The Storm Breaks (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 4)

by Julia Brannan

  “I feel guilty even thinking it, in view of what’s happened,” said Edwin, “but it’s just not the same without them. I often wonder where they are, and hope they’re all right. But I wouldn’t admit that to anyone but you.”

  “Still, at least after tonight, I doubt we’ll be invited to any more dull dinners,” said Caroline. “But I’m going to call on Anne tomorrow and apologise to her. I feel sorry for her, and guilty that we spoilt her evening.”

  “It was Edward who spoilt her evening really,” Edwin pointed out.

  “True. But I can’t see him apologising, can you? So I’ll do it instead. I want her to know she’s got a friend in me, especially if Edward’s right and Richard will be home soon.”

  “Do you really think he’s as bad as Beth made out?”

  “Yes I do,” said Caroline. “Sarah hates him too, although she won’t talk about him.”

  “Well, if he does come home, he won’t have the chance to cause much trouble,” said Edwin. “He’ll only have a day or two at home at most, before he’ll be marching north.”

  “Unless the rebels are already in London,” said Caroline, only half-joking.

  “If that’s the case, he won’t have the chance to cause any trouble at all, then, will he?” replied Edwin. “And the last thing we’ll be thinking of is of Richard and Anne’s marital problems.”

  * * *

  On the eighth of November the rebels crossed the border, entering England from two different directions to confuse the enemy, and rendezvousing at Carlisle the next day, where they laid the town under siege. On the eleventh the rebels converged at Brampton, having heard that General Wade’s army was marching over the Pennines from Newcastle to meet them. The Highlanders, having conquered their fears of fighting on foreign territory when they saw that the battlefield Charles had chosen was both hilly and perfectly suited to their way of fighting, relished the idea of routing Wade, as they had Cope before him.

  The battle was not to be. It soon became clear that Wade was not going to appear, intelligence having come in that he had been forced back by heavy snowdrifts in the Tyne gap. The rebels returned to Carlisle to continue the siege in earnest. It did not continue for long. On the seventeenth of November, both the town and the castle surrendered to Prince Charles.

  They stayed in Carlisle for four days, and to Beth’s unspeakable delight the men slept indoors, which meant that she and Alex could also have a roof over their heads, and a real bed.

  She was less delighted to discover that, along with Angus, she had apparently volunteered to wash all the dirty clothes of both the MacGregors and anyone else Alex could find who was in need of some laundry doing. It took them two of the four days, and whilst a good many Gaelic and English curses emanated from the clouds of soapy steam, there were to be no more songs sung, poems recited or stories told about unfortunate chieftains and nightsoil carts from that day on.

  In the meantime Wade’s army struggled back to Newcastle through appalling weather to which they were not accustomed, campaigns normally being abandoned during the winter months. En route, some men froze to death and many others fell sick. They arrived back in the soggy camp at Newcastle on the twenty-second, freezing, miserable and severely demoralised, having been unable to hinder the enemy’s progress in any way at all.

  The day before, the rebels, fresh, rested, optimistic, and in the case of the MacGregors at least, very clean, had marched out of Carlisle, heading south. Unlike their opponents they had no qualms about fighting through the winter months; raids and clan feuds were conducted in all seasons, and the Highlanders were used to cold, hunger, and harsh conditions; that was their normal way of life.

  In London the king and his government trembled. Even as they took great pains to hide it from the populace, they knew that the way to the Capital was now clear, the only obstacle of any importance being the Duke of Cumberland, assembling at Lichfield with four thousand troops, to Prince Charles’s six thousand.

  Never had the Stuart restoration seemed more certain.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The rebels continued their southward march, heading straight for London but making so many feints in other directions along the way that the Hanoverians were utterly confused. Rumours abounded as to the intended route the rebels would take through England, and panicked people evacuated towns that the Jacobites had no intention of invading. The government’s opinion was that the rebels would head for Wales, where it was thought the country would rise for the Pretender’s son. With this in mind a great deal of trouble was taken to fortify Chester, and all the bridges from Preston downwards and across the River Mersey were demolished, in an attempt to halt or at least delay the advance.

