# A Tale of the Rebellion of 1745, or, The Broken Heart (n.d., Glasgow)/The Broken Heart

THE
BROKEN HEART.
OR, THE
DEFEAT OF PRINCE CHARLES.
Early in the November of 1745, the news reached Cambridge that Charles Stuart, at the head of his hardy and loyal Highlanders, had crossed the Borders, and taken possession of Carlisle. The inhabitants gazed upon each other with terror, for the swords of the clansmen had triumphed over all opposition; they were regarded, also, by the multitude as savages, and by the more ignorant as cannibals. But there were others who rejoiced in the success of the young Adventurer, and who, dangerous as it was to confess their joy, took but small pains to conceal it. Amongst that number was James Dawson, the son of a wealthy gentleman in the north of Lancashire, and then a student at St. John's College. That night he invited a party of friends to sup with him, who held sentiments similar to his own. The cloth was withdrawn, and he rose and gave, as the toast of the evening—"Prince Charles, and success to him!" His guests fired with his own enthusiasm, rose and received the toast with cheers. The bottle went round—the young men drank deep, and other toasts of a like ​nature followed. The song succeeded the toast, and James Dawson sang the following, which seemed to be the composition of the day:—
But while he yet sang, and as he completed but the first verse, two constables and three soldiers burst into the room, and denounced them as traitors and as their prisoners.
"Down with them!" exclaimed James Dawson springing forward, and snatching down a sword which was hanging over the fire-place. The students vigorously resisted the attempt to make them prisoners, and several of them, with James, escaped.
He concealed himself for a short time, when, his horse being brought, he took the road towards Manchester, in order to join the Pretender. It was about midnight, on the 29th, when he reached the town which is now the emporium of the manufacturing world. On proceeding down Market-street, he perceived a confused crowd, some uttering threats, and others with consternation expressed on their countenances; and, in the midst of the multitude, was Sergeant Dickson, a young woman, and a drummer boy, beating up for recruit. The white cockade streaming from the hat of the Sergeant; the people vented their indignation against him, but no man durst seize him, for he turned round and round, with a blunderbuss in his hand, facing the crowd on all sides, and threatening to ​shoot the first man that approached, who was not ready to serve the Prince, and mount the white cockade. The young woman carried a supply of the ribbons in her hand, and ever and anon waved them in triumph, crying—"Charlie yet!" Some dozen recruits already followed at the heels of the sergeant. James Dawson spurred his horse through the multitude.
"Give me one of your favours," said he, addressing the sergeant.
"Ay, a dozen, your honour, replied Dickson."
He received the ribbon and tied it to his breast, and placed another at his horse's head. His conduct had an effect upon the multitude; numbers flocked around the sergeant, his favours became exhausted; and when the Prince and the army entered the town in the evening, he brought before him an hundred and eighty men, which he had that day enlisted.
The little band so raised were formed into what was called the Manchester regiment, of which gallant Townly was made Colonel, and James Dawson one of the Captains.
Our business at present is not with the movements of Charles Edward, nor need we describe his daring march towards Derby, which struck terror throughout all England, and for a time seemed to shake the throne and its dynasty; nor dwell upon the particulars of his masterly retreat towards Scotland—suffice it to say, that on the 19th of December, the Highland army again entered Carlisle.
On the following morning they evacuated it; but the Manchester regiment, which was now composed of about three hundred men, was left as a garrison, to defend the town, against the entire army of the proud Cumberland. They were devoted as a sacrifice, that the Prince and the main ​army might be saved. The brave Townly, and the young and gallant Dawson were not ignorant of the desperateness and hopelessness of their situation; but they strove to impart their own heroism to the garrison, and to defend the town to the last. On the morning of the 21st, the entire army of the Duke of Cumberland arrived before Carlisle, and took possession of the fortifications that commanded it. He commanded the garrison to surrender, and they answered him by a discharge of musquetry. They had withstood a siege of ten days, during which time, Cumberland had erected batteries, and got cannon from Whitehaven; before their fire the decaying and neglected walls of the city gave way: to hold out another day was impossible, and there was no resource left for the devoted band but to surrender or perish. On the 30th, a white flag was hoisted on the ramparts. On its being perceived, the cannon ceased to play upon the town, and a message was sent to the Duke to enquire what terms he would grant to the garrison.
"Tell them," he replied haughtily, "I offer no terms but these, that they will not be put to the sword, but shall be reserved for his Majesty to deal with them as he may think proper."
There was no alternative, and these doubtful and evasive terms were accepted. The garrison were disarmed, and under a heavy guard placed in the cathedral.
