Death and the Chevalier

by Robin Blake

  These events had unfolded as if part of the usual everyday duty of a coroner, of the kind that he performs at any normal time. But these times were far from normal. By the end of summer there cannot have been many who had not heard of the Young Pretender’s dangerous activities north of the border. The earlier scraps of rumour out of the mountains and glens had given way to solid reports. In early September the Prince broke out of the Highlands. To the astonishment of all England, he had marched his men unopposed – thousands of them – through the Pass of Killiecrankie and into the supposedly fortified city of Perth.

  A week later my barber Gilliflower, a highly reliable source of news, told me, ‘They say he marches ahead of his army on foot and never rides, and always a-wearing the Highlander’s garb of tartan and a blue bonnet. And when there’s a ford to be crossed, he’s ever the first to lead his men in.’

  ‘Do I detect a note of admiration in your voice, Gilliflower?’ I said.

  This was a surprise. Like all trusted purveyors of news, Gilliflower had never been known to take sides in politics.

  ‘I give respect to any man that makes a brave show.’

  This fascination with the person of the Pretender – or Chevalier – reached a crescendo when he walked into Edinburgh, held court at Holyrood and then sortied with his army to smash to pieces the government force led by General Cope at Prestonpans.

  ‘The question now is this,’ said a wiseacre politician in the Mitre Tavern. ‘Why should he not be content with Scotland? It’s the historic land of the Stuarts and a Stuart is lord of it again. He will stop there.’

  ‘Aye. He should be satisfied,’ said another. ‘He’ll make his position solid and fight off the English until they’re forced to make terms.’

  But a third wiseacre would have none of it.

  ‘You think he’ll be satisfied with that poxy country? No, the lad’ll be down here to knock on the door of King George’s palace. You may count on it.’

  As history relates, the third wiseacre was right: on the feast of All Saints, the Jacobite army marched out of Edinburgh and began to make for the English border. Then, a couple of days before Ambleside’s discovery of the headless corpse, some news broke in Preston more sensational than any yet heard: Carlisle was under siege. If and when it fell, the road into England would be open.

  On my return from Simmy Nook I went straight to the Turk’s Head where Fidelis was waiting to report on his examination. But first he had other news to relate.

  ‘There are reports that the garrison at Carlisle castle will not be relieved, Titus. If the rebels take it, they must come here. They must come to Preston.’

  ‘They may cross into Northumberland yet. That is where General Wade is. Surely the Jacobites will want to engage Wade as soon as possible.’

  ‘They are not going to do that.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Because of what we saw in Ambleside’s field this morning. The remains of those two dead men.’

  I laughed.

  ‘You’re not serious. What possible connection do you make?’

  He frowned, disapproving of my levity.

  ‘If I am right, it’s an incontrovertible one.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘I think these men were Highlanders, Titus. I think they were an advance party of the Chevalier’s men.’

  THREE

  ‘Highlanders? How do you make that out?’ I said.

  Languidly, Fidelis took a pear from his pocket and examined it as if it were a medical specimen.

  ‘Consider this,’ he said. ‘You remember I mentioned that the fellow’s knees told a tale. You suggested, somewhat foolishly, that they were muddy, but in reality they were sun-browned and weather-beaten, while his thighs and shins were not. What does that tell you?’

  ‘That he had holes in the knees of his breeches?’

  ‘No, Titus! Think! The knees were like that because he wore the highland kilt.’

  ‘Is that all the evidence you have – brown knees?’

  He bit into the pear and chewed reflectively.

  ‘In the stomach, oats,’ he said at last. ‘That’s their staple. Healthy teeth, strong bones – that’s typical of people eating a simple sufficiency of food.’

  ‘People do that all over. If they were Highlanders, how ever did they end up in a windypit near Ribchester?’

  ‘There is a larger picture we must look at. As most people now believe, the rebel army is set on marching down the western road, just as it did in ’fifteen. They cannot be sure of success unless supplies are gettable. How do they find this out?’

