The Storm Breaks (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 4)

by Julia Brannan

  “I ken well what they said,” said Lord George contemptuously, before Alex could speak. “Did they put anything in writing?”

  He looked directly at Alex. They all looked at Alex. He could not lie outright.

  “Not to me, no,” he said. “But…”

  “Ha!” cried Lord George. “So we have no surety that they will come at all! What then of the French, Your Highness? How can we be sure they will come to our aid? Time and time again they have promised us help and failed us. Why should we now believe them? I will tell you what I think, what I have always thought. We should never have left Scotland. We should have consolidated our victory there with the support we knew we had, rather than believe the vague promises of those who have let us down time and time again. If we continue to London as you desire, Your Highness, the six thousand men we have now will soon be trapped between Cumberland, Wade and Finchley, whose combined numbers could be up to thirty thousand. We will be massacred, no matter how bravely we fight, and the cause will die with us. We must retreat to Scotland, muster our forces, and be sure the French have landed before we make another attempt on London.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the assembled chiefs. Lord George’s reasoning made sense. The risk was too great and the chance of success too small. Charles looked at them all in utter disbelief. To his horror, his eyes filled with tears.

  “I tell you this, gentlemen,” he said in a choked voice. “You ruin, abandon and betray me if you don’t march on.”

  He turned and left the room. No one spoke. The silence lengthened.

  “Ye canna still support an advance now,” said Lord Ogilvy finally, glancing from O’Sullivan to the Duke of Perth and then to Alex. “He’s lied to us. He let us believe the English and the French were on their way, and he hasna a shred of proof. He’s so desperate for the English crown he’ll lead us all to hell in his attempt to get it. Lord George is right, we must retreat.”

  Alex stood at the table. The fate of the whole rebellion lay in these men’s hands, and every one of them was now thinking to retreat. He had to change their minds, and he had no idea how to do it. He spread his hands out on the table and looked at them, trying to think of what to say.

  “I’ll be honest with ye,” he said. “I’ve no idea whether Williams-Wynn, Barrymore and Cotton will come up wi’ men. I ken that what I said about the London mob is true, and of all the royals I’ve ever seen, Charles is the one best suited to give them the prince they want. He’s handsome, regal, and he has the common touch. They’ll love him. But I canna prove it. The French though, as I said in Manchester, are at the Picardy ports.”

  “How can you be sure?” asked Perth.

  Alex looked at him levelly.

  “I’ve been feeding you information for over four years, my lord. Have I ever given ye false intelligence?”

  The duke had the grace to look abashed.

  “No,” he admitted.

  Everyone was looking at Alex now, waiting for his next words. It was essential they were the right ones. He swallowed. He had not been this nervous for a long time. He had not been this desperate for a long time.

  “My source was impeccable,” he said. “I dinna ken precisely how many men they have, but it’s a lot. I dinna ken when they intend to sail, but there’s one thing I’m absolutely sure of.”

  “What’s that?” asked Lord George.

  “If we retreat now, the prince is right. The Stuart cause is lost.”

  There was a chorus of disagreement, outrage even, at such an outlandish statement.

  “How can ye say that?” began Lord George angrily.

  “Let me finish,” interrupted Alex in a tone of such calm authority that the room fell silent. “The men expect to advance towards London tomorrow. Their morale couldna be higher. The enemy are panicking, running in all directions. We’ve seen it everywhere we’ve been. We’ve nae reason to believe London is any different. We have the advantage. The enemy is demoralised and terrified, and our men believe they can walk on water. If we advance on London the French will invade, and the English Jacobites will rise. Cumberland and Wade are too far behind us to catch us before we get to London. A number of the men waiting for us at Finchley will be militia. I ken a militiaman, he joined us at Manchester. They’re ill trained and ill equipped, and terrified of us. I doubt we’ll see their heels for dust, and if we do, we’ll cut through them like butter.”

  He paused to let the effect of his words sink in and in that moment the door opened and Colonel Stewart came in, followed by a man the council had never seen before.

  “There’s a man here, who says he has some crucial information that may influence your meeting,” said the colonel.

  The stranger came forward, and taking off his hat bowed respectfully to the company. He was a tall man, perhaps in his early thirties, with a fresh complexion, and was dressed in a brown suit embellished with a great deal of gold lace.

  “My lords,” he said, “I am honoured to have this opportunity of speaking to you. In the last days I have ridden about the country, with the express purpose of gathering as much information as I could which might be of use to you.”

  “And your name, sir?” asked Lord Kilmarnock.

  “Bradstreet, sir. Dudley Bradstreet, at your service.”

  “Will ye take a glass of wine, Mr Bradstreet?” asked Lochiel, indicating that he should sit down. Mr Bradstreet availed himself of a chair and a glass, smiling round at the company.