James Dawson and seventeen others were conveyed to London, and cast into prison, to wait the will of his Majesty. Till now his parents were ignorant of the fate of their son, though they had heard of his being forced to flee from the university, and feared that he had joined the Prince. Too soon their worst fears were realised, and the truth revealed to them. But there was another who trembled for him, whose heart felt keenly as a ​parent's—she who was to be his wife, to whom his hand was plighted, and his heart given. Fanny Lester was a young and gentle being, and she had known James Dawson from her childhood. Knowledge ripened to affection, and their hearts were twined together. On the day on which she came to know of his imprisonment, she hastened to London to comfort him—to cheer his gloomy solitude—at the foot of the throne to sue for his pardon.
She arrived at the metropolis—she was guided to the prison-house, and admitted. On entering the gloomy apartment in which he was confined, she screamed aloud—she raised her hands, and springing forward, fell upon his neck and wept.
"My own Fanny!" he exclaimed, "you here!—weep not my sweet one—come, be comforted—there is hope—every hope—I shall not die—my own, he comforted."
"Yes!—yes there is hope, the King will pardon you," she exclaimed, "he will spare my James—I will implore your life at his feet."
"Nay, nay love, say not the King," interrupted the young enthusiast for the house of Stuart; "it will be but imprisonment till all is over—the Elector cannot seek my life."
He strove long and earnestly to persuade her that his life was not in danger—that he would be saved—and what he wished, she believed. The jailor entered and informed them that it was time she should depart, and again sinking her head upon his breast, she wept, "good night."
But each day she revisited him, and they spoke of his deliverance together. At times too she told him with tears of the efforts she had made to obtain his pardon—of her attempts to gain admission to the presence of the King—of the repulses she had met with—of her applications to the nobility con​nected with the court—of the insult and inhumanity she met with from some—the compassion she experienced from others—the interest they took in his fate, and the hopes and promises which they held out. Upon those hopes and promises she fondly dwelt. She looked into his eyes to perceive the hope they kindled there, and as joy beamed from them, she half forgot that his life hung upon the word of a man.
But his parents came to visit him; her's followed her, and they joined their efforts to hers, and anxiously, daily, almost hourly, they exerted their energies to obtain his pardon. His father possessing an influence in electioneering matters in Lancashire, and hers could exercise the same in an adjoining county. That influence was urged—the members they supported were importuned. They promised to employ their best exertions. Whatever the feelings or principles of the elder Dawson might be, he had never avowed disaffection openly—he had never evinced a leaning to the family of Stuarts, he had supported the government of the day; and the father of Fanny was an upholder of the house of Hanover. The influence of their relatives and of their friends were brought into action; peers and commoners were supplicated, and they pledged their intercession. Men high in office took an interest in the fate of James Dawson, or professed to take it; promises, half official, were held out, and when his youth, the short time that he had engaged in the rebellion, and the situation he held in the army of the Adventurer were considered, no one doubted but that his pardon was certain—that he would not be brought to trial. Even his parents felt assured—but the word of the King was not passed.
They began to look forward to the day of his deliverance with impatience, but still with certainty. There was but one heart that feared, and ​it throbbed is the heart of poor Fanny. She would start from her sleep, crying—"Save him!—save him!" as she fancied she beheld them dragging him to execution. In order to soothe her, her parents and his, in the confidence that pardon would be extended to him, agreed that the day of his liberation should be the day of their bridal. She knew their affection, and her heart struggled with her fears to believe the "flattering tale."
James tried also to cheer her—he believed that his life would be spared—he endeavoured to smile and be happy.
"Fear not my Fanny, he would say; your doubts are idle. The Elector"———
And here his father would interfere, "Speak not so, my son," said the old man earnestly, "speak not against princes in your bedchamber, for a bird of the air can carry the tidings. Your life is in the hands of a King—of a merciful one—and it is safe—only speak not thus—do not, as you love me—as you love our Fanny, do not."
Then would they chase away her fears and speak of the intended bridal; and Fanny would smile pensively while James held her hand in his, and, as he gazed on her finger, he raised it to his lips, as though he took the measure of the ring.
But 'hope deferred makes the heart sick;' and though they still were confident that he would be pardoned,—yet their anxiety increased, and Fanny's heart seemed unable longer to contain its agony and suspense. Six months had passed, but still no pardon came for James Dawson. The fury of the civil war was spent—the royal Adventurer had escaped—the vengeance of the sword was satisfied, and the law of the conquerors, and the scaffolds of the law, called for the blood of those whom the sword had saved. The soldier laid down his weapon, and the executioner took up his. On the ​leaders of the Manchester regiment the vengeance of the blood-thirsty law first fell. It was on the evening of the 14th of July, 1746, James Dawson sat in his prison, Fanny sat by his side, with her hand in his, and his parents were present also, when the jailor entered, and ordered him to prepare to hold himself ready for his trial, in the court-house at St Margaret's, Southwark, on the following day. His father groaned—his mother exclaimed, "my son! "—but Fanny sat motionless. No tear was in her eye—no muscle in her countenance moved. Her fingers grasped his with a firmer pressure—but she evinced no other symptom of having heard the mandate that was delivered. They rose to depart, and a low deep sigh issued from her bosom; but she showed no sign of violent grief—her feelings were already exhausted—her heart could bear no more.
