worth robbing ... and those that were not. Latterly, Murdo knew, Nick had formed a lucrative liaison with two gangs of brandy and ’baccy smugglers, who plied their trade in small fishing boats across the Channel. During the war with France it was a risky business, but now, with the two countries at peace, the trade was flourishing. Nick surely would not want to abandon its fat pickings by going north, unless he were compelled to do so.

  As if reading his thoughts, Joss said, with a resigned shrug of his broad shoulders, “He’d have to be hard pressed to go, you understand. But he can’t afford to run no risks with you, son. Right now, you’re pretty hot property ... an escapee from one o’ His Majesty’s jails. There’ll be a hue an’ cry out for you.”

  “Aye, I know there will,” Murdo conceded uneasily. “But Nick told me he’s arranged for someone to take care of me—for a while, he said—at the Alton Arms.”

  Joss nodded in confirmation. “That’s right enough. Nick’s made plans for you, but I doubt if you’ll like ’em much. The idea is to safeguard all o’ us and to make certain sure you ain’t picked up. And I reckon you owe it to him to do as he wants, Murdo. He sprung you, he saved you from Botany Bay, so you owe him, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I owe him,” Murdo agreed. But his uneasiness was increasing, and he turned in his saddle to look at Joss. “Do you know what he wants me to do?”

  “I know, lad, But it’s not for me to tell you—Nick’ll do that. I just thought I’d give you a friendly warning.”

  “Thanks,” Murdo acknowledged. Clearly, he told himself, Nick wanted him to do more than simply lie low in a village inn. Perhaps he intended to cast him adrift or send him back to the north until the hue and cry died down. Whatever it was, he would do it, of course, and he would have his nest-egg and his freedom. And if Nick should decide to come north with his gang, he could join up with them again.

  There was nothing to be gained by idle speculation; Nick would tell him, as Joss had said, in his own good time. He had kept his word—he had taken a dangerous risk in holding up the jail van, in order to spring him. Murdo smiled at the anxious Joss.

  “I’ll do whatever Nick wants, Joss. “

  “Good lad,” Joss approved. “I reckoned you would.” He nodded affably and, kicking his horse into a canter, rode ahead to Nick’s side.

  As he had predicted, they rode through the night, halting only once, at an isolated inn, in order to rest and water their horses and break their fast. Nick led them on a roundabout route, avoiding towns and main roads, and it was noon when they finally drew rein outside the Alton Arms in Buck’s Oak. Dispatched, with Liam O’Driscoll, to bed down their weary animals, Murdo awaited the expected summons from Nick without undue disquiet. It came, within less than an hour of their arrival, and he obeyed it with alacrity, only to halt, in stunned dismay, when he entered the taproom and saw that Nick was seated at a table with two uniformed strangers.

  They were men in the King’s scarlet, with gold chevrons on their sleeves—sergeants, recruiting sergeants, one in infantry uniform, the other a swaggering heavy cavalryman in dragoon undress. Murdo guessed the reason for their presence before Nick rose to his feet and, a kindly arm about his shoulders, led him to the other side of the room.

  “You are wanting me to enlist, Nick?” he blurted out, his voice shaking.

  Nick nodded. “Aye, lad, that’s about the size of it. Understand, you’re a liability now, a risk to us all, with the whole countryside likely to be on the lookout for you in a matter of hours. They’ll catch the lags that were with you, and the stupid sods will talk their heads off. We’ve got to plant you somewhere safe, Murdo son.”

  “But the army—” Murdo began bitterly.

  Nick cut him short. “No one’ll look for you in the army. As God’s my witness, ’tis the one place they won’t look!” His tone softened, became persuasive. “You know how highly I regard you—you’re like a son to me, and it’ll break my heart to let you go. But it won’t be forever, and the war’s over. Army of occupation, it is now—a real cushy lay. Let ’em take you across to the Continent and live a life of idleness in the Duke’s garrison in Brussels.”

  “The army’s not idle,” Murdo protested. He had spent his youth in army camps and was all too well aware of the harsh discipline to which the rank and file were subjected. Had he not run away from his home and his family because Duncan Campbell had sought to treat him as the common soldiers were treated? He attempted to explain, but Nick impatiently gestured him to have done.

  “It will be better than Botany Bay. And you’ll not have to do any fighting.”

  “Maybe not. But for all that, I’d do anything rather than enlist. Nick, I—”

  “Murdo, Murdo!” Nick reproached him. “Where’s your loyalty, your gratitude? Do you want to put the rest o’ us in danger of our lives? Joss and me, all of us ... your friends, for God’s sake? We took a big chance, springing you. Remember that, boy!”