  ‘I see what you’re getting at. They send out scouts.’

  ‘Precisely: big strong men who can look after themselves and bring back the bacon – or at least the whereabouts of the bacon. Hence, two Highland men descend through the country between Lancaster and Preston, ranging one side or other of the road, in advance of the main force. They make contact with supporters, they find stores of food and fodder, sources of ale and wine and horses.’

  I thought for a moment. I was warming to Fidelis’s theory.

  ‘It is a persuasive picture, Luke.’

  ‘It is even more persuasive in the light of this.’

  Luke laid his pear down and drew a folded sheet of blank paper from his pocket, in which was enclosed a second paper, also folded but more tightly. He handed the latter to me.

  ‘Be careful not to tear it – it is damp. I fished it out of the throat.’

  I unfolded the paper with caution and read out loud the writing that I saw there.

  To whomsoever shall find this severed head, know that it is the head of a traitorous evil-doer who came into this County of Lancashire solely to serve the interests of the Papist Pretender, against those of his Protestant Majesty King George. Joining battle with this traitor and his confederate, we loyal covenanters of Lancashire have put them to death, and submitted both to the traitor’s indignity by cutting off their heads. (signed) Loyal Covenanters of Lancashire. Let it be noted: this was an act of legitimate warfare and not subject to the civil laws of the peace.

  It took me a few moments to absorb this extraordinary piece of evidence.

  ‘They do not declare who they are – just “covenanters”.’

  ‘Did Pilling tell you anything to the purpose?’

  I relayed Pilling’s story, which I believed more or less. There was nothing about the people of Ribchester that suggested they were fanatical covenanters ready to lay down their lives for King George.

  ‘There’s something of the extreme in what happened,’ I said. ‘These covenanters claim there was a fight. But that may be a story to cover the truth – to cover a crime, in effect.’

  ‘Or it may be that there really was a battle between the Scotchmen and these covenanters. But if there was, why remain anonymous? And why were the bodies moved and abandoned in the way they were?’

  ‘Because the rebel army is much closer at hand than the Lord Chief Justice, or any assize judge. The killers’ first thought was of what kind of justice the Prince might mete out, if he were to come here and discover the truth.’

  The pear had been reduced to its core by now. Fidelis raised it above his head and lobbed it across the room. It landed cleanly in the waste basket.

  ‘Summary and savage, I would think,’ he said. ‘The kind of justice that in war goes under the name of reprisals.’

  It was now late in the afternoon. Having a patient to see, Luke Fidelis left me while I went back to the office. My clerk was at his desk, drooping over a bit of writing.

  ‘I have a question about my powers and duties, Furzey.’

  Furzey became immediately alert. His demeanour was in general that of a hangdog, but he much enjoyed showing off his superior knowledge of coronial law – and no one had a more complete knowledge of the coronership and its powers than he.

  ‘Yes, Mr Cragg, how may I inform you?’

  ‘I appreciate that we do not inquest on a bod
y part – I mean a finger or a toe or even a limb that may be found, for instance. But we’ve today found a head detached from its body and, separately, a headless body.’

  Furzey looked at me suspiciously.

  ‘Well, you have all you need – it doesn’t matter if they’re detached. You have parts adding up to a whole body – that is the minimum requirement.’

  ‘But, you see, I have parts that don’t add up. Or, more accurately, they add up to two. I have, to be precise, the parts of two different bodies.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘There are two Adam’s apples.’

  Furzey looked down for a moment, then perked his head up again.

  ‘Ah! I see. The necks are cut in different places.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He pursed his lips in thought.

  ‘You need all parts of a whole body essential to life. Therefore, you must find the missing headless corpse and the missing chopped-off head, and then you will have two bodies to inquest for the price of one.’

