“I know what happened,” Graeme said. “Or I think I do. She told me they’d argued and she’d kicked him in the balls. He couldn’t walk straight for two days afterwards, and he took it out on young Sarah, beat her very badly. At the time I never suspected there was any more to it than that, and, as close as we were, Beth wouldn’t have told me or Thomas, because she knew we’d kill him. There’s no need to tell me,” he added as Alex made to speak. “It’s over now, in any case. But no. I’m glad he’s dead, and I’m glad he died the way he did. May he rot in hell.”
“And I’m glad you were there for Beth, when I was too proud to bend,” Alex said.
On the way south they slept in the open when the weather was good, and in cheap inns when it rained, travelling at a more leisurely pace than Alex would have, had he been alone. He used the time to plan his strategy, to practice patience, which he would almost certainly need once he reached London, and to get to know this gruff-natured, thoroughly likeable man better. Just before reaching Manchester they made a small detour and retrieved some more gold from the chest Graeme had buried years before.
“I may well need something to bribe keepers or other officials with, or to change identity,” Alex explained in the northern English accent he’d adopted since they’d crossed the border and had maintained, even when alone with Graeme. “I’ve no idea what I’ll need. But I know that money can admit you into almost anywhere.”
“Have you got a plan for when you get there?” Graeme asked. “I don’t expect you to tell me the details, but I’d be happier knowing you’ve got some idea of what you’re doing.”
Alex laughed.
“Yes, I’ve got a plan, but I’ll probably need to adapt it when I’m there. I have no idea where Beth is. Richard said Newgate, but he also said that was a few months ago. That’s what I need to find out first, and I think I know how to do that.”
“Be careful, lad. All the way here when we’ve spoken about Beth, you’ve talked as if she’s alive. I want it to be true as much as you do, but remember, whether she’s alive or not, she wouldn’t want you to risk your life for her.”
“If she is alive, and what Richard told me is the truth,” Alex said, “then she’s risked not only her life, but the life of our child for me, and for the clan. I’ll do whatever I need to do to free her. I promised Angus I won’t take unnecessary risks, and I’ll hold to that. But I will take necessary ones.” He looked at Graeme’s worried countenance, and laughed.
“Don’t worry, man. Hiding in plain sight and obtaining information is what I’m good at. I spent over three years as Sir Anthony perfecting that, to help the Stuarts back to the throne. But now I’ve got something far more precious to fight for than the Stuarts, and I’m not about to get myself arrested and executed before I’ve achieved it. That won’t help anyone.”
“Well, I’ll try not to worry, but I can’t promise I won’t,” Graeme said. “Do you want to stay the night in Didsbury, meet Thomas and Jane? You don’t have to tell them who you are.”
“No,” Alex said. “They met Sir Anthony, and servants are more observant than the nobility. They might recognise my features. And from what you’ve told me, they’re good, honest people. I wouldn’t want to put them in a difficult position.”
“For all her faults, and she did have a few,” Graeme said, “Beth knew how to choose the right man. God go with you, Alex. And if you see her, tell her I love her, will you?”
The two men embraced roughly, and then Graeme turned to head along the Didsbury road.
“Graeme,” Alex called after him. The older man reined in and turned back. “If you were to get a letter, would the others open it?”
“No,” Graeme said.
Alex nodded.
“Well, then,” he said. “I’ll write to you when I know what’s happened to her. Or someone will. It will be an innocent letter, full of uninteresting trivialities. But I think you can read between lines.”
“That I can, lad,” Graeme replied, smiling. “Thank you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
June 1747, Fort William, Scotland
Colonel Mark Hutchinson sank down onto the edge of his bed with a groan of relief. It was all he could do not to fall immediately backwards onto it, coat, sword, muddy boots and all, and just go to sleep. He had never been so exhausted in his life.
Instead of giving in to the temptation he sat forward, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles in an attempt to stop them closing of their own free will. His batman had done a good job; there was a fire roaring in the hearth, a meal of bread, butter, cold meat, cheese and ale stood on the table ready for him, and as Hutchinson readied to stand, the man himself came into the room carrying a steaming basin of water along with various implements used in washing and shaving.
