Redgauntlet [151]
with an air of triumph for sympathy and applause,--'Here is to your good health; and may you never put your neck in such a venture again.' [The escape of a Jacobite gentleman while on the road to Carlisle to take his trial for his share in the affair of 1745, took place at Errickstane-brae, in the singular manner ascribed to the Laird of Summertrees in the text. The author has seen in his youth the gentleman to whom the adventure actually happened. The distance of time makes some indistinctness of recollection, but it is believed the real name was MacEwen or MacMillan.]
'Humph!--I do not know,' answered Summertrees. 'I am not like to be tempted with another opportunity--[An old gentleman of the author's name was engaged in the affair of 1715, and with some difficulty was saved from the gallows by the intercession of the Duchess of Buccleugh and Monmouth. Her Grace, who maintained a good deal of authority over her clan, sent for the object of her intercession, and warning him of the risk which he had run, and the trouble she had taken on his account, wound up her lecture by intimating that in case of such disloyalty again, he was not to expect her interest in his favour. 'An it please your Grace,' said the stout old Tory, 'I fear I am too old to see another opportunity.'] Yet who knows?' And then he made a deep pause.
'May I ask what became of your friend, sir?' said Alan Fairford.
'Ah, poor Harry!' said Summertrees. 'I'll tell you what, sir, it takes time to make up one's mind to such a venture, as my friend the provost calls it; and I was told by Neil Maclean,--who was next file to us, but had the luck to escape the gallows by some sleight-of-hand trick or other,--that, upon my breaking off, poor Harry stood like one motionless, although all our brethren in captivity made as much tumult as they could, to distract the attention of the soldiers. And run he did at last; but he did not know the ground, and either from confusion, or because he judged the descent altogether perpendicular, he fled up the hill to the left, instead of going down at once, and so was easily pursued and taken. If he had followed my example, he would have found enough among the shepherds to hide him, and feed him, as they did me, on bearmeal scenes and braxy mutton, till better days came round again.' [BRAXY MUTTON.--The flesh of sheep that has died of disease, not by the hand of the butcher. In pastoral countries it is used as food with little scruple.]
'He suffered then for his share in the insurrection?' said Alan.
'You may swear that,' said Summertrees. 'His blood was too red to be spared when that sort of paint was in request. He suffered, sir, as you call it--that is, he was murdered in cold blood, with many a pretty fellow besides. Well, we may have our day next--what is fristed is not forgiven--they think us all dead and buried--but'--Here he filled his glass, and muttering some indistinct denunciations, drank it off, and assumed his usual manner, which had been a little disturbed towards the end of the narrative.
'What became of Mr. Redgauntlet's child?' said Fairford.
MISTER Redgauntlet! He was Sir Henry Redgauntlet, as his son, if the child now lives, will be Sir Arthur--I called him Harry from intimacy, and Redgauntlet, as the chief of his name--His proper style was Sir Henry Redgauntlet.'
'His son, therefore, is dead?' said Alan Fairford. 'It is a pity so brave a line should draw to a close.'
'He has left a brother,' said Summertrees, 'Edward Hugh Redgauntlet, who has now the representation of the family. And well it is; for though he be unfortunate in many respects, he will keep up the honour of the house better than a boy bred up amongst these bitter Whigs, the relations of his elder brother Sir Henry's lady. Then they are on no good terms with the Redgauntlet line--bitter Whigs they are in every sense. It was a runaway match betwixt Sir Henry and his lady. Poor thing, they would not allow her to see him when in confinement--they had even the meanness to leave him without pecuniary
'Humph!--I do not know,' answered Summertrees. 'I am not like to be tempted with another opportunity--[An old gentleman of the author's name was engaged in the affair of 1715, and with some difficulty was saved from the gallows by the intercession of the Duchess of Buccleugh and Monmouth. Her Grace, who maintained a good deal of authority over her clan, sent for the object of her intercession, and warning him of the risk which he had run, and the trouble she had taken on his account, wound up her lecture by intimating that in case of such disloyalty again, he was not to expect her interest in his favour. 'An it please your Grace,' said the stout old Tory, 'I fear I am too old to see another opportunity.'] Yet who knows?' And then he made a deep pause.
'May I ask what became of your friend, sir?' said Alan Fairford.
'Ah, poor Harry!' said Summertrees. 'I'll tell you what, sir, it takes time to make up one's mind to such a venture, as my friend the provost calls it; and I was told by Neil Maclean,--who was next file to us, but had the luck to escape the gallows by some sleight-of-hand trick or other,--that, upon my breaking off, poor Harry stood like one motionless, although all our brethren in captivity made as much tumult as they could, to distract the attention of the soldiers. And run he did at last; but he did not know the ground, and either from confusion, or because he judged the descent altogether perpendicular, he fled up the hill to the left, instead of going down at once, and so was easily pursued and taken. If he had followed my example, he would have found enough among the shepherds to hide him, and feed him, as they did me, on bearmeal scenes and braxy mutton, till better days came round again.' [BRAXY MUTTON.--The flesh of sheep that has died of disease, not by the hand of the butcher. In pastoral countries it is used as food with little scruple.]
'He suffered then for his share in the insurrection?' said Alan.
'You may swear that,' said Summertrees. 'His blood was too red to be spared when that sort of paint was in request. He suffered, sir, as you call it--that is, he was murdered in cold blood, with many a pretty fellow besides. Well, we may have our day next--what is fristed is not forgiven--they think us all dead and buried--but'--Here he filled his glass, and muttering some indistinct denunciations, drank it off, and assumed his usual manner, which had been a little disturbed towards the end of the narrative.
'What became of Mr. Redgauntlet's child?' said Fairford.
MISTER Redgauntlet! He was Sir Henry Redgauntlet, as his son, if the child now lives, will be Sir Arthur--I called him Harry from intimacy, and Redgauntlet, as the chief of his name--His proper style was Sir Henry Redgauntlet.'
'His son, therefore, is dead?' said Alan Fairford. 'It is a pity so brave a line should draw to a close.'
'He has left a brother,' said Summertrees, 'Edward Hugh Redgauntlet, who has now the representation of the family. And well it is; for though he be unfortunate in many respects, he will keep up the honour of the house better than a boy bred up amongst these bitter Whigs, the relations of his elder brother Sir Henry's lady. Then they are on no good terms with the Redgauntlet line--bitter Whigs they are in every sense. It was a runaway match betwixt Sir Henry and his lady. Poor thing, they would not allow her to see him when in confinement--they had even the meanness to leave him without pecuniary