  “I have just ridden from Colehill, my lords,” he began respectfully, “and on my way to Lichfield, I came across the Duke of Cumberland, who had just arrived there at the head of his hussars and some eight or nine thousand foot. I spoke to several of the soldiers, pretending to be in sympathy with them, and they told me…”

  “What were ye doing at Colehill, Mr Bradstreet?” asked Alex quietly.

  “I’m sorry?” said Mr Bradstreet.

  “What were ye doing at Colehill? Do ye live there?”

  “I…ah…no,” replied Mr Bradstreet in a soft Irish brogue. “I have been travelling about, trying to find out information which would benefit the cause. I am a brewer by trade sir, and live in London at the moment.”

  “Ye dress very well, for a brewer. Do go on, Mr Bradstreet,” Alex replied.

  “Thank you,” said the man. He licked his lips, then continued. “I spoke to several of the soldiers, who told me that the duke intends to wait until you proceed to London, when he will enter Derby and wait here to cut off your retreat, while the army at Northampton…”

  “Northampton?” said Perth. “There is an army at Northampton?”

  “Yes,” answered Mr Bradstreet. “I thought you would know that. Generals Hawley and Ligonier are there with about nine thousand men, waiting for you.”

  “Are ye sure?” asked Lochiel.

  “I saw them myself not three days ago, when I was travelling north from London. My road took me through Northampton. But I did not think this would be news to you.”

  “Did ye no’?” said Alex. “Then why have ye risked your life to ride here to tell us something ye thought we’d already know?”

  “I didn’t come to tell you that,” the Irishman said. “I came to tell you about Cumberland’s intentions.”

  “I see,” said Alex, nodding. “But as it is news to us, tell us about Northampton. Every detail.”

  He watched intently as Bradstreet elaborated about the army at Northampton, the well-mounted cavalry, the experienced infantry, the number and condition of their considerable artillery. When he had finished, he looked about the room at the sea of shocked faces. If they had been thinking to retreat before, now there was no doubt in their minds. He was thanked, and shown from the room, under guard.

  “Christ!” said Lord George softly. “Northampton’s only two days away.”

  “There isna an army at Northampton,” said Alex. “He’s lying.”

  “Maybe,” said O’Sullivan. “But what if he isn’t?”

 
“He is. And if he’s been sent here by Cumberland, as I suspect, that means they’re feart we’ll continue, because they ken there’s nothing between here and London to stop us, and are trying anything to delay us. Which means we must go on.”

  “How can ye be so sure he’s lying?” asked Clanranald. “He seemed genuine to me.”

  Alex looked at him in frustration.

  “Ye’re forgetting, Ranald. I was a spy myself, and a bloody good one. How d’ye think I survived four years as Sir Anthony without being suspected? Because I could hide the signs of nervousness, that yon Bradstreet laddie couldna. He was sweating, more than he should. Licking his lips. And he clenched and unclenched his hand all the time under the table. He was lying. We ken nothing about the man. By his clothes he’s a man of means. I ken every man of means sympathetic to the cause in London, every single one. I would ken a brewer rich enough to dress like him. I’ve never heard of him. He’s a liar, and probably a spy for Cumberland.”

  “If he was, he wouldna volunteer to be held under guard while we send someone to Northampton to see if he’s telling the truth,” said Lochiel.

  “Of course he would!” Alex retorted. “It’ll take a full day, more likely two to get a man to Northampton and back. By that time Cumberland will be on us, if he’s fast. Bradstreet knew we wouldna just let him go, whatever he said. He’s gambling on delaying us long enough to be able to sneak off in the confusion when Cumberland rides in. Or maybe he’s heard how merciful Charlie is to his enemies.”

  “I canna believe a man would willingly make himself our prisoner, knowing what we’d do to him if we find out he’s lying,” said Lord George. “I’ll disembowel him myself if he is.”

  “And I canna believe ye’re willing to trust a complete stranger over your own prince, and retreat on his word,” said Alex quietly.

  That hit home. Lord George flushed scarlet.

  “I’m no’ retreating on his word,” the lord replied angrily. “Your arguments in favour of going on were plausible, MacGregor, but I’m still for retreat whether there’s an army waiting for us in Northampton or not. We need to vote on it.”

  The way they were going to vote was written on their faces. Alex raised his hand. His mouth was dry and he felt sick, but, experienced as he was, he showed no sign of his desperation.

  “Before ye vote,” he said. “Think what will happen if we retreat. The morale will be shattered. Ye ken how your clansmen think. Without self-respect, they’ve got nothing. They’ll desert in droves as soon as we cross the border. The French’ll no’ invade if they think we’ve given up. And the Whigs will ken that we didna have an accord wi’ the French or the English. Cumberland and Wade will come after us. We’ve never been