On the following day, eighteen victims, with the gallant Townly at their head, were brought forth for trial, before a grand jury. Amongst them, and as one of the chief, was James Dawson. Fanny had insisted on being present. She heard the word guilty pronounced with a yet deeper apathy than she had evinced at the announcement of his trial. She folded her hands on her bosom, her lips moved in prayer, but she shed not a single tear, nor breathed a single sigh. She arose, and beckoned to her attendants, who accompanied her from the court-house.
Still his friends entertained the hope that the Pardon Power might be moved—they redoubled their exertions—they increased their importunity—they were willing to make any sacrifice that his life might be but saved—and even then, at the eleventh hour, they hoped against hope, but Fanny yielded not to vain thoughts. Day after day she sat by her lover's side, and she, in her turn, b​became his comforter. She no longer spoke of their bridal—but she spoke of eternity; she spoke of their meeting where the ambition, the rivalry, and the power of princes should be able to cast no cloud over the happiness of the soul.
Fourteen days had passed, and during that he had showed no sign of fear; she evinced none of a woman's weakness. She seemed to have mastered her grief, and her soul was prepared to meet them. Yet, save only when she spoke to him, her soul appeared entranced, and her body lifeless. On the 29th July, an order was brought for the execution of the victims on the following day. James Dawson bowed his head to the officer who delivered the warrant, and calmly answered—"I am prepared!"
The cries of the mother rang through the prison. She tore her hair—she sank upon the floor, she entreated Heaven to spare her child. His father groaned, he held the hand of his son in his, and tears gushed down his furrowed cheeks. Fanny alone was silent, she alone was tranquil. No throe of agony swelled her bosom, flushed in her countenance, or burned in her eye. She was calm, speechless, resigned. He pressed her to his heart, and took a last farewell.
"Adieu! adieu!—my own," he cried—"my Fanny, farewell, an eternal farewell!"
"Nay, nay," she replied, "not eternal, we shall meet again. 'Tis a short farewell, I feel it—I feel it. Adieu love,—adieu! Die firmly. We shall meet soon."
Next morning the prisoners were to be dragged on sledges to Kensington Common, which was to be the place of execution. In the first sledge was the executioner, sitting over his fettered victims with a drawn sword in his hand. No priest—no minister of religion attended them; and around the sledges followed thousands, some few expressing ​sympathy, but the majority following from curiosity, and others venting their execrations against all traitors. In the midst of the multitude was a hackney coach, following the sledges, and in it was the gentle Fanny Lester, accompanied by a relative and a female friend. They had endeavoured to persuade her from the fearful trial, but she was calm, resolute, and not to be moved, and they yielded to her wish. The coach drew up within thirty yards of the scaffold. Fanny pulled down the window, and leaning over it, she beheld the pile of faggots lighted round the scaffold; she saw the flames rise, and the soldiers form a circle round them. She saw the victims leave the sledges; she looked upon him whom her heart loved, as he mounted the place of death, and his step was firm, his countenance unmoved. She saw him join in prayer with his companions, and her eyes were fixed on him as he flung papers and his hat among the multitude. She saw the fatal signal given, and the drop fall; she heard the horrid shout that burst from the multitude, but not a muscle of her frame moved. She gazed calmly, as though it had been on a bridal ceremony. She beheld the executioner begin the barbarities which the law awards to treason; the clothes were torn from the victims, one by one they were cut down, and the finisher of the law, with the horrid knife in his hand, proceeded to lay open their bosoms, and taking out their hearts, flung them on the faggots that blazed around the scaffold. The last spectacle of barbarity was James Dawson; and when the executioner had plunged the knife in his breast, he raised his heart in his hand, and holding it a moment before the horror-stricken and disgusted multitude, he cast it into the fire, exclaiming, as flung it from him—"God save King George!" Fanny saw this—her eyes became blind—she heard ​not the shout of the multitude—she drew back her head into the coach—it dropped on the shoulder of her companion, "My dear! I follow thee! I follow thee!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together—"sweet Jesus! receive both our souls!" They attempted to raise her head, to support her in their arms, but she sunk back lifeless; her spirit had accompanied him it loved; she died of stifled agony and a broken heart.