  “I do,” Murdo conceded miserably. He glanced across at the two sergeants, but they had their backs turned and were sipping their ale, seemingly indifferent to whatever he and Nick were saying to each other, the big cavalryman placidly puffing at a long-stemmed clay pipe, his booted legs extended to the warmth of the crackling log fire.

  “It would not be for long,” Nick said. His arm tightened about Murdo’s thin shoulders. “Six months, maybe even less, and the heat’ll be off. Then you can buy yourself out and come back to us. Look, I’ve your share of our loot on me, and it’s a tidy sum. You’d be foolish to take it with you, but I’ll stash it here with the innkeeper, Charley Finn, if you like. He’ll keep it safe till you want it, or I’ll go on keeping it for you, whatever you say. God’s blood, boy, you trust me, don’t you?”

  “Aye, of course I do, Nick. All the same, I ...” Murdo made a final plea. “Could I not go north and hide out there? In Glasgow perhaps? I’d go on my own, I—”

  “Without friends to help you, you’d be nabbed before you were within a hundred miles o’ the border,” Nick retorted, his tone one that brooked no further argument. Losing patience, he gestured to the brass-bound clock, ticking away on the wall above their heads. “We’ve wasted enough time. What’s it to be, Murdo? Are you going to do as I ask? Because if you’re no
t ...” He left the implied threat unvoiced, but Murdo recognized defeat. Nick’s threats were not to be taken lightly. He knew that he would never see the gold nest-egg he had worked for, unless he fell in with the plans Nick had made for him. Old Joss had been right, he thought ruefully—he certainly did not like them overmuch. But the army was, undoubtedly, better than exile to the penal colony of New South Wales and better by far than being topped, as he would be if he were caught.

  Besides, he thought, pride coming to his rescue, a soldier could hold his head high, for had not the Duke of Wellington’s soldiers defeated Boney’s Frenchies, driven them back from Portugal and Spain and Boney himself into ignominious exile on some island called Elba?

  “Well?” Nick prompted. “Are you willing to enlist?”

  “Aye,” Murdo answered. He hesitated and then added firmly, “But I’ll not enlist in an English regiment. I’m a Highlander, Nick.”

  Nick laughed and, grasping him by the arm, led him over to the recruiting sergeants’ table. “Here’s your lad, gentlemen,” he announced. “He’s free, willing and able to take the King’s shilling. But he’s from north o’ the border, and he’s wanting to join a Scotch regiment, so ’tis to be hoped you can indulge him. Provided, that’s to say,” he qualified hastily, “it is one under the Duke’s command across the Channel.”

  “I reckon we can accede to his wishes, sir,” the infantry sergeant assured him. “We’re accepting recruits for all His Grace’s regiments, kitting ’em out and licking ’em into shape at our depot and then drafting ’em to Brussels. That don’t take above a few weeks. What’s your name, lad?”

  “It’s Smith, Sergeant,” Nick supplied. He flashed Murdo a warning glance. “Murdoch Smith.”

  The sergeant eyed Murdo thoughtfully and then, grinning, removed his ill-fitting tricorne. “An army haircut already,” he observed, with amused tolerance. “Well, it takes all kinds, my lad, and a spell in the ranks’ll be the making of you, I can guarantee. Which regiment do you fancy, eh? We’ve plenty for you to choose from. The 92nd are in Brussels, the 42nd and the 71st in billets outside, the 73rd at some place called Grow-now or Growmouse ... can’t get me tongue round these plaguey frog names. Then there’s the Camerons the 79th ...”

  He talked on but Murdo was scarcely conscious of what he was saying. The 73rd, he thought, feeling his throat tighten—his own father’s regiment, the gallant 73rd. If he had to enlist, then surely this was the regiment he must choose. There would be small risk of his being recognized, since it was clearly the second battalion of the regiment that was now serving under the Duke of Wellington’s command. Colonel Macquarie—Governor Macquarie—had taken the first battalion with him to New South Wales.

  “Would ye be any guid on a horse, Smith?” The cavalry sergeant took his pipe from his mouth and rose slowly from his chair to stand, a tall, imposing figure in his magnificent dragoon’s uniform, dwarfing both Nick and his fellow sergeant.

  His accent was Lowland Scots and the question clear enough, but unaccustomed to his new name, Murdo stared back at him blankly, and it was Nick who answered him. “He’s the best, Sergeant, I give you my word. The lad’s a fine horseman.”

