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Two Crowns for America, Page 34

Katherine Kurtz


  “Look!” Arabella whispered. “There’s another one!”

  They were panting with their exertion by the time they manhandled the casket to the edge of the opening and carefully drew it free. It was even heavier than the first. Like the first lock, the second looked to be rusted solid. Ramsay was ready to apply a pry bar and try to break it, but the prince bade him wait and produced a tiny bottle of oil and a sliver of brass from somewhere inside his coat. Soon the first lock fell open in his hand. As he unhooked it from the hasp, he glanced at the others, then smiled and gestured pointedly for Arabella to do the honors.

  Heart pounding, she slipped Dr. Falk’s talisman around her neck for safekeeping and set both hands on the lid of the casket. It was heavy and moved stiffly; but as she slowly lifted it, then turned it fully back, the light of Andrew’s lantern revealed the unmistakable gleam of gold.

  “Prince Charlie’s gold,” Ramsay breathed, reverently reaching out to pick up one of the coins—a louis d’or that could have come directly from the royal mint at Paris, not from a casket hidden away for more than thirty years in the damp.

  “Prince Charlie’s gold, indeed,” said Andrew, sitting heavily on the floor beside the casket, then pulling at a folded piece of paper that protruded from one side. “And what’s this?”

  He set down his lantern and unfolded the paper, holding it nearer the light. It was limp from the damp, and mildewed along the creases, but his face went very still as his eye skimmed down its length.

  “Ah,” he murmured. “Now here is something I have not seen for a very long time.”

  His hands trembled as he tilted it closer to the light, and Arabella, too, leaned closer to read aloud over his shoulder.

  “It seems to be a proclamation,” she said softly. “ ‘Whereas we have a near prospect of being restored to the Throne of our Ancestors … impossible for us to be in Person at the first setting up of our Royal Standard … therefore esteem it for our Service, and the Good of our Kingdom and Dominions, to nominate and appoint our dearest Son CHARLES, Prince of Wales, to be sole Regent of our Kingdoms of England, Scotland, and Ireland, and of all our Dominions, during our Absence—’ Dear God, it’s a copy of the prince’s commission of regency,” she murmured. “Listen to this.

  “ ‘It is our Will and Intention, That our said dearest Son should enjoy and exercise all that Power and Authority, which, according to the ancient Constitution of our Kingdoms, has been enjoyed and exercised by former Regents. Requiring all our faithful Subjects to give all due Submission and Obedience to our Regent aforesaid, as immediately representing our Royal Person, and acting by our Authority. And we do hereby revoke all Commissions of Regency granted to any Person or Persons whatsoever.… Given under our Sign-Manual and Privy-Signet, at our Court at Rome, the Twenty-third Day of December 1743. In the Forty-third Year of our Reign. J.R.’ ”

  Ramsay had been quietly fingering a small handful of coins as she read, the prince working on the second lock. Now, as the lock fell away, Ramsay let his coins clink softly back into the first casket and moved to lift the second lid. Another piece of folded paper lay atop a second lot of new-minted golden coins. As Ramsay plucked it out and hurriedly unfolded it, Arabella turned the lantern to give him light.

  “This one is different,” he said, his eyes skimming over the text. “ ‘James the Eighth, by the Grace of God King of Scotland, England, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, etc. To all our loving Subjects of what degree or Quality forever: Greeting.’ ” He shook his head. “This is incredible. It’s the manifesto announcing what the King hopes to accomplish. I remember my father telling me how they read these documents when they raised the royal standard at Glenfinnan.”

  “I remember hearing them read,” Andrew said quietly. He took the copy of the regency proclamation from Arabella and gently ran a fingertip over the print, blurred slightly from the damp.

  “It was a Monday, the nineteenth of August, 1745. I remember that day as vividly as I remember this morning’s dawn, when our prince was young and fair and our dream was bright with hope. I remember the waiting, as the first of us rallied to his presence at Glenfinnan, wondering whether anyone else would come.”

  His eye closed briefly, his mouth working as he remembered … and slowly began to speak again.