  ‘Thank you, Furzey. We shall endeavour to do so. There is another conundrum you can help me with.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘At the moment a question in theory, but it might become real at any time. Let us suppose a rebel army such as the one presently besieging Carlisle sends scouts south in pairs ahead of its advance and these scouts are killed. However, their deaths are brought about not by soldiers but by people who call themselves loyal covenanters – signatories of some document like the one we have seen going around this town in recent days. What do I do?’

  ‘Killing in the course of warfare,’ said Furzey, ‘killing involving soldiers, is outside the scope of your duties. If there is any law in such a case, it is military law.’

  ‘We don’t know it was warfare. The victims are or may be soldiers, but the killers are civilians.’

  He considered for a moment, then frowned.

  ‘That is indeed a ticklish one,’ he said.

  ‘You mean you don’t know the answer?’

  ‘I mean I don’t know that there is an answer. But let me mull it over. There may be precedent from your father’s time.’

  ‘The Fifteen? Yes, it’s quite likely, though there was also real military fighting then.’

  I was a lad when the last invading Highland army occupied Preston. They had been soundly beaten, but I had no memory of the occupation, or the action, as I’d been sent away from town with my mother to the countryside.

  I used the connecting door to make my way into the house. Elizabeth was out visiting, but from the kitchen I heard the babble of little Hector and found our girl Matty trying to coax the lad into taking his first steps. But, mighty crawler though he was, his legs were not quite strong enough yet to support him.

  ‘Pap! Pap!’ he shouted as soon as he saw me come in, and then, ‘Up! Up!’

  This meant I had to lift him by his armpits and whirl him around as giddily as I could. I performed the office twice, making him laugh with delight, which was one of the gladdest sounds I knew.

  It was raining now, a sleety drizzle. I threw on a greatcoat against the weather and went out again.

  If literature is the best teacher in morals, I prefer history for guidance in practical affairs. Anyone investigating a death is helped if he can inform himself about a similar event from the past. Precedent is one of the most powerful persuaders in a court room, but its usefulness is not confined to the law. Precedent is also very handy in everyday life.

  Fond as I am of a book, I know that the best source of history is living memory, and as far as the history of Preston was concerned, this was embodied in our oldest inhabitant, Wilfrid Feather. He was universally known as Old Methuselah, a man whose ninety-two years and continued mental lucidity lent his voice unrivalled authority, backed up by the rumour that he was writing a history of Preston. No one had ever seen this work, but it was generally agreed it must be monumental and full of the antiquarian learning in which Feather had immersed himself since his retirement as Town Clerk. It was to Old Methuselah’s house in Marsh Lane that I now made my way.

  It was a small and old-fashioned little cottage, much humbler than would be expected of a former senior official. But Feather’s clerkship had been decades in the past and most of the money he had saved was now spent. His granddaughter, Mrs Farrowby, who looked after him, sat me down across the hearth from Old Methuselah’s rocking chair and placed a blackened kettle on the fire between us. Then she went on to the back to gather the necessaries for tea.

  Feather was nearly blind and his voice was flutey, but his memory was in as excellent condition as his abundant white beard.

  ‘I am hoping you can tell me about the rebels in 1715.’

  ‘Only yesterday, was that! There’s scores of Prestonians alive can remember what happened.’

  ‘None so thoughtfully as you, Mr Feather. None so reliably, I’m thinking. In some people, memory plays tricks, does it not? But not in you.’

  ‘That’s very soft of you, Mr Cragg. Very kindly soft. What do you want to know?’

  ‘How Preston was affected. We have new rebels already entered into Cumberland, just as there were then.’

  ‘Oh aye, and it was just at this time of year an’ all. November. They had no royalty with them, not then. General Forster was one leader and the Earl of Derwentwater was another, and they led this raggle-taggle army of Jacobites marauding down the road from Scotland, with a few from Lancashire joining up with them as they came along. It was here in Preston that they met up against the forces of the newly arrived king from Germany.’

  ‘And before the main body of rebels arrived here, how much did Preston know? How prepared were we?’

