LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter XV

       A Reprieve!

       Table of Contents

      “My Lord of March, is Arthur Lord Balmerino guilty of High Treason?”

      Lord March, youngest peer of the realm, profligate and scoundrel, laid his hand on the place where his heart ought to have been and passed judgment unctuously.

      “Guilty, upon my honour.”

      The Lord High Steward repeated the same question to each of the peers in order of their age and received from each the same answer. As it became plain that the prisoner at the bar was to be convicted the gentleman-gaoler gradually turned the edge of his axe toward Balmerino, whose manner was nonchalant and scornful. When the vote had been polled my Lord bowed to the judges with dignity and remarked, “I am sorry to have taken up so much of your time without avail, my lords. If I pleaded ‘not guilty’ my principal reason was that the ladies might not miss their show.” Shortly afterward he was ushered out of Westminster Hall to his carriage.

      From the view-point of the whigs Balmerino was undoubtedly guilty as Lucifer and not all the fair play in the world could have saved him from Tower Hill. He was twice a rebel, having been pardoned for his part in “the ’15,” and ’twas not to be expected that so hardened an offender would again receive mercy. But at the least he might have been given courtesy, and that neither he nor his two fellows, Kilmarnock and Cromartie, did at all receive. The crown lawyers to the contrary took an unmanly delight in girding and snapping at the captives whom the fortune of war had put in their power. Monstrous charges were trumped up that could not be substantiated, even the Lord High Steward descending to vituperation.

      Horry Walpole admitted Balmerino to be the bravest man he had ever seen. Throughout the trial his demeanour had been characteristic of the man, bold and intrepid even to the point of bravado. The stout old lord conversed with the official axe-bearer and felt the edge of the ominous instrument with the unconcern of any chance spectator. There was present a little boy who could see nothing for the crowd and Balmerino alone was unselfish enough to think of him. He made a seat for the child beside himself and took care that he missed nothing of the ceremony. When the Solicitor-General, whose brother, Secretary Murray, had saved his own life by turning evidence against Balmerino, went up to the Scotch Lord and asked him insolently how he dared give the peers so much trouble, Balmerino drew himself up with dignity and asked, “Who is this person?” Being told that it was Mr. Murray, “Oh!” he answered smiling, “Mr. Murray! I am glad to see you. I have been with several of your relations; the good lady your mother was of great use to us at Perth.”

      Through the crowd I elbowed my way and waited for the three condemned Scotch lords to pass into their carriages. Balmerino, bluff and soldierly, led the way; next came the tall and elegant Kilmarnock; Lord Cromartie, plainly nervous and depressed, brought up the rear. Balmerino recognized me, nodded almost imperceptibly, but of course gave no other sign of knowing the gawky apprentice who gaped at him along with a thousand others. Some one in the crowd cried out, “Which is Balmerino?” The old lord turned courteously, and said with a bow, “I am Balmerino.” At the door of the coach he stopped to shake hands with his fellow-sufferers.

      “I am sorry that I alone cannot pay the debt, gentlemen. But after all ’tis but what we owe to nature sooner or later, the common debt of all. I bear in mind what Sir Walter Raleigh wrote the night before his head paid forfeit.

      “‘Cowards fear to die; but courage stout,

       Rather than live in snuff, will be put out.’

      “Poor Murray drags out a miserable life despised by all, but we go to our God with clean hands. By St. Andrew, the better lot is ours.”

      “I think of my poor wife and eight fatherless bairns,” said Cromartie sadly.

      Rough Arthur Elphinstone’s comforting hand fell on his shoulder.

      “A driech outlook, my friend. You must commend them to the God of orphans if the worst befalls. As for us— Well, in the next world we will not be tried by a whig jury.”

      Balmerino stepped into the coach which was waiting to convey him to the Tower. The gentleman-gaoler followed with the official axe, the edge of which still pointed toward its victim. He must have handled it carelessly in getting into the carriage, for I heard Balmerino bark out,

      “Take care, man, or you’ll break my shins with that d——d axe.”

      They were the last words I ever heard from his lips. The door slammed and the coach drove away to the prison, from which my Lord came forth only to meet the headsman and his block.

      Sadly I made my way towards the city through the jostling crowds of sightseers. Another batch of captives from the North was to pass through the town that day on their way to prison, and a fleering rabble surged to and fro about the streets of London in gala dress, boisterous, jovial, pitiless. From high to low by common consent the town made holiday. Above the common ruck, in windows hired for the occasion, the fashionable world, exuding patronage and perfume, sat waiting for the dreary procession to pass. In the windows opposite where I found standing room a party from the West End made much talk and laughter. In the group I recognized Antoinette Westerleigh, Sir James Craven, and Topham Beauclerc.

      “Slitterkins! I couldn’t get a seat at Westminster Hall this morning for love or money,” pouted Mistress Westerleigh. “’Tis pity you men can’t find room for a poor girl to see the show.”

      “Egad, there might as well have been no rebellion at all,” said Beauclerc dryly. “Still, you can go to see their heads chopped off. ’Twill be some compensation.”

      “I suppose you’ll go, Selwyn,” said Craven to that gentleman, who with Volney had just joined the group.

      “I suppose so, and to make amends I’ll go to see them sewn on again,” returned Selwyn.

      “I hear you want the High Steward’s wand for a memento,” said Beauclerc.

      “Not I,” returned Selwyn. “I did, but egad! he behaved so like an attorney the first day and so like a pettifogger the second that I wouldn’t take the wand to light my fire with.”

      “Here they come, sink me!” cried Craven, and craned forward to get a first glimpse of the wretched prisoners.

      First came four wagon-loads of the wounded, huddled together thick as shrimps, their pallid faces and forlorn appearance a mute cry for sympathy. The mob roared like wild beasts, poured out maledictions on their unkempt heads, hurled stones and sticks at them amid furious din and clamour. At times it seemed as if the prisoners would be torn from the hands of their guard by the excited mob. Scarce any name was found too vile with which to execrate these unfortunate gentlemen who had been guilty of no crime but excessive loyalty.

      Some of the captives were destined for the New Prison in Southwark, others for Newgate, and a few for the Marshalsea. Those of the prisoners who were able to walk were handcuffed together in couples, with the exception of a few of the officers who rode on horseback bound hand and foot. Among the horsemen I easily recognized Malcolm Macleod, who sat erect, dour, scornful, his strong face set like a vise, looking neither to the right nor the left. Another batch of foot prisoners followed. Several of the poor fellows were known to me, including Leath, Chadwick, and the lawyer Morgan. My roving eye fell on Creagh and Captain Roy shackled together.

      From the window above a piercing cry of agony rang out.

      “Tony! Tony!”

      Creagh slewed round his head and threw up his free hand.

      “’Toinette!”

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