  “I had joined the prince the day before, at Kinlochmoidart,” he said softly. “I had ridden down from Banff-shire with old Gordon of Glenbucket. He was seventy-two, a veteran of the Fifteen, but he’d brought one hundred fifty men for the prince’s service, and several captured British prisoners. I remember his long gray hair and mustaches, and his antiquated armor—and his fierce devotion to the royal Stuart line.…”

  His voice trailed off for a few seconds, but then he shook his head lightly and resumed, slowly refolding the copy of the regency proclamation, not seeing anything except the past.

  “The prince had a personal bodyguard of fifty men from Clanranald, so we were two hundred when we reached Glenfinnan, at the head of Loch Shiel. MacDonald of Morar was waiting with another hundred fifty, but by four o’clock no others had appeared.

  “Then, from beyond the gloom of the heathered hills, we heard the distant wail of pipes—a Cameron war pibroch—and soon Lochiel himself appeared, marching at the head of nearly eight hundred Camerons in their tartans and bonnets. MacDonald of Keppoch had brought another three hundred, and we felt the chills race up our spines as the two columns followed a zigzag path down the mountainside, the war pipes skirling and the men around us shouting their huzzahs.”

  Ramsay was listening in fascination, the manifesto all but forgotten in his hands, Justin likewise enchanted by the picture Andrew wove.

  “And the Prince—what hope must have stirred in his breast as he watched them come,” Andrew whispered. “He was twenty-four years old, and born to be our king—tall and handsome and fair, our bonnie prince, indeed. Later on he would adopt Highland dress, but on that day he wore a dun-colored coat with scarlet waistcoat and breeches, with a yellow bob on his hat.

  “Someone brought the royal standard and placed it in his hands, and he gave it over to old Tulliebardine, who should have been Duke of Athole but had been attainted by the British for his part in the Fifteen. He was so crippled with rheumatism that he had to be supported by two attendants as he presented the banner to be blessed by Bishop Hugh MacDonald; but no power on earth could have induced him to give that honor to another. When he then unfurled the banner and raised it proudly above his head, the glen erupted to a chorus of huzzahs and shouted exclamations in Gaelic, and a jubilant schiming of blue bonnets that nearly blotted out the sky. Prionnsa Tearlach Righ nan Ghaidheil! they shouted. ‘Prince Charles King of the Gael!’

  “Then Tulliebardine read out the prince’s commission of regency from his father,” Andrew indicated the folded paper in his hand, “followed by the proclamation—that King James the Eighth of Scotland and the Third of England and Ireland was asserting his just rights to claim the throne of three kingdoms. After that Charles himself said a few words.”

  He smiled, a sad, wistful smile. “I doubt most of those present understood a great deal of what was said, for many spoke only the Gaelic, but there was no mistaking their cheers as they tossed their bonnets skyward again. I was with the Prince right through until Culloden and saw him welcome many victories, but never did I see him more cheerful than on that day.…”

  His voice trailed off as he dipped deeper into memory, until Arabella gently laid a hand on his sleeve and said, “That was many years ago, Beau-père. For now perhaps we should see about getting the gold to safety, having found it. This place is not secure.”

  “Yes, of course.” Swallowing, Andrew laid the folded proclamation back in one of the caskets and closed its lid, then gave it a tentative push to test the weight. It did not move until the prince added his strength to the effort.

  “These are far too heavy for one man,” the prince said, “and moving anything that requires two men to carry it
will arouse suspicions. Two such burdens would certainly invite unwelcome interest. We would be taken for thieves in the night.”

  Justin sifted his fingers through the top layer of coins in the still-open cask, listening to the musical chiming that only gold could make. “We could all fill our pockets,” he said. “That would lighten both casks.”

  The prince shook his head. “They would still require two men—or many sacks.”

  “But we will need to divide it, in order to transport it,” Andrew said. “I should have thought of this. I should have brought extra sacks. I suppose I must have doubted that we’d actually find it.”

  “We can still bring extra sacks,” Ramsay said. “A couple of us can stay with the gold, and the rest go and get sacks and arrange for the carriage to be ready at a precise time. I’ll stay.”

