Return
to Scotland, make with these newly gathered troops and with others a
greater army, expect aid from France, stand in a gained kingdom the
onslaught from Hanoverian England? Or go on--go on toward London?
Encounter, defeat, with half his number, the Duke of Cumberland's ten
thousand, keep Wade from closing in behind them, meet the Finchley
Common thousands, come to the enemy's capital of half a million souls?
Return where there were friends? Go on where false-promising friends
hugged safety? Go on to London, still hoping, trusting still to the
glamour and outcry that ran before them, to extraordinary events
called miracles? Hot was the debate! But on the 6th of December the
Jacobite army turned back toward Scotland.
It began its homeward march long before dawn. Not all nor most had
been told the decision. Even the changed direction, eyes upon
slow-descending not upon climbing stars, did not at first enlighten.
It might mean some detour, the Duke being out-maneuvered. But at last
rose the winter dawn and lit remembered scene after scene. The news
ran. The army was in retreat.
Ian Rullock, riding with a kinsman, Gordon, heard, up and down, an
angry lamenting sound. "Little do the clans like turning back!"
"Hark! The chieftains are telling them it is for the best."
"Is it for the best? I do not like this month or aught that is done in
it!"
A week later they were at Lancaster; three days after that at Kendal.
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