“Welcome back, sir,” he said, placing the basin carefully on the table, then coming over to pull the colonel’s boots off for him. His nose wrinkled as he inhaled the smell of unwashed sweaty stocking at close quarters. He put the boots in the corner of the room while the colonel removed his stock, took off his coat and rolled down the offensive stockings to reveal a pair of equally offensive feet.
“Here you are, sir,” the servant said, placing the basin on the floor. “Put your feet in that and relax. I’ll go and get some more water for shaving.”
The colonel complied, uttering a sigh of bliss as his sore and blistered feet hit the warm water. By the time the servant returned he was slumped across his mattress, fast asleep. The young batman smiled, and very gently so as not to wake him, he washed his master’s feet, applied salve to the blisters, put a cloth over the food to keep the flies away, and left.
An hour later he came back, to find the colonel in exactly the same position, snoring. He shook his master’s arm, succeeding with difficulty in rousing him.
“I’m sorry to wake you, sir,” he said, once Hutchinson’s eyes were open, “but I didn’t think you’d want to sleep the whole day away, and if you stay in that position you’ll have a terrible stiff neck in the morning.”
“No, you’re right. Thank you, Bernard,” Hutchinson said, shaking his head to clear it of the sleep-induced fog, then sitting up. He got up and walked over to the table, lifted the cover, and then sitting down started to eat.
“Sit down, man,” he said between mouthfuls. “No need to stand on ceremony. I’m too tired to discipline you anyway. Bring me up to date on what’s been happening whilst I was away. Then you can shave me after I’ve eaten.”
Bernard sat down opposite his colonel and poured a mug of ale.
“God, I hate this bloody country,” Hutchinson continued before Bernard could offer any news. “Does it never stop raining? No need to answer that.” Actually the last few days had been dry, but today, when he’d been outside the whole day and had needed it to be dry, it had rained. The whole day. Even the weather in this godforsaken country was Jacobite, it seemed.
“You need some new boots, sir,” suggested Bernard, eyeing the colonel’s bare feet.
“No, those are fine. My horse cast a shoe on the way back and I had to lead her the last five miles in a downpour, that’s all. I’d have worn an extra pair of stockings if I’d known I was going to have to walk. So, has everything gone well in my absence?”
“Mostly, sir.”
Hutchinson looked up, still chewing.
“That sounds ominous,” he said.
“The roof’s leaking in part of the barracks, the sleeping quarters. Davis had another fight with Barraclough and cut him in the arm. The sergeant gave them both fifty lashes. And some men have deserted from Inversnaid, sir. Oh, and there’s a letter for you, from London.”
If it’s another order for me to travel halfway across this shitheap to deliver a pointless message to some pompous idiot general, I’m going to hang myself, Hutchinson thought mutinously. He sighed.
“Fetch me the letter, then. Let’s get it over with,” he said. Bernard got up and went into the tiny adjoining room that the colonel had assigned a
s his office. “How many men deserted?” he called through as he drained his tankard of ale.
“Thirteen, sir,” Bernard said, returning with the letter. “About a week ago.”
The colonel broke the seal with his breadknife, scattering crumbs across the table in the process, and unfolded it. Bernard went to the fire and threw some more logs on to it.
“Shit,” said the colonel. Bernard looked across at the seated figure of his superior officer, who was now sitting erect. “When did this letter arrive? It’s dated April the second.”
“It’s a few weeks now, sir. We couldn’t forward it on to you because we didn’t know exactly where you were, and it’s addressed to you in confidence so no one else could open it. Did we do wrong? Is it something bad? It wasn’t marked as urgent.” The servant’s brow furrowed with worry.
“No. Under the circumstances, you couldn’t have done anything else. Inversnaid, you said?”
“Sorry, sir?”
“Where the men deserted from.”
“Oh. Yes, sir.”
