Chapter LV.
The Scotchman.
And now our readers must leave the _Standard_ to sail peaceably, not
toward London, where D’Artagnan and Porthos believed they were going,
but to Durham, whither Mordaunt had been ordered to repair by the
letter he had received during his sojourn at Boulogne, and accompany us
to the royalist camp, on this side of the Tyne, near Newcastle.
There, placed between two rivers on the borders of Scotland, but still
on English soil, the tents of a little army extended. It was midnight.
Some Highlanders were listlessly keeping watch. The moon, which was
partially obscured by heavy clouds, now and then lit up the muskets of
the sentinels, or silvered the walls, the roofs, and the spires of the
town that Charles I. had just surrendered to the parliamentary troops,
whilst Oxford and Newark still held out for him in the hopes of coming
to some arrangement.
At one of the extremities of the camp, near an immense tent, in which
the Scottish officers were holding a kind of council, presided over by
Lord Leven, their commander, a man attired as a cavalier lay sleeping
on the turf, his right hand extended over his sword.
About fifty paces off, another man, also appareled as a cavalier, was
talking to a Scotch sentinel, and, though a foreigner, he seemed to
understand without much difficulty the answers given in the broad
Perthshire dialect.
As the town clock of Newcastle struck one the sleeper awoke, and with
all the gestures of a man rousing himself out of deep sleep he looked
attentively about him; perceiving that he was alone he rose and making
a little circuit passed close to the cavalier who was speaking to the
sentinel. The former had no doubt finished his questions, for a moment
later he said good-night and carelessly followed the same path taken by
the first cavalier.
In the shadow of a tent the former was awaiting him.
“Well, my dear friend?” said he, in as pure French as has ever been
uttered between Rouen and Tours.
“Well, my friend, there is not a moment to lose; we must let the king
know immediately.”
“Why, what is the matter?”
“It would take too long to tell you, besides, you will hear it all
directly and the least word dropped here might ruin all. We must go and
find Lord Winter.”
They both set off to the other end of the camp, but as it did not cover
more than a surface of five hundred feet they quickly arrived at the
tent they were looking for.
“Tony, is your master sleeping?” said one of the two cavaliers to a
servant who was lying in the outer compartment, which served as a kind
of ante-room.
“No, monsieur le comte,” answered the servant, “I think not; or at
least he has not long been so, for he was pacing up and down for more
than two hours after he left the king, and the sound of his footsteps
has only ceased during the last ten minutes. However, you may look and
see,” added the lackey, raising the curtained entrance of the tent.
Lord Winter was seated near an aperture, arranged as a window to let in
the night air, his eyes mechanically following the course of the moon,
intermittently veiled, as we before observed, by heavy clouds. The two
friends approached Winter, who, with his head on his hands, was gazing
at the heavens; he did not hear them enter and remained in the same
attitude till he felt a hand upon his shoulder.
He turned around, recognized Athos and Aramis and held out his hand to
them.
“Have you observed,” said he to them, “what a blood-red color the moon
has to-night?”
“No,” replied Athos; “I thought it looked much the same as usual.”
“Look, again, chevalier,” returned Lord Winter.
“I must own,” said Aramis, “I am like the Comte de la Fère—I can see
nothing remarkable about it.”
“My lord,” said Athos, “in a position so precarious as ours we must
examine the earth and not the heavens. Have you studied our Scotch
troops and have you confidence in them?”
“The Scotch?” inquired Winter. “What Scotch?”
“Ours, egad!” exclaimed Athos. “Those in whom the king has
confided—Lord Leven’s Highlanders.”
“No,” said Winter, then he paused; “but tell me, can you not perceive
the russet tint which marks the heavens?”
“Not the least in the world,” said Aramis and Athos at once.
“Tell me,” continued Winter, always possessed by the same idea, “is
there not a tradition in France that Henry IV., the evening before the
day he was assassinated, when he was playing at chess with M. de
Bassompiere, saw clots of blood upon the chessboard?”
“Yes,” said Athos, “and the maréchal has often told me so himself.”
“Then it was so,” murmured Winter, “and the next day Henry IV. was
killed.”
“But what has this vision of Henry IV. to do with you, my lord?”
inquired Aramis.
“Nothing; and indeed I am mad to trouble you with such things, when
your coming to my tent at such an hour announces that you are the
bearers of important news.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Athos, “I wish to speak to the king.”
“To the king! but the king is asleep.”
“I have something important to reveal to him.”
“Can it not be put off till to-morrow?”
“He must know it this moment, and perhaps it is already too late.”
“Come, then,” said Lord Winter.
Lord Winter’s tent was pitched by the side of the royal marquee, a kind
of corridor communicating between the two. This corridor was guarded,
not by a sentinel, but by a confidential servant, through whom, in case
of urgency, Charles could communicate instantly with his faithful
subject.
