Soon they were mounted, Ram held on Dick's pommel. Born where Yorkshire's North Riding marched with County Durham, Dick knew the road well and pointed out landmarks to wide-eyed Ram, even throwing a few jests at Ely,
But the latter, no rider and having to sling his flintlock dragoon fashion, was chafing badly and became morosely silent.
They reached Bishop Auckland in bright moonlight, but there had to spend the rest of the night, Ram having grown feverish and Dick himself not yet recovered from seasickness. But they went on again at dawn, crossing barren fells and deep-cut dales.
"There's Barnard Castle, where many a dark deed's been done," Dick indicated at last. "Home's not five miles off." Home! His to do with as he chose, even to gamble it to the devil! Ecod, was he a beardless cub, to let an old woman stop him?
Skirting the grim old stronghold, they crossed the bridge over the gorge-enclosed Tees, then along a hedged lane. But as they rounded a curve, Dick was almost ridden down by a redcoat.
"Damme, look where you go!" he bellowed, having almost dropped Ram. He stared. "Will—and a captain!"
"Dick!" Will Anstruther stared in turn. "What brings you home? And your son, I'll be bound." He ranged alongside, hand out. "Eigh, lad, 'tis good ti see thee!"
Dick still stared. After nineteen years, he himself was merely a mock captain, while this bucolic brother was a real one. The realization was a dagger rip through his pride.
"Aye, he's Ram," he muttered. "But where so fast—Captain?"
Will, understanding, looked apologetic. "Eigh, we raised a regiment of fencibles 'gainst the invasion, and I captain Bowes Company. 'Tis said all Scotland's marching on us."
A fencible! Dick's ire died. He'd feared their mother had bought Will a regular commission. He studied him. Two years his junior. Will had the full-bodied ruddiness of their family, yet he seemed ill at ease in his new red coat. Dick glanced down at his own senice-frajed livery with fierce superiority. "No Scotch will come." He explained why.
Will looked relieved. "Then it's no sense holdin' the men under arms longer, not wi' sowin' afore us. I'll but carry tha news ti Colonel Robinson and I'll be home ti greet thee reet an' proper." He spurred away.
Dick continued along the lane. But on rounding a farther curve, he had to rein in before a long, high wall that was pierced by a pair of fine iron gates, with a lodge-house behind them.
" 'Fore Gad!" he gaped. He jerked the bell chain until a man shuffled from the lodge, mouthing toothless protests. "Have done and
open," Dick growled. "Ecod, you're old Seth! Don't ye know me, man?"
The ancient's rheumy eyes blinked. " 'Tis yoong Dick back from t'wars!" He broke into garrulous questioning.
"What's this falderal of gates and lodges and walls?" Dick interrupted. "Where's your farmhouse gone?"
"Tha owd lady owns all now," Seth Cobley mumbled. "Bought me out, she did. Gatekeeper now, that's me. She pulled down me 'ouse for t'stone an' lumber, an' . . ."
But already Dick was cantering along a new gravel driveway fringed by sapling chestnuts. He was confused. This used to be a dirt track that straggled past Seth's farm to join the lane. And now it was all his!
At the driveway's end stood his home. His jaw dropped. Instead of the stout farmhouse he'd known, here was a mansion! A story and wings had been added, there was a lawn before the portico and the outbuildings had been rebuilt discreetly on either side. Many a belted peer would be proud to own it.
"Ours, lad—ours!" he told Ram, who lay limp in his arm.
"Halt, sir officer. If it's t'Captain ye seek, he's already away." A figure had come from between the chestnuts, one wearing a man's broad hat, wide skirts, a shawl over the shoulders and carrying a stout staff. But it was the face that drew his gaze—the shrewd, strong, yet feminine face of "that bitch" of his anger—his mother.
He swung to ground and knelt before Hannah Anstruther. Blinking hard, he was back twenty years, a sprig of a lad, a-knee to beg forgiveness for a night out with roystering tavern mates.
"Lady Mother!" His voice was strangely hoarse.
There was a cry, the clatter of the fallen staff. "Dick! Dick, my own!" Her arms strained him to her and for a moment he felt an ineffable peace. Then she released him and he rose, shocked by her slightness, by the whiteness of her hair.
"Ram, this is your Gammer." He pushed the child forward. "Make her a leg, boy, make her a leg."