  “No, you are better acquainted with this area,” Andrew said, speaking before the prince could reply. “I think it better if Justin and I stay. And Lucien, if you could see Arabella safely to our rooms, I shall be in your debt. You have done your part, my dear, and most admirably,” he added at her beginning protest. “Without you we could not have found this. But now you must allow brawn to take over from beauty.”

  She agreed, if reluctantly. Very shortly she, the prince, and Ramsay were easing back up the creaking cellar stair, each carrying as much gold as could be accommodated easily—for that would ease their later task. When their footsteps no longer creaked on the floors above, Andrew gently raked his fingers through the gold remaining in the open casket, then glanced at Justin in the dim light of their single lantern.

  “I have just taken a calculated risk which I hope I shall not regret,” he said.

  Justin gawped at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I believe James has gone along with us because he had no other way to find the gold,” Andrew replied. “From the start he has wanted to take the gold directly to Charles, if it could be found. When I allowed myself to reminisce about Glenfinnan, I very much fear that I may have rekindled his Jacobite hopes. It would not surprise me if he attempts to seize the gold, take it to Charles, and again offer him the Crown of America.”

  “Then why did you let him go?”

  “I don’t know that he will do as I suspect; but if I were James, I expect that I should be thinking about it.”

  Justin sighed, closing the lid on the open casket. “Can we stop him if he tries?”

  “Perhaps. But it might put at risk those of us who are vital to the Master’s plans for Washington. And I hesitate to take drastic measures against James himself without leave from Saint-Germain, since I do not know the ultimate plans for him.”

  “Then what can we do?” Justin asked. “What happens if he does try and we can’t stop him?”

  Andrew raised the eyebrow above his good eye. “That question has concerned me almost from the beginning,” he said. “My concern became more focused on the voyage home. On three different nights, precisely a week apart, I dreamed the same dream. And we know from Washington’s experience that the Master is capable of using dreams for guidance.”

  “You think he sent the dreams?” Justin whispered, wide-eyed. “And he knew that James would betray us?”

  Andrew chuckled and shook his head. “Even we do not know that James will betray us,” he replied. “But if he does—if he strikes out on his own and seizes the gold—I think it almost certain that he will take it to Charles. So long as we take certain precautions, that keeps it somewhat in our control. Now, here is what I have in mind.”

  Ramsay showed up two hours later with a bundle of sturdy homespun sacks under one arm and a shuttered lantern that he thrust cautiously into the darkened cellar from the doorway above. At the first hint of his approach—creaking floorboards above the whine of the wind outside—Andrew had shuttered their own lantern, he and Justin melting back into the shadows at the foot of the stair.

  “Andrew?” came Ramsay’s whispered query.

  Immediately Andrew unshuttered his lantern to reveal himself and Justin. They had moved the two oak caskets into the center of the cellar, and Andrew had been sitting on one of them.

  “We thought it best not to advertise our presence if the wrong folk should come poking around,” he said as Ramsay joined them. “Where is Lucien?”

  “He’s seeing to the carriage,” Ramsay replied, thrusting a handful of sacks into Justin’s arms. “Let’s parcel out the gold into these—no heavier than one man can carry without being obvious. We debated several methods of getting the gold out, but dividing it still seemed the best way. The caskets can go out last, lightened to the point that they can also be carried by one man each, hidden under a cloak. We shouldn’t waste too much time.”

  “You’re probably right,” Andrew murmured as he bent to help Justin and Ramsay begin shifting the gold into the sacks.

  They worked in silence for several minutes, only the musical clink of the coins disturbing the hush of the cellar. After a little while Justin shook his head, a faint smile stirring at his lips.

  “Prince Charlie’s gold,” he mused. “If only it could have come to him in time, back in ’Forty-Five.”

  “I don’t see why it shouldn’t go to him now,” Ramsay muttered.

  “That is not for us to decide,” Andrew replied.