  “Then ye could dae a lot worse than join my regiment. If you’re a Scot, ye’ll hae heard tell o’ them.” The big cavalryman spoke with pride. “The Royal North British Dragoons—the Greys, laddie, the famous Scots Greys! There is no finer regiment in the whole o’ the British Army, ye may tak’ my word for it. And if you’re as guid a rider as this—ah, as this gentleman says ye are, why then ye’ll be on your way in nae time at a’. Ye’ll be aiding the Duke tae keep the bluidy frogs back where they belong, wi’ their tails atween their legs!”

  Murdo felt his heartbeat quicken. The cavalryman’s words had been bombastic, but for no reason that he could have explained, they moved him deeply. The war was over and there could be no prospect of doing further battle with the French, but ... He made his decision without any prompting from Nick, impulsively, yet with complete conviction.

  “Aye, sir, ’tis the Greys I’ll be joining, if you’ll take me.”

  The tall dragoon donned his white-plumed fur cap and grinned derisively at his fellow recruiter.

  “My turn wi’ this yin, Billy!” To Murdo he said, still smiling, “We’ll tak’ ye and gladly. I’ll attest ye right awa’, just in case some ither body should try tae stake a claim on ye.” He aimed a blow at Murdo’s shaven head. “As they might, eh? Private Smith o’ the Scots Greys, that’s you now, laddie, and ye’ll not regret your choice. ’Tis yon bluidy scoundrel Boney who’ll live tae rue to day he cam’ back tae tangle wi’ us again!”

  “What are you saying, Sergeant?” Nick demanded, his brows furrowed in bewilderment. “Has Boney escaped? Is the war not over?”

  The sergeant’s smile faded. He answered gravely, “Aye, have ye no’ heard? The Emperor’s back i’ France. He landed a week ago, and they say he’s making for Paris, wi’ King Louis’ troops deserting tae join him. There’ll be a few ither battles tae be fought before the war’s finally over, if I’m any judge. ’Tis tae be hoped, sir, that your laddie has a bold hairt in him, for he’s like tae be i’ the thick o’ it, before he’s too much older!”

  Both men turned to look at Murdo. There was pity in Nick’s grey eyes, and he started to mumble an apology. “I did not know, Murdo. Believe me, I—”

  Murdo affected not to hear him. He drew himself up. They had robbed him of his native pride in the jail, with their leg-irons and the hateful fetters, with their solemn courts and the harsh sentences they imposed. But he was a Highland soldier’s son, he told himself, and his father had served in the 73rd and died with the regiment at the siege of Seringapatam. He was being offered an opportunity to regain his lost pride and, for all his earlier unwillingness to enlist, he was not going to let the recruiters accuse him of cowardice by backing out now.

  The cavalry was fine in peacetime, but if there was fighting to be done, he would do it in his father’s regiment.

  “I’m ready to take the oath,” he told the infantry sergeant quickly. “For the 73rd Highlanders, if you please. And my name is Maclaine.”

  Nick shrugged resignedly and let him go.

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation, to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the name of man’s innocency ...”

  The minister’s voice droned on and, standing stiffly at his brother’s side, George De Lancey found his attention wandering, his hand relaxing its grip on his sword. A fugitive ray of sunlight, in seeming defiance of the April downpour that had soaked them as they entered the church, shone through the high stained-glass window behind the altar. It formed a bright, many-hued pattern on the ancient flagstones at the bride’s feet and lit her small, veiled face to sudden radiance.

  Not that she needed the sun’s aid to enhance her loveliness. Magdalen Hall was a beautiful young woman, George De Lancey thought, and his brother was a singularly fortunate man to have won her affections. The thought was devoid of envy; his elder brother was still—as he had been in their youth—the object of his veneration, on whose inspiring example he had endeavoured to fashion his own life during the past three and a half years.

  He had never, even in his dreams, imagined himself capable of matching William’s achievements, still less of surpassing them. They were there in plain view for the packed congregation to feast their eyes on—the gold and enamel insignia of a Knight Commander of the Bath and, pinned beneath this, a Peninsular Gold Medal with two bars.

  The military prowess to which these decorations bore witness would have been remarkable for any British officer in his early thirties, but they were the more remarkable in view of the fact that his brother was, like himself, American by birth. Indeed they were third generation Americans, both born in New York, descendants of a Huguenot family that had sought refuge there, after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.

  The De Lanceys had been considerable landowners ... until the War of Independence had brought about a conflict of loyalties, and General Oliver De Lancey, their uncle, had elected to fight for his king. Following the colonists’ victory, their lands had been confiscated and the general compelled to seek refuge in England, where he had died in genteel poverty in Yorkshire, his loyalty to the British Crown unmarked and unrewarded.