She stared at the bowing lad. "Thy bairn!" she breathed. "Eigh, but he's handsome!" She swept Ram up. "Coom to thy Gammer. Thou art a sight for sore eyes!" But then she put him down and felt his cheeks. "He's burnin' wi' fever!" She swung on Dick. "You
lummox to risk him so! To the house with him, quick." She glared up at Ely. "You, sitting there like a bag o' malt! Tak' him oop and 111 mount wi' my son." Completely dominant, she handed the boy to him, then got up pillion behind Dick. The instant they reached home, she swept Ram up to bed, with maids scurrying for extra blankets and her homemade medicines.
While Dick was stuffing himself with beef, pasty and ham, washed down by home-brewed ale, an audience gathered. There was Joan, whom he'd last seen as Will's gawky bride, back in 1701. Now, with her blonde hair, rounded body and dimpled cheeks, she was worth a second look. There were her two boys: John, six, and Rob, five; miniatures of their father and gaping at this strange soldier whom they must call Uncle. But Sue, three, was so shy that she hid tearfully behind her mother's skirts.
Only when the cook, who'd come into the family before his birth, brought in more food, did Dick really feel at home. "Stab me, if you're a day older. Poll!" He pecked her withered cheek.
"Thou art a girt liar!" she blushed. She pointed to his scar. "Eigh, whad did them French furreners do ti thee?"
Soon he was telling of his deeds. But, though they hung upon his words, he ignored the boys. With their slack mouths and untidy clothes, they compared most unfavorably with his own lad. His own? Ely must already be holding forth with the wenches. If he so much as hinted as to Ram's real background . . . !
He had the man meet him outside. "Sirrah, drop one word Ram's not my true son and I'll flay the hide off ye!"
"I've no loose mouth, sir," Ely whined. Then wryly: "And your honor would be ill-paid to try flay me, for that mount I rode's been beforehand and rubbed all the skin off my hams."
"Remember." Dick returned within, satisfied.
Hannah came down and reported Ram asleep but in need of good food and much care. She demanded details of the voyage and the ride and sniffed stormily. "Here I work my fingers to the bone for my sons and sons' sons, and ye half kill him bringing him! What life is it for the lad, traipsing around with an army and no woman to care for him?"
"My company laundress cared for him, and—" Dick broke off, suddenly remembering that his mother was the widow of a soldier
and daughter of another and might know about army laundresses. But perhaps Oliver Cromwell hadn't permitted camp followers. "I'll put him in some good Dutch home and—"
"He's not going back,"she interrupted. "No grandson of mine'll be reared by foreigners and lose his mother tongue."
Keep Ram here, while he went back alone? He'd see her . . . !
"Me mind's made oop," she stated flatly. "He'll be raised good Yorkshire, along wi' Will's lads."
He managed a bow. "I'm honored ye think so well of him."
She accepted his surrender. "This outlandish name—Ram. 'Tis a goat's name, not a Christian's."
"It's Ramillies, in honor of our late victory, ma'am."
"Strange he'd no name till then. Is that Dutch fashion?"
"I was away for his birth, and because my lady died, nothing was done till later." He thrust a paper at her. "Here's proof." It had cost him many guilders and much geneva to mellow a fat Dutch chaplain enough to forge that christening certificate.
She scanned it suspiciously. "Foreign gibberish. I don't hold wi' such." But she tucked it in her stays and another hurdle was passed. Encouraged, he was about to la
y down the law about his rights when, inopportunely. Will returned.
" 'Tis true the invasion's failed," he confirmed. "Give me leave ti change from these popinjay clothes back ti farmer, and I'll ride ye around. Theer's many changes since ye've been gone."
How many, Dick soon realized. No longer was Dalesview a Grange. ". . . And soon t'owd lady'11 change it ti Manor," Will added. "We've coom oop in t'world. Owd Sir Roger and that crew don't look down their noses at us these days; not wi' Mother holdin' their mortgages."
Dick beamed. How he'd hated these bigwigs who used to treat him as a mere farm lout; he, whose grandfather had been an An-struther of Fife! For when James VI of Scotland had become also James I of England, Joseph Anstruther was one of many Scots who'd followed their king south. The wild Teesdale country reminding him of his native glens, Joseph had married a local squire's daughter, Dalesview Farm being her dowry. He prospered. But in the Civil Wars, while the local gentry served the king, he and his son John had
sided with Parliament. John was one of OHver Cromwell's captains when Parliament won.