“These gentlemen are with me,” said Winter.
The lackey bowed and let them pass. As he had said, on a camp bed,
dressed in his black doublet, booted, unbelted, with his felt hat
beside him, lay the king, overcome by sleep and fatigue. They advanced,
and Athos, who was the first to enter, gazed a moment in silence on
that pale and noble face, framed in its long and now untidy, matted
hair, the blue veins showing through the transparent temples, his eyes
seemingly swollen by tears.
Athos sighed deeply; the sigh woke the king, so lightly did he sleep.
He opened his eyes.
“Ah!” said he, raising himself on his elbow, “is it you, Comte de la
Fère?”
“Yes, sire,” replied Athos.
“You watch while I sleep and you have come to bring me some news?”
“Alas, sire,” answered Athos, “your majesty has guessed aright.”
“It is bad news?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Never mind; the messenger is welcome. You never come to me without
conferring pleasure. You whose devotion recognizes neither country nor
misfortune, you who are sent to me by Henrietta; whatever news you
bring, speak out.”
“Sire, Cromwell has arrived this night at Newcastle.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the king, “to fight?”
“No, sire, but to buy your majesty.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, sire, that four hundred thousand pounds are owing to the
Scottish army.”
“For unpaid wages; yes, I know it. For the last year my faithful
Highlanders have fought for honor alone.”
Athos smiled.
“Well, sir, though honor is a fine thing, they are tired of fighting
for it, and to-night they have sold you for two hundred thousand
pounds—that is to say, for half what is owing them.”
“Impossible!” cried the king, “the Scotch sell their king for two
hundred thousand pounds! And who is the Judas who has concluded this
infamous bargain?”
“Lord Leven.”
“Are you certain of it, sir?”
“I heard it with my own ears.”
The king sighed deeply, as if his heart would break, and then buried
his face in his hands.
“Oh! the Scotch,” he exclaimed, “the Scotch I called ‘my faithful,’ to
whom I trusted myself when I could have fled to Oxford! the Scotch, my
brothers! But are you well assured, sir?”
“Lying behind the tent of Lord Leven, I raised it and saw all, heard
all!”
“And when is this to be consummated?”
“To-day—this morning; so your majesty must perceive there is no time to
lose!”
“To do what? since you say I am sold.”
“To cross the Tyne, reach Scotland and rejoin Lord Montrose, who will
not sell you.”
“And what shall I do in Scotland? A war of partisans, unworthy of a
king.”
“The example of Robert Bruce will absolve you, sire.”
“No, no! I have fought too long; they have sold me, they shall give me
up, and the eternal shame of treble treason shall fall on their heads.”
“Sire,” said Athos, “perhaps a king should act thus, but not a husband
and a father. I have come in the name of your wife and daughter and of
the children you have still in London, and I say to you, ‘Live,
sire,’—it is the will of Heaven.”
The king raised himself, buckled on his belt, and passing his
handkerchief over his moist forehead, said:
“Well, what is to be done?”
“Sire, have you in the army one regiment on which you can implicitly
rely?”
“Winter,” said the king, “do you believe in the fidelity of yours?”
“Sire, they are but men, and men are become both weak and wicked. I
will not answer for them. I would confide my life to them, but I should
hesitate ere I trusted them with your majesty’s.”
“Well!” said Athos, “since you have not a regiment, we are three
devoted men. It is enough. Let your majesty mount on horseback and
place yourself in the midst of us; we will cross the Tyne, reach
Scotland, and you will be saved.”
“Is this your counsel also, Winter?” inquired the king.
“Yes, sire.”
“And yours, Monsieur d’Herblay?”
“Yes, sire.”
“As you wish, then. Winter, give the necessary orders.”
Winter then left the tent; in the meantime the king finished his
toilet. The first rays of daybreak penetrated the aperture of the tent
as Winter re-entered it.
“All is ready, sire,” said he.
“For us, also?” inquired Athos.
“Grimaud and Blaisois are holding your horses, ready saddled.”
“In that case,” exclaimed Athos, “let us not lose an instant, but set
off.”
“Come,” added the king.
“Sire,” said Aramis, “will not your majesty acquaint some of your
friends of this?”
“Friends!” answered Charles, sadly, “I have but three—one of twenty
years, who has never forgotten me, and two of a week’s standing, whom I
shall never forget. Come, gentlemen, come!”
The king quitted his tent and found his horse ready waiting for him. It
was a chestnut that the king had ridden for three years and of which he
was very fond.
The horse neighed with pleasure at seeing him.
“Ah!” said the king, “I was unjust; here is a creature that loves me.
You at least will be faithful to me, Arthur.”