  “And who better than his loyal supporters?” Ramsay said, pausing to glare at Andrew. “By what right does Saint-Germain presume to decide on its disposition? It doesn’t belong to him; it belongs to Charles Edward Stuart, the King we have all sworn to uphold.”

  “I would not presume to argue its ownership,” Andrew said mildly, tying up the neck of a sack. “But if the King is to be restored, it will be accomplished at least partially through the offices of Saint-Germain, who is a very powerful patron. That gives him every right to be consulted, at least, regarding its disposition. And better to do that by correspondence rather than by dragging the gold itself across an ocean, when it may well be needed here, in the end.”

  “To give it to Washington?” Ramsay pulled a sullen scowl. “I cannot believe that after all these years of loyalty to the Stuart line, you would abandon our lawful prince—”

  “But no one is abandoning our lawful prince,” Justin said reasonably. “The gold has been lost for thirty-five years. Will another few months—”

  “How many months does he have?” Ramsay retorted. “I say take the gold to him now and let him decide.” With sudden decision he pulled a pistol from his pocket. “That’s what I intend to do—and I don’t think either of you want to try to stop me.”

  Justin froze, glancing anxiously between Ramsay and Andrew, and the latter slowly raised his hands to chest level. They both had been caught on their knees.

  “I wondered whether it would come to this,” Andrew said softly. “James, where is Lucien?”

  Smiling nervously, Ramsay pulled a small coil of rope out of a pocket and tossed it to Justin. “I left him bound and gagged in his room. Arabella is asleep. I’m afraid she needed a bit of encouragement, in the form of a sleeping draft. When she wakes up, she’ll release Lucien and they’ll come and release you as well. I left a note in his pocket.” He jerked his chin toward Justin. “Tie his hands, and do a good job of it.”

  “And then you’ll tie me up, too?” Justin asked, a faint quaver in his voice.

  “I’d rather take you along,” Ramsay replied. “I think you still share the dream. But I won’t hesitate to leave you trussed up as well. Which is it to be?”

  “You’d let me come along?” Justin murmured, wide-eyed.

  “Justin, don’t!” Andrew said sharply.

  “Justin is quite able to make his own decisions!” Ramsay snapped, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “Cluny, are you up there?”

  For answer, a big man in a dark cloak came down the stairs and into the lantern light, followed by a bandy-legged smaller man with a second lantern and another coil of rope. The first man produced a stout cudgel from under his cloak, and both
had pistols stuck in their waistbands.

  “You daren’t fire,” Andrew said, calmly returning his one-eyed gaze to Ramsay. “You’d bring down the British on all our heads.”

  “If I must, I’ll gamble that one shot won’t be heard in the storm,” Ramsay replied. “Or if they hear it, they won’t be able to locate it. Justin, make up your mind. Do you tie him up and come with us, or does Cluny knock you on the head and he and Archie tie up both of you?”

  “Cluny, I expected better of you!” Andrew said sharply as the other moved a step closer, eyeing Justin as he tapped his cudgel purposefully against his other hand. “Could you not have waited?”

  “Seems like we’ve waited too long already, Chevalier,” the man replied. “We figure our mistake the last time was in sending the King a letter. This time we aim to go in person and sweeten the offer with the gold. What do you say, Justin?”

  As Cluny’s partner set down his lantern and began shaking out his coil of rope, Justin swallowed nervously, then eased slowly to his feet and awkwardly began straightening out the rope Ramsay had tossed him.

  “I’m sorry, Andrew. I have to do this. If you’d seen him recently—how sad he was, how bereft of hope—”

  A sob caught in his throat, but he bit it off angrily and came to pull one of Andrew’s arms behind him, binding him with brisk efficiency, avoiding the older man’s gaze. Andrew did not resist, only regarding Ramsay with something that might have been pity.

  The smaller man, Archie, murmured an apology as he tied Andrew’s feet, pulling his cloak more closely around him before rolling him onto his side so that ankles and wrists could be lashed together. When they were done, Ramsay thrust his pistol into his waistband and produced a pair of handkerchiefs, one of which he stuffed into Andrew’s mouth before tying the other around his head to keep the first in place.