  The Highlanders were undaunted by this, as they considered all artificial crossings of rivers to be effeminate anyway, and were accustomed to only using bridges when the water was too high to cross naturally. As they had no intention of going to Wales, whilst the Earl of Cholmondeley’s hastily mustered troops sweated in Chester and the panicked citizens of Liverpool fled the town in all directions, the rebels forded the rivers with relative ease and entered Manchester to a tumultuous welcome from its mainly sympathetic citizens.

  For the first time since their reconciliation after Sir Anthony’s duel in France, Alex and Beth were separated, and they were both feeling the pain of it. There was no ill-feeling between them; they had calmly discussed the situation and had decided that if Beth were to be recognised, even with her hair covered, it would probably be in Manchester or Didsbury, through which the army would most likely pass, and in which Beth was well known. Not even the bravest or most reckless Hanoverian would try to abduct her from in the midst of thousands of men, they both knew that, but anyone thought to be her husband would be observed, and a detailed description of him relayed to the authorities in London.

  Thus it was that as the prince rode triumphantly into Manchester, and his father was proclaimed King James the VIII of Scotland and III of England at the Market Cross, Beth was escorted by Donald Cameron of Lochiel, who being already well known to the government, could never be mistaken for Sir Anthony, and Alex entered the town with his clansmen an hour later.

  It was a great relief to the rebels to be afforded a true welcome, instead of the generally lukewarm reception accorded them in the English towns they had passed through to date. Bonfires were lit, and ladies covered themselves in white cockades and hung about in small groups hoping for a glimpse of the prince. It was Edinburgh all over again, and it raised the Highlanders’ spirits like nothing else could.

  Alex’s spirits were not as high as his men’s, although he hid it well. Among the army the talk was only of the advance to London; among the council, which had met at Preston, the talk was increasingly in favour of retreat. The mass of recruits expected from the north of England had not materialised, and at Preston the council of chiefs had only agreed to continue when the prince, backed up by d’Eguilles, had assured them that if the French had not already landed on the south coast, they were certainly about to do so.

  Still, Alex thought as he entered the ballroom of the house in which Charles was giving a reception for the prominent citizens of the town, at least Manchester had been enthusiastic, to put it mildly; they had raised nearly three hundred men for the cause. Perhaps this was a sign of more support to come. Charles had written to Sir Watkin Williams-Wynn asking him to raise as many of his Welsh tenants as possible. If they arrived, the council’s arguments for a return to Scotland would founder. Alex made a concerted effort to think of something else. Just for tonight, he intended to put politics to one side. There would be another council meeting tomorrow; he would worry about it then.

  He scanned the room. There was the usual bevy of swooning young ladies fawning round the prince, who was at least this time paying them a little attention. A group of musicians were tuning their instruments in preparation for the dancing. The main body of the council, including Lochiel, Lord George and O’Sullivan were earnestly conversing i
n one corner. Knowing he should join them in an attempt to redress the balance in favour of retreat, he nevertheless veered off in the opposite direction, where, catching the prince’s eye, he was beckoned over, and soon found himself fending off the attentions of several young women who were quite willing to bestow their favours on the handsome young Highlander, as a very pleasant alternative to the prince.

  Nearby he noticed one of the town’s most prominent citizens, John Byrom. Although attending the reception, he was flanked, at his own request, by a guard of Highlanders; if at a later date he was called to account for his apparent Jacobite sympathies, he could say that he had been forced into attending. Alex shot him a look of utter contempt. This was the problem with so many of the English; they were in favour of the Stuart cause but unwilling to risk everything for it, as he and all his men were. Spineless, all of them.

  No, not all of them, he corrected himself immediately. John Dickenson had opened his house, kitchens and wine cellar to the prince tonight. Three hundred men had enlisted today. And the man now coming up to speak to him could in no way be called a coward.

