第 四十九 章 · THE ENGLISH PRISONER

. THE ENGLISH PRISONER

The first occupation of Waverley, after he departed from the Chieftain,

was to go in quest of the officer whose life he had saved. He was

guarded, along with his companions in misfortune, who were very

numerous, in a gentleman’s house near the field of battle.

On entering the room where they stood crowded together, Waverley easily

recognised the object of his visit, not only by the peculiar dignity of

his appearance, but by the appendage of Dugald Mahony, with his

battleaxe, who had stuck to him from the moment of his captivity as if

he had been skewered to his side. This close attendance was perhaps for

the purpose of securing his promised reward from Edward, but it also

operated to save the English gentleman from being plundered in the

scene of general confusion; for Dugald sagaciously argued that the

amount of the salvage which he might be allowed would be regulated by

the state of the prisoner when he should deliver him over to Waverley.

He hastened to assure Waverley, therefore, with more words than he

usually employed, that he had “keepit ta _sidier roy_ haill, and that

he wasna a plack the waur since the fery moment when his honour forbad

her to gie him a bit clamhewit wi’ her Lochaber-axe.”

Waverley assured Dugald of a liberal recompense, and, approaching the

English officer, expressed his anxiety to do anything which might

contribute to his convenience under his present unpleasant

circumstances.

“I am not so inexperienced a soldier, sir,” answered the Englishman,

“as to complain of the fortune of war. I am only grieved to see those

scenes acted in our own island which I have often witnessed elsewhere

with comparative indifference.”

“Another such day as this,” said Waverley, “and I trust the cause of

your regrets will be removed, and all will again return to peace and

order.”

The officer smiled and shook his head. “I must not forget my situation

so far as to attempt a formal confutation of that opinion; but,

notwithstanding your success and the valour which achieved it, you have

undertaken a task to which your strength appears wholly inadequate.”

At this moment Fergus pushed into the press.

“Come, Edward, come along; the Prince has gone to Pinkie House for the

night; and we must follow, or lose the whole ceremony of the _caligæ_.

Your friend, the Baron, has been guilty of a great piece of cruelty; he

has insisted upon dragging Bailie Macwheeble out to the field of

battle. Now, you must know, the Bailie’s greatest horror is an armed

Highlander or a loaded gun; and there he stands, listening to the

Baron’s instructions concerning the protest, ducking his head like a

sea-gull at the report of every gun and pistol that our idle boys are

firing upon the fields, and undergoing, by way of penance, at every

symptom of flinching a severe rebuke from his patron, who would not

admit the discharge of a whole battery of cannon, within point-blank

distance, as an apology for neglecting a discourse in which the honour

of his family is interested.”

“But how has Mr. Bradwardine got him to venture so far?” said Edward.

“Why, he had come as far as Musselburgh, I fancy, in hopes of making

some of our wills; and the peremptory commands of the Baron dragged him

forward to Preston after the battle was over. He complains of one or

two of our ragamuffins having put him in peril of his life by

presenting their pieces at him; but as they limited his ransom to an

English penny, I don’t think we need trouble the provost-marshal upon

that subject. So come along, Waverley.”

“Waverley!” said the English officer, with great emotion; “the nephew

of Sir Everard Waverley, of ——shire?”

“The same, sir,” replied our hero, somewhat surprised at the tone in

which he was addressed.

“I am at once happy and grieved,” said the prisoner, “to have met with

you.”

“I am ignorant, sir,” answered Waverley, “how I have deserved so much

interest.”

“Did your uncle never mention a friend called Talbot?”

“I have heard him talk with great regard of such a person,” replied

Edward; “a colonel, I believe, in the army, and the husband of Lady

Emily Blandeville; but I thought Colonel Talbot had been abroad.”

“I am just returned,” answered the officer; “and being in Scotland,

thought it my duty to act where my services promised to be useful. Yes,

Mr. Waverley, I am that Colonel Talbot, the husband of the lady you

have named; and I am proud to acknowledge that I owe alike my

professional rank and my domestic happiness to your generous and

noble-minded relative. Good God! that I should find his nephew in such

a dress, and engaged in such a cause!”

“Sir,” said Fergus, haughtily, “the dress and cause are those of men of

birth and honour.”

“My situation forbids me to dispute your assertion,” said Colonel

Talbot; “otherwise it were no difficult matter to show that neither

courage nor pride of lineage can gild a bad cause. But, with Mr.

Waverley’s permission and yours, sir, if yours also must be asked, I

would willingly speak a few words with him on affairs connected with

his own family.”

“Mr. Waverley, sir, regulates his own motions. You will follow me, I

suppose, to Pinkie,” said Fergus, turning to Edward, “when you have

finished your discourse with this new acquaintance?” So saying, the

Chief of Glennaquoich adjusted his plaid with rather more than his

usual air of haughty assumption and left the apartment.

The interest of Waverley readily procured for Colonel Talbot the

freedom of adjourning to a large garden belonging to his place of

confinement. They walked a few paces in silence, Colonel Talbot

apparently studying how to open what he had to say; at length he

addressed Edward.

“Mr. Waverley, you have this day saved my life; and yet I would to God

that I had lost it, ere I had found you wearing the uniform and cockade

of these men.”