“You can shave me now, then, Bernard. And after that can you arrange for my uniform to be cleaned for tomorrow? I need a good night’s sleep. I’ll be damned if I’m setting off today. It’s waited since April, it can wait another day.”
“I’m sure it can, sir,” the batman replied, having no idea what Hutchinson was talking about.
“Then I can deal with this,” he tapped the letter, “and the desertions at the same time. Although unless they’ve been stupid enough to go home, it’s going to be the devil’s own job to find them. As for this, well, it could actually turn out to be good news, after all.”
“Pleased to hear it, sir,” said Bernard, still in the dark. No doubt the colonel knew whether whatever it was was good or bad news, and that was all that mattered.
* * *
In fact, as the colonel rode into Inversnaid barracks three days later, he still had no idea whether the information contained in the Duke of Newcastle’s letter was even true, let alone good or bad news.
If it was true that Captain Cunningham was a traitor, then it would be good news, because he would finally be able to get rid of the vicious bastard. Colonel Hutchinson had been waiting for two years for Cunningham to put a foot wrong, and now it looked as though he might have.
But although Richard Cunningham was savage even by army standards and universally hated by his men, the colonel could not see him as a traitor. From what he knew of him, the captain didn’t have the brains or guile to pretend to be anything other than what he was; an ambitious brute of a man desperate to rise to the top.
But there it was. What was it Newcastle had written? The sister states that Captain Cunningham accepted the money for his first promotion in order to keep silent about the fact that she was a Papist, and that on discovering Sir Anthony was a spy, was bribed once more with the means of promotion to captain.
Yes, it was possible. Cunningham was hungry enough for promotion to do that. And he had no other way to raise funds. His father had left him penniless, the colonel knew that. And if he had achieved promotion through keeping silence, it would follow that Cunningham would not want Sir Anthony to be arrested in case he divulged what he knew to the authorities. Even if nothing could be proved against the captain, his character would be compromised, which would put an end to all hopes of further promotion.
The colonel thought back to the interview he had conducted with Richard Cunningham after his sister and brother-in-law had disappeared. His shock on hearing that his brother-in-law was a spy had been genuine, Mark Hutchinson was sure of that. When speaking of his sister, Cunningham had seemed to be holding something back, but at the time the colonel had believed it only to be that he’d known his sister to be a Roman Catholic, or some such thing.
Miss Cunningham states that it is always possible to tell if Captain Cunningham is lying due to the twitching of a muscle in his cheek whenever he utters a mendacity, of which habit he is unaware. Yes, the colonel remembered that. It was quite noticeable, but at a distance of two years, although he remembered the captain’s habit, he could not remember at which point in the conversation he had demonstrated it.
He would certainly note it now, though. This was his chance to be rid of the man he had instinctively disliked since he had had the misfortune to command him. And Cunningham’s men would have a party if he was proved to be a traitor. If. Unless, after he’d interviewed the man, he had cause to believe there was truth in the sister’s allegations, he would not destroy his career. After all, Elizabeth Cunningham was a self-confessed traitor, and it was distinctly possible that she was attempting to besmirch a loyal British soldier. Well, he was about to find out.
Colonel Hutchinson sighed. Sometimes he considered his conscientiousness to be a failing rather than a virtue.
“Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
“He’s one of the men who deserted last week, Colonel,” Sergeant Baker said.
“Cunningham? You are talking about the right man?”
“Yes, sir. Captain Richard Cunningham.”
“You oversee the mail, Sergeant. Has any mail arrived in the last, oh, two months for the captain?”
“No, sir. He is not in the habit of sending or receiving letters, so I would remember if he had.”
“Anything from London? For anybody?”
“No, sir.” The sergeant looked puzzled.
So it was unlikely anyone had informed Cunningham that he was under suspicion.
“So, what happened last week then?” Hutchinson asked.
We went out on an exercise last Friday, the twenty-ninth, sir. He and twelve of his men disappeared. We assume they deserted.”
“We. You said ‘we’. Does that mean you accompanied Cunningham on this exercise, Sergeant?”