  “Reverend Clayton,” Alex said, bowing slightly and gently disengaging a young lady’s hand from his arm. “An excellent grace before the meal, I thought.”

  “Short, you mean,” smiled the Reverend.

  “Indeed. But to the point. And it was refreshing to be able to eat the soup while it was still hot. So many ministers dinna take account of their parishioners’ stomachs when saying grace.”

  “Will I see you at the Sunday service at the collegiate church, then, Mr…?” asked the Reverend.

  “No, I’m no’ an Episcopalian, sir. I am of the Roman faith.”

  “Ah,” smiled Reverend Clayton. “A pity. But it will be refreshing for you and our Catholic citizens to attend a mass openly, instead of sneaking off to the dyeworks as is the custom, will it not?”

  “I wouldna ken, sir,” said Alex coolly. “I’m no’ familiar wi’ the town, myself.”

  “Forgive me, I can see I was mistaken in my belief that you had visited our parish before.” The minister smiled. “In that case, may I take the liberty of introducing a friend of mine to you. I thought you had already met, but now I realise that is not the case.” He beckoned to a respectably-dressed stout man in his early thirties. “Allow me to introduce you to Mr John Holker.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” said Alex politely.

  “I will leave you to further it,” said Reverend Clayton with an amused smile. “Your servant, sir.” He bowed, and disappeared into the crowd.

  “I find I have a pressing need to go to the privy, Mr Holker,” said Alex as soon as the minister had gone. “Would ye care to show me where it is?”

  The two men left the room, but instead of going to the privy, the moment they were in the hall, Alex took Mr Holker’s arm and pulled him through a door which led into a small study. He closed the door.

  “I thought you didn’t know the house,” Mr Holker said.

  “I make it my business to ken the layout of every building I enter, in case I have to make a hasty exit, as ye well ken,” said Alex. “How much have ye tellt him, Jack?”

  “Clayton?” replied the other man. “Nothing. That is, he’s stored some arms for us a couple of times. He’s the perfect cover, being a man of the cloth.”

  “A man of the Episcopalian cloth,” corrected Alex. “And he makes no secret of his sympathies. He’s bound to be taken, if things dinna go according to plan.”

  “Relax, Alex. He doesn’t know about you. He’s seen you a couple of times in my company, a few years ago. He’s got perfect recall, like you. He remembers everyone he’s ever met.”

  “Christ!” said Alex, rubbing his hand across the top of his head. “That’s all I need, a man wi’ a perfect memory of me to be taken up by the authorities.”

  “He hasn’t been taken up. And he may think you know me, but he doesn’t know anything about Sir Anthony, or what we were up to.”

  “What the hell are ye doing here, anyway?” asked Alex, more abruptly than he’d intended.

  Jack looked affronted.

  “It’s a reception for prominent citizens,” he said. “I’m a respected linen merchant, as you well know. And as of today, a lieutenant in the Manchester Regiment.”

  “Are ye now?” said Alex, in a different tone. “Well done, man. A lieutenant. I didna ken ye had previous military experience.”

  “I haven’t. They’ve made every respectable man a lieutenant. But I’m a fast learner, and I can use a sword and a pistol.”

  Alex smiled, and clapped him on the back.

  “And at least ye had the courage to enlist, Jack. Well done. Have ye seen Foley recently?”

  “Yes. Last week, in fact. He’s still running all manner of stuff up and down the country, although it’s getting harder with the coast being watched as closely as it is. He’s thinking of retiring for a while, or so he says.”

  Alex laughed.

  “Gabriel willna retire,” he said. “He thrives on danger.”

  “He’s been over to France a couple of times recently,” said Jack casually. “He said there’s a considerable amount of, shall we say, military activity going on in the Picardy ports.”

  “Is there?” said Alex, his face brightening. “Have ye tellt the prince this?”

  “Not yet. He doesn’t know me. I thought it might come better from you.”

