“Then you think it will be a rout?” panted Frank.
“It must be sooner or later. They may gain a few little advantages by surprise, or the cowardice of the troops; but those successes can’t last, and when the defeat comes it will be the greater, and mean a complete end to a mad scheme.”
“But the Prince must be with them by this time, sir.”
“The Pretender? No; he is still in France without coming forward, and leaving the misguided men who would place him on the throne to be slaughtered for aught he seems to care.”
Captain Murray proved to be a true prophet, for he had spoken on the basis of his experience of what properly trained men could do against troops hastily collected, and badly armed men whose discipline was of the rudest description.
Sooner even than the captain had anticipated the news came in a despatch brought from the north of England. The Pretender’s forces, under Lords Derwentwater, Kenmuir, and Nithsdale, were encountered by the King’s troops; and before the two bodies joined battle a summons was sent to the rebel army calling upon the men to lay down their arms or be attacked without mercy.
The Pretender’s generals tried to treat the summons to surrender with contempt, laughed at it, and bade their followers to stand fast and the victory would be theirs. But, in spite of the exhortations of their officers, the sight of the King’s regular troops drawn up in battle array proved too much for the raw forces. Probably they were wearied with marching and the many difficulties they had had to encounter. Their enthusiasm leaked out, life seemed far preferable to death, and they surrendered at discretion.
There was feasting and rejoicing at Saint James’s that night, when the news came of the bloodless victory; while in one of the apartments mother and son were shut up alone in the agony of their misery and despair, for whatever might be the fate of the common people of the Pretender’s army, the action of the King toward all who opposed him was known to be of merciless severity. The leaders of the rebellion could expect but one fate—death by the executioner.
“But, mother, mother! oh, don’t give way to despair like that,” cried Frank. “We have heard so little yet. Father would fight to the last before he would fly; but when all was over he would be too clever for the enemy, and escape in safety to the coast.”
“No,” said Lady Gowan, in tones which startled her son. “Your father, Frank, would never desert the men he had led. It would be to victory or death. It was not to victory they marched that day.”