The horse, as if it understood these words, bent its red nostrils
toward the king’s face, and parting his lips displayed all its teeth,
as if with pleasure.
“Yes, yes,” said the king, caressing it with his hand, “yes, my Arthur,
thou art a fond and faithful creature.”
After this little scene Charles threw himself into the saddle, and
turning to Athos, Aramis and Winter, said:
“Now, gentlemen, I am at your service.”
But Athos was standing with his eyes fixed on a black line which
bordered the banks of the Tyne and seemed to extend double the length
of the camp.
“What is that line?” cried Athos, whose vision was still rather
obscured by the uncertain shades and demi-tints of daybreak. “What is
that line? I did not observe it yesterday.”
“It must be the fog rising from the river,” said the king.
“Sire, it is something more opaque than the fog.”
“Indeed!” said Winter, “it appears to me like a bar of red color.”
“It is the enemy, who have made a sortie from Newcastle and are
surrounding us!” exclaimed Athos.
“The enemy!” cried the king.
“Yes, the enemy. It is too late. Stop a moment; does not that sunbeam
yonder, just by the side of the town, glitter on the Ironsides?”
This was the name given the cuirassiers, whom Cromwell had made his
body-guard.
“Ah!” said the king, “we shall soon see whether my Highlanders have
betrayed me or not.”
“What are you going to do?” exclaimed Athos.
“To give them the order to charge, and run down these miserable
rebels.”
And the king, putting spurs to his horse, set off to the tent of Lord
Leven.
“Follow him,” said Athos.
“Come!” exclaimed Aramis.
“Is the king wounded?” cried Lord Winter. “I see spots of blood on the
ground.” And he set off to follow the two friends.
He was stopped by Athos.
“Go and call out your regiment,” said he; “I can foresee that we shall
have need of it directly.”
Winter turned his horse and the two friends rode on. It had taken but
two minutes for the king to reach the tent of the Scottish commander;
he dismounted and entered.
The general was there, surrounded by the more prominent chiefs.
“The king!” they exclaimed, as all rose in bewilderment.
Charles was indeed in the midst of them, his hat on his head, his brows
bent, striking his boot with his riding whip.
“Yes, gentlemen, the king in person, the king who has come to ask for
some account of what has happened.”
“What is the matter, sire?” exclaimed Lord Leven.
“It is this, sir,” said the king, angrily, “that General Cromwell has
reached Newcastle; that you knew it and I was not informed of it; that
the enemy have left the town and are now closing the passages of the
Tyne against us; that our sentinels have seen this movement and I have
been left unacquainted with it; that, by an infamous treaty you have
sold me for two hundred thousand pounds to Parliament. Of this treaty,
at least, I have been warned. This is the matter, gentlemen; answer and
exculpate yourselves, for I stand here to accuse you.”
“Sire,” said Lord Leven, with hesitation, “sire, your majesty has been
deceived by false reports.”
“My own eyes have seen the enemy extend itself between myself and
Scotland; and I can almost say that with my own ears I have heard the
clauses of the treaty debated.”
The Scotch chieftains looked at each other in their turn with frowning
brows.
“Sire,” murmured Lord Leven, crushed by shame, “sire, we are ready to
give you every proof of our fidelity.”
“I ask but one,” said the king; “put the army in battle array and face
the enemy.”
“That cannot be, sire,” said the earl.
“How, cannot be? What hinders it?” exclaimed the king.
“Your majesty is well aware that there is a truce between us and the
English army.”
“And if there is a truce the English army has broken it by quitting the
town, contrary to the agreement which kept it there. Now, I tell you,
you must pass with me through this army across to Scotland, and if you
refuse you may choose betwixt two names, which the contempt of all
honest men will brand you with—you are either cowards or traitors!”
The eyes of the Scotch flashed fire; and, as often happens on such
occasions, from shame they passed to effrontery and two heads of clans
advanced upon the king.
“Yes,” said they, “we have promised to deliver Scotland and England
from him who for the last five-and-twenty years has sucked the blood
and gold of Scotland and England. We have promised and we will keep our
promise. Charles Stuart, you are our prisoner.”
And both extended their hands as if to seize the king, but before they
could touch him with the tips of their fingers, both had fallen, one
dead, the other stunned.
Aramis had passed his sword through the body of the first and Athos had
knocked down the other with the butt end of his pistol.
Then, as Lord Leven and the other chieftains recoiled before this
unexpected rescue, which seemed to come from Heaven for the prince they
already thought was their prisoner, Athos and Aramis dragged the king
from the perjured assembly into which he had so imprudently ventured,
and throwing themselves on horseback all three returned at full gallop
to the royal tent.
On their road they perceived Lord Winter marching at the head of his
regiment. The king motioned him to accompany them.