But with the 1660 Restoration, Joseph was mulcted of half his holdings. The shock killed him, and John, sickly and now on the losing side, settled down to farm what was left, helped by his former sergeant, Sam Croly. Hannah, the latter's daughter, nursed John and deemed it a dazzling honor when he married her. So she adored him, bore him Dick and, when John died in 1672, was carrying the future Will.
"Chargers." Will indicated a score of blood horses in a paddock. "We sell 'em to your generals and colonels, but we've been holding this lot back lest the Scots come."
"What do they bring?" Dick was amazed to see such fine stock.
"Forty guineas average for Dalesviews. Aye, we've developed our own strain, by Alan o' Dale. Remember him?"
Dick nodded, busy estimating. Why, they were worth around 800 guineas, half enough to buy a colonelcy! But, aware that in this horse country all farmers were breeders, a new thought came. "Why did ye raise Foot fencibles instead of Horse?"
"Eigh, you're not Yorkshire if ye don't know," Will grinned. "So's we could sell 'em to fools who wanted to raise Horse!"
Horse! Dick was dazzled. Why not raise a regular regiment himself from disembodied fencibles—Anstruther's Dragoons! Five thousand would do it; he'd make the old lady foreclose all mortgages, mortgage Dalesview itself. The sale of commissions and the profits from the men's clothing allowance alone would almost repay him. He knew all the tricks. . . .
By then they were back at the house and dismounting beside some of Dalesview's dismissed fencibles.
"Here's t'captain back from t'wars," Will introduced, and the men bowed a welcome. Dick had eyes only for the young and hale: stableman Fred Bates, farm hands Abel Thornby and Ben Lord; all would make likely dragoons.
He was afire to demand his mother's obedience. But he found the house a hive of preparations, for Hannah had sent invitations to Sir Roger Ellthorpe, to Mr. Robinson and more of the gentry. Her soldier's return with his motherless child was an event to enhance Anstruther prestige.
So that night the tables groaned with food, sack possets and Nantes brandy for the gentlemen and cordials for the ladies. Colonel Robinson, still in his fencible uniform, wasn't above listening respectfully to a Flanders veteran. And Sir Roger, who'd once threatened to horsewhip Dick for dalliance with one of his kitchen maids, now strained ears to catch his tales and presented his yokelish son to him as if to some great lord. Ram, too, though still feverish, was shown to the ladies, who oh'd at the tragedy of his Dutch mother's death and ah'd at the shade of his auburn hair.
The many toasts Dick had to respond to made his head muzzy and his tongue wag. At one moment he was bawling out the Soldier's Wench and daring anyone to render a song more saucy, at another he was showing how he'd slain the foe at Blenheim. . . . Then, amazingly, he was capitulating to superior numbers and surrendering his sword to a scowling general who looked remarkably like Will. . . .
He awakened in his old room with a pounding head. Crawling from bed, he looked at his watch. After noon—he'd wasted half the day. He must wring money from the old dame before he started back tomorrow. Damme, but that ride had been hard! Stomach churning, he fumbled into his clothes.
Groaning, he wandered into the dining hall. Joan was there, but at sight of him she hurried out. He scowled. She'd always been timid with him, but this running off without so much as "Good day. Brother" or "Did ye sleep well"!
Then he stared dumfounded. What had happened to Grandfather Joseph's chair? Its back was split and one of its legs was missing. He had an uneasy feeling of responsibility for it.
He climbed the stairs glumly. Ram looked tiny in the great tester bed, but a glad light came into his eyes. "Father!" He tugged Dick down beside him. "Carla," he urged. "Want Carla."
"Poor little tyke. Ye want to be back with her, hey?"
The child nodded. "Wiv Howe's."
"Damme, you're a soldier born! But, look ye, you've a bout to serve in hospital before ye can serve again. Get you well, and I'll be back for you."
Ram's face screwed up, but he gulped bravely. "Yes, y'honor," he said in a small, choked voice and turned away.
Dick went below, seeking Hannah without success. In the kitchen, Poll flared: "La, tha hast made tha muther reet ired. Why didst mak' uproar wi' all them grand folk here? Eigh, tha art a fule!" And, when asked what he'd done: "Dame'll tell thee."
Disconsolate, he went out. Will rode up and, embarrassed, asked how he felt.
"All a-sea. My belly and head's still warring from that cursed rough passage. The old lady's displeased with me, hey?"