  “Is he sure, Jack?” asked Alex. “Is Foley really sure?”

  “That they’re preparing to invade? No, he’s not sure, but he said there are too many men there for it just to be an exercise.”

  “How many?”

  “A lot. Ten, maybe fifteen thousand,” Jack said.

  To his utter astonishment, the big Highlander seized him and subjected him to a bearhug, lifting him off his feet in the process.

  “Whoa!” cried the merchant, disentangling himself from Alex’s plaid with some difficulty, his coat button having got caught in the chieftain’s silver brooch. “You can save that for the wenches fawning over you. I didn’t know you were favourable to the male of the species.”

  “I’m not,” grinned Alex. “But ye couldna have given me better news. There’s a council meeting tomorrow. I’ll tell Prince Charles then. Dinna breathe a word to anyone else about it. If the Elector doesna already ken, I dinna want him to get it from us.”

  The two men went back into the ballroom, where the dancing was now under way, and to Alex’s relief most of the women were taking advantage of the opportunity to dance with the various exotic and dangerous-looking Highlanders who were present. They would dine out on this for years. The floor was awash with brightly coloured plaids and blue and white dresses sewn with white cockades. By mutual agreement, John Holker drifted away and Alex discreetly scanned the room until he saw the person he was looking for.

  Knowing he was breaking his own rule, he nevertheless made his way over to where his wife was standing with Mrs Murray, and bowed formally to her.

  “I wonder if ye’d do me the honour of partnering me in the next dance, madam.”

  Beth looked at him as if he was insane.

  “I am not dancing, by choice, sir,” she said disdainfully. “I was about to get something to eat.”

  “In that case, would ye allow me the honour of escorting you to the buffet table?”

  She took the arm he proffered and they made their way across the room, two strangers.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered. “You told me not to come anywhere near you until we were south of Didsbury.”

  “Aye, but I couldna resist. I havena touched ye for two days, and I canna stand it any more. Dance wi’ me. No one’ll suspect a thing, and it’ll gie me a chance to put my arm around ye, at least.”

  Her face softened.

  “You’re mad,” she said. “And your friend’s watching us.”

  “What friend?” he said without looking round, but suddenly wary.

  “
The one who was in the alley room that night when I stabbed Duncan. The one you just pretended not to know.”

  “Ah. Jack. Aye, well, ye’ll meet him soon enough. He gave me some good news.”

  He bent over and whispered in her ear. A few seconds later she pulled back from him as though disgusted, and the next few moments were spent apparently mollifying her. Eventually she calmed, and agreed to allow him to fill a plate with food for her. To anyone who didn’t know them, it would seem that the handsome Scot had barely escaped having his face slapped, and was now having to start from the beginning to obtain the favour of the young woman he was attempting to court.

  “Are you sure?” she said, keeping her face cold and indifferent with effort.

  “No. But it seems likely, does it no’? Ye must keep it close for now, though. There’s a meeting tomorrow. I’ll tell the council then.”

  “When we leave Manchester, will we be going through Didsbury?” she asked.

  “I dinna ken. There are groups out now looking for the best way to cross the river. The bridges are all down, and we’ve to get the artillery across. But Charles wants to go via Macclesfield and Stockport.”

  “There’s a ford down near Stenner Lane, next to Didsbury Green,” she said thoughtfully. “And just south of that there’s a track that leads to Gatley Ford. It’s a bit muddy, but the river shouldn’t be too high. Or there’s Cheadle Ford, that might be better for the artillery. It’d be worth going through Didsbury anyway, though,” she continued. “It’s very loyal. We might get a few more recruits there.”

  Alex knew his wife, even if he was at this moment pretending not to.

  “And ye want to visit your friends,” he said. He handed her the plate of food, which she took formally from him. She raised a small biscuit to her lips.

  “Do you mind?” she said.

  “Aye, I do,” he replied. They both paused while a footman walked past with a tray of empty glasses. “It’s too dangerous, Beth.”