  ‘We were unprepared. We should not have been. We’d heard the news of this army coming down the north road. Scouts and pioneers had been picked up here and there around the northern part of the county.’

  I sat forward in my chair.

  ‘Scouts, you say?’

  ‘Yes, they were looking out for how they could fodder their troops and animals. Some collected money on behalf of the Pretender – lawful taxation, they called it; distortion, we called it.’

  ‘What happened to these scouts?’

  ‘A few were taken up. They were sent away to Chester, or to London maybe.’

  ‘Were any that were taken up attacked by the people? Were any killed?’

  Old Methuselah paused for thought.

  ‘I think I do remember a case, not far from town. It was maybe a week before the rebels came in. A Highlander was caught in the Fylde and beaten to death. They brought his body next day to show it off in Preston Market Place.’

  ‘Were these men prosecuted?’

  ‘No. There was no appetite for that.’

  ‘And when the Scotch came, what did they do about it?’

  ‘They gave the body a burial.’

  ‘Did they not seek out those that had done it? Did they not exact reprisals?’

  ‘There was talk of it as a possibility. I don’t think there was anything done. The Scotch were having too much of a good time, drinking our taverns dry and dancing our ladies to exhaustion, and then the King’s army came up.’

  ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘The Scotch were in a fix. They were bottled up and then the government army forced its way into the town and gradually battered them into surrender. There were no defences, see? No walls, no castle, no more than there is today. Just barricades at the town bars, which any cannon could dismantle with a few well-aimed blasts.’

  ‘So there was no siege?’

  ‘Oh no, nothing like that. It was an invasion, street by street, house by house. Then the King’s men started to set fires. They didn’t care about Preston; they just burned any building they thought the Scotch were in. More than half of poor old Preston was lost at the end, and what wasn’t was looted. Some girls and boys were raped, one or two young apprentices were put up to a wall and shot. Spoils of war. At the end, wh
en the Scotch were beat, them from round here that joined the rebel army were publicly hanged, drawn and quartered on the Moor. It was all part of the price we paid for having hosted the Pretender’s men, Mr Cragg. We’d done it none too willingly, but that made not a scrap of difference. They punished us for it.’

  I was aghast. Fighting in the streets. Half the town burned. Public executions. Looting. It had been much worse than I knew, and now the same perils were facing our town again. And what were we doing to prepare ourselves?

  I gave Old Methuselah sincere thanks and took my leave.

  I deviated from my way home, in spite of the rain, to call at the Mitre Tavern. I thought I would have a smoke and hear what the people were saying about the events at Carlisle. As usual, the wiseacres were drinking and picking away at the latest news as one picks at the carcass of a roasted bird.

  ‘I don’t like to hear the man called Pretender,’ said the blacksmith Adam Clark. ‘Why should we take sides in the argument? Whoever has the grace of God will prevail. Let us keep out of it and await the outcome.’

  ‘Don’t be so daft,’ said William Sowerby who had a cooperage near the Fisher Gate bar. ‘How can we keep out of it? The Pretender, Prince or Chevalier – whatever you want to call him – is at Carlisle, and when he’s taken that castle, he will march to Lancaster and he’ll take that castle, and then he’ll come to Preston. And it’ll be just the same as in ’fifteen.’

  ‘And we’ve not even got a castle,’ observed Aloysius Hutton, who kept a tobacconist’s nearby.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the printer Anthony Buckler. ‘And the King’s force will come again to fight them here. They say the King’s son the Duke of Cumberland is sent for to take command.’

  ‘Fatty Cumberland?’ the cooper hooted. ‘That hogshead of lard. He’ll never get here in time. It’s said a horse lasts less than an hour under him before its spirit is broken.’

  ‘But the rebels – if I may call them that, Adam?’ said Seb Beach the poultryman. ‘They may yet avoid Cumberland and sheer off to the east and after General Wade.’