“I forgive your reproach, Colonel Talbot; it is well meant, and your

education and prejudices render it natural. But there is nothing

extraordinary in finding a man whose honour has been publicly and

unjustly assailed in the situation which promised most fair to afford

him satisfaction on his calumniators.”

“I should rather say, in the situation most likely to confirm the

reports which they have circulated,” said Colonel Talbot, “by following

the very line of conduct ascribed to you. Are you aware, Mr. Waverley,

of the infinite distress, and even danger, which your present conduct

has occasioned to your nearest relatives?”

“Danger!”

“Yes, sir, danger. When I left England your uncle and father had been

obliged to find bail to answer a charge of treason, to which they were

only admitted by the exertion of the most powerful interest. I came

down to Scotland with the sole purpose of rescuing you from the gulf

into which you have precipitated yourself; nor can I estimate the

consequences to your family of your having openly joined the rebellion,

since the very suspicion of your intention was so perilous to them.

Most deeply do I regret that I did not meet you before this last and

fatal error.”

“I am really ignorant,” said Waverley, in a tone of reserve, “why

Colonel Talbot should have taken so much trouble on my account.”

“Mr. Waverley,” answered Talbot, “I am dull at apprehending irony; and

therefore I shall answer your words according to their plain meaning. I

am indebted to your uncle for benefits greater than those which a son

owes to a father. I acknowledge to him the duty of a son; and as I know

there is no manner in which I can requite his kindness so well as by

serving you, I will serve you, if possible, whether you will permit me

or no. The personal obligation which you have this day laid me under

(although, in common estimation, as great as one human being can bestow

on another) adds nothing to my zeal on your behalf; nor can that zeal

be abated by any coolness with which you may please to receive it.”

“Your intentions may be kind, sir,” said Waverley, drily; “but your

language is harsh, or at least peremptory.”

“On my return to England,” continued Colonel Talbot, “after long

absence, I found your uncle, Sir Everard Waverley, in the custody of a

king’s messenger, in consequence of the suspicion brought upon him by

your conduct. He is my oldest friend—how often shall I repeat it?—my

best benefactor! he sacrificed his own views of happiness to mine; he

never uttered a word, he never harboured a thought, that benevolence

itself might not have thought or spoken. I found this man in

confinement, rendered harsher to him by his habits of life, his natural

dignity of feeling, and—forgive me, Mr. Waverley—by the cause through

which this calamity had come upon him. I cannot disguise from you my

feelings upon this occasion; they were most painfully unfavorable to

you. Having by my family interest, which you probably know is not

inconsiderable, succeeded in obtaining Sir Everard’s release, I set out

for Scotland. I saw Colonel Gardiner, a man whose fate alone is

sufficient to render this insurrection for ever execrable. In the

course of conversation with him I found that, from late circumstances,

from a re-examination of the persons engaged in the mutiny, and from

his original good opinion of your character, he was much softened

towards you; and I doubted not that, if I could be so fortunate as to

discover you, all might yet be well. But this unnatural rebellion has

ruined all. I have, for the first time in a long and active military

life, seen Britons disgrace themselves by a panic flight, and that

before a foe without either arms or discipline. And now I find the heir

of my dearest friend—the son, I may say, of his affections—sharing a

triumph for which he ought the first to have blushed. Why should I

lament Gardiner? his lot was happy compared to mine!”

There was so much dignity in Colonel Talbot’s manner, such a mixture of

military pride and manly sorrow, and the news of Sir Everard’s

imprisonment was told in so deep a tone of feeling, that Edward stood

mortified, abashed, and distressed in presence of the prisoner who owed

to him his life not many hours before. He was not sorry when Fergus

interrupted their conference a second time.

“His Royal Highness commands Mr. Waverley’s attendance.” Colonel Talbot

threw upon Edward a reproachful glance, which did not escape the quick

eye of the Highland Chief. “His _immediate_ attendance,” he repeated,

with considerable emphasis. Waverley turned again towards the Colonel.

“We shall meet again,” he said; “in the meanwhile, every possible

accommodation—”

“I desire none,” said the Colonel; “let me fare like the meanest of

those brave men who, on this day of calamity, have preferred wounds and

captivity to flight; I would almost exchange places with one of those

who have fallen to know that my words have made a suitable impression

on your mind.”

“Let Colonel Talbot be carefully secured,” said Fergus to the Highland

officer who commanded the guard over the prisoners; “it is the Prince’s

particular command; he is a prisoner of the utmost importance.”

“But let him want no accommodation suitable to his rank,” said

Waverley. “Consistent always with secure custody,” reiterated Fergus.

The officer signified his acquiescence in both commands, and Edward

followed Fergus to the garden-gate, where Callum Beg, with three

saddle-horses, awaited them. Turning his head, he saw Colonel Talbot

reconducted to his place of confinement by a file of Highlanders; he

lingered on the threshold of the door and made a signal with his hand

towards Waverley, as if enforcing the language he had held towards him.

“Horses,” said Fergus, as he mounted, “are now as plenty as

blackberries; every man may have them for the catching. Come, let

Callum adjust your stirrups and let us to Pinkie House[*] as fast as

these _ci-devant_ dragoon-horses choose to carry us.”

[* Charles Edward took up his quarters after the battle at Pinkie

House, adjoining to Musselburgh.]