Things did happen, however, that do concern me. The first was laughable though vexatious. This was the manner of it.
While the Prince was making the stage from Macclesfield to Manchester, and Murray and the Colonel were in force a few miles in his rear, I had to keep the country behind them well observed. I had one patrol within sight of Macclesfield, and others stretching out along an edge of upland country running westward to the next main road. I spent the night in a little wayside ale-house, and was having my breakfast next morning when I was disturbed by a succession of yells from without.
I ran into the yard and there was Donald, the rough head of one of my dragoons in each hand, banging them together, varying his bangs with kicks at any accessible spot, and shrieking at them in Gaelic, while they shrieked back and wriggled to escape. He stopped when he saw me, but still held them by the pow.
"What's it all about, Donald?" I asked.
"The loons! It's Glencoe 'erself sail hang 'em," he said breathlessly.
"What for? Out with it, Donald!"
"Yes, you gomeril"--shoving one of the men sprawling into the stable--"oot wi' it! Bring your tarn rogues wark 'ere!"
The man came sheepishly out with my saddle, cut and ripped and gutted till it wasn't worth a sou.
Strict and stern inquiry threw little light on the matter. I had my own suspicions, namely, of two licorous raffatags in the so-called Manchester regiment, whom I had handsomely kicked out of a roadside cottage where they were for behaving after their kind. They had been seen prowling about the curtilage of the ale-house the night before.
I went back to my breakfast. For a few hours I had to make shift with the saddle of one of my dragoons, but, after a short halt later on, Donald brought out the sorrel with a fine, and nearly new, saddle.