"Lord, brother, don't ye recall? That song ye sang! And you saying you'd be general ere long, and when you'd raised your regiment ye'd make cannon fodder of all our young squires!"
"I . . . said that?" Dick turned cold.
" 'Twas a rout when ye showed how ye fought at Blenheim," Will grinned. "The ladies ran as tha sword flashed out and many a man turned white. Eigh, Granfer Joe's chair was reet haughty till ye clopped its leg off! And if I hadn't taken tha blade away, you'd ha' cut poor Sir Roger to pieces. I've tha sword safe, but it's a bit notched like."
Dick cursed what he'd drunk. Geneva now never soured a man's stomach or his head. "Where's Mother?"
"In the paddock, picking chargers for selling. Let her bide, Dick. She'll come around."
Will rode off and Dick entered the stables, where Fred Bates, currying a fine bay gelding, greeted him eagerly. He'd heard, he said, that his honor was to raise a horse regiment, and he'd give much to serve in it and be a military gentleman like Mr. Ely and swear and ogle the wenches. Ben Lord and Able Thomby, he added, were also mad to 'list.
So Ely had been cr}ing up military life! It should make these yokels eager recruits for Howe's, if they thought that later they could transfer to the, as yet unborn, Anstruther's Dragoons. He told Fred he'd consider his request, had him saddle the bay and rode to find the other two men.
They were dressing a field with lime. Yes, they'd long hankered to be soldiers, but Dame said she'd have no use for lads who came back minus arms and legs. But Dick was persuasive, so each accepted a Queen's shilling and was duly enlisted. This done, he went back to make sure of Fred. But the latter had gone and the bell was ringing for supper.
A hush came upon the seated family as Dick entered the dining hall. Hannah, eyes bright, pointed to the table's head, where the mutilated chair still stood. "As master of this house, seat yourself, Colonel!"
"Servant, ma'am," he choked, and sat—only to topple sideways as the now three-legged chair unbalanced under him.
The boys guffawed, but were frozen by Hannah. "Our brave colonel still suffers from last night's wars," she commented.
He bit back oaths. The old vixen meant to treat him like a fool, hey? Carefully he reached for the ale tankard and filled his mug, as carefully he heaped food on his platter; but both times the accursed chair tilted with him, as if it were sensately vengef
ul. The effort of curbing his fury made his head ache again. Begod, he'd bring the old trout to heel and . . .!
But she was rising. Upon his following suit, the chair caught him behind the knees and sprawled him across the table.
"When the Queen makes thee general, I hope tha won't fall flat on tha face too," she said dispassionately. "I'll be across the passage if ye want me." She left with Joan and the children.
Dizzy with chagrin, he glared at Will who, shrugging, muttered: "Eigh, she's champion!" and walked out.
Feet dragging as if he were a schoolboy bound for a whipping, Dick entered his mother's small office across the passageway. She sat at her escritoire, candlelight playing upon her white hair.
"I've heard the army's no place to learn manners, and last night proves it," she attacked. "Turning tha own home into a tavern, wi' tha brawling and boasting!"
"I was sick, ma'am and the liquor set my head awry," he protested. "No harm's done, surely?"
"No harm? For years I've fought to uphold tha father's name and borne bitter insults for it. And now, when time comes to show the gentry you're quality too, you prove nowt but a drunken Lob-sterback!"
"They'll soon learn different. The Queen needs regiments and gives high reward to those who raise 'em." He plunged on recklessly, until lack of breath alone halted him and left them staring at each other in silence.
"When tha father died, ye'd scarce done sucking my breast," she said at last. "Who then farmed the land, bred the horses, sold
the crops? Nay, not even when ye was grown did ye do else but drink and wench wi' that redcoat crew at Richmond and swear ye'd never rest till you wore the red too. Aye, ye prated enough how ye'd win fame against the rebel Irish and make dead Anstruther proud! How the Dutch lass married ye, I don't know. Maybe she's better dead, since you'd ruin an estate that's been eighty years in the making. Eigh, that hole in tha head must ha' made thee daft!"
" 'Fore God, I'll not be treated so!" he flared. "Dalesview's mine by law. I ask but to use it for promotion and fame—Anstruther fame! I could be a lieutenant colonel but for your niggardliness. Think I love having snotty-nosed boys set above me because they purchased their rank? I, who've fought and bled twenty years?"
Ram; being the tale of one Ramillies Anstruther, 1704-55 .. Page 4