Sergeant Baker blushed furiously.
“Er, yes, sir. Initially, sir. He stayed behind after we left.”
“With just twelve men? In hostile territory?”
“Yes, sir.”
There was something not right here. Colonel Hutchinson tapped his riding crop thoughtfully against his boot. Sergeant Baker stood rigidly to attention in front of him. His face was still scarlet, one of the unfortunate side effects of having ginger hair.
“What manner of ‘exercise’ was this, Sergeant?”
“A pacification exercise, Colonel.”
In other words, a raid on a Highland settlement. The men were under strict orders not to carry out such raids with less than thirty men. Unless Cunningham had changed drastically, he would have obeyed those orders to the letter.
“But he sent you and presumably several other men home early?”
“Er…in a manner of speaking, sir.”
What the hell does that mean?
“Stephen, how long have we known each other?” Mark Hutchinson said. The sudden informality seemed to flummox Sergeant Baker even more. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, even though the interview room they were in was freezing.
“Um…twenty years, sir?”
“Twenty years. And for all that time you have been an exemplary soldier.”
“Thank you, Col—”
“And a bloody awful liar,” the colonel interrupted. “For God’s sake, man, stand at ease. In fact sit down. You’re not on trial.”
The sergeant sat down. Stiffly. Mark Hutchinson sighed. It seemed that was the most relaxed Baker could manage at the moment.
“I will be frank with you, Stephen. I need to speak with Cunningham on an extremely important matter. Much as I dislike the man on a personal level, I cannot believe he would desert. The army is his life. Nor would he be likely to send a group of his men back to barracks, leaving himself vulnerable. So something happened, and I think you know what it was, or what some of it was at any rate. And I need you to tell me. I think you know me to be a fair man?”
“Yes, Colonel,” Sergeant Baker mumbled.
“Talk to me then, and I will hear you out. Informally, and in confidence
.”
Stephen Baker swallowed audibly, chewed on his lip for a moment, then came to a decision.
“It was my fault, sir. That he was left with twelve men,” he said.
Colonel Hutchinson nodded.
“Tell me why you think it was your fault, and what happened.”
The sergeant, perspiring freely, told the colonel about the raid on the village, that there had been fifty of them, but only about thirty Highlanders, and most of those women and children. About the fact that they’d killed the cattle and the men who’d resisted, burnt the hovels they were living in and sent the women and children away.
“Some of the men got a little carried away with the women, sir,” Baker added.
“Did the captain attempt to stop the men getting ‘carried away’?” Hutchinson asked, although he thought he already knew the answer to that.
“No, sir. He encouraged them. That’s his way,” Baker said. “Anyway, when we were…finished, he was in one of the huts, sir. With a woman. She was screaming. So we waited for a while, and when he still didn’t come out I went in to tell him that if we didn’t leave soon we wouldn’t make it back before dark, and…” The sergeant stopped suddenly. He was no longer blushing; in fact his face had taken on a green tinge.
“And…?” Hutchinson prompted.
“I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, sir, and I hope I never do again. He…he’d tied her to the roof beams, and he was…he was…Jesus…”
“Just say it, man,” the colonel said. What the hell had he done?
“He was flaying her, sir. Alive. He’d cut all the skin back from her arms, and it was hanging in ribbons, and she was screaming…I went outside and I’m not ashamed to admit I was sick. And then I think I lost my reason. I told the others what I’d seen and then I got on my horse and I rode away. I think if I’d stayed there I’d have killed him, sir. Anyway, most of the men followed me and we came straight back here. We didn’t think much about it when the men weren’t back the next morning. We haven’t had any resistance from those parts in a while. But then on Saturday afternoon when they still weren’t back, I went myself with some other men to see if we could find them. There was a grave outside the hut, fresh, but no sign of any of the other men. So we thought that the captain was worried I’d report him and had deserted along with the others. There are a lot of desertions, sir,” he finished. He sat back, seeming almost relieved to have finally confessed.
Tides of Fortune (Jacobite Chronicles Book 6) Page 12