Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

She turned from him and fled into the house, muttering, as she crossed its threshold, “The poor pelican! how it must hurt when she digs her beak into her bosom, and feeds her young with her own heart’s blood!”

Sir George Hamilton stood looking after her for a moment; then he shook his head, drew his cloak tighter round him, and strode resolutely across the park to the “Hamilton Arms.”

Thus it fell out that when he arrived there, he found the hostelry, lately so full of guests, occupied only by Florian and the two seamen; the first depressed, silent, preoccupied; the others obviously swelling with importance, and bursting to communicate some great intelligence at once.

It was fortunate that the former commander of ‘The Bashful Maid,’ retained enough of his old habits to comprehend the tale Slap-Jack had to tell, garnished as it was with professional phrases and queer sea-going metaphors that no landsman could have followed out. From his faithful retainer the baronet learned all the particulars of the Jacobite meeting, and the conspiracy so carefully organised against the throne, discovered by no less futile a contingency than the freak of a barmaid to frighten a highwayman. Sir George believed it his duty now to warn the Government at once. Yet even while reflecting on the importance of his information, and the noble reward it might obtain, he was pondering how he could escape the delay of an hour in London, and longing for the moment when he should find himself face to face with Florian on the coast of France.

It was characteristic of the man that he gave little thought to the attack meditated upon his own person, simply examining his arms as usual, and desiring Slap-Jack, who had come unprovided, to borrow a brace of pistols wherever he could get them, while he bestowed on Smoke-Jack, who piteously entreated leave to “join the expedition,” a careless permission “to take his share in the spree if he liked.”

So these four men waited in the warm inn-parlour for the roll of the lumbering coach that was to bear them, so each well knew, into a struggle for life and death.

When their vehicle arrived at last, they found themselves its only passengers. The burly coachman descending from his seat to refresh, cursed the cold weather heartily, and in the same breath tendered a gruff salutation to Sir George. The guard, whose face was redder, whose shoulders were broader, and whose voice was huskier even than the coachman’s, endorsed his companion’s remarks, and followed suit in his greetings to the baronet, observing, at the same time, that he should “take a glass of brandy neat, to drive the cold out of his stomach.” This stimulant was accordingly administered by Alice, and paid for by Sir George, who had not lived at Hamilton Hill without learning the etiquette of coach travelling as practised on the north road. While he placed some silver on the counter, it did not escape him that both functionaries had been drinking freely, possibly to console them for the lack of company, while Slap-Jack, grinning in delight, whispered to his mate—

“If you an’ me was to go for to take our spell at the wheel, half-slewed, like them chaps, my eyes, wot a twistin’ we should get to-morrow mornin’ afore eight bells!”

With so light a freight there was less delay in changing horses than usual. Scarcely a quarter of an hour had elapsed since its arrival ere four moderate-looking animals were harnessed to the coach. The luggage was hoisted on, old Robin rewarded, Mrs. Dodge paid, Alice kissed with much energy by her sweetheart, and Sir George, with Florian, invited to take their places on the front seat behind the driver; then the two seamen clambered up beside the guard, the whip cracked, the hoofs clattered, the whole machine creaked and jingled, while Smoke-Jack, removing the pipe from his mouth with a certain gravity, expressed his devout hope that “old brandy-face would keep her well up in the wind and steer small!”

It was a cold night, and a cheerless, though light as day, for the moon had risen and the ground was white with snow. Sir George, wrapped in his cloak, with his hand on the butt of a pistol, after some vague remarks about the weather, which Florian appeared not to hear, relapsed into the silence of one who prepares all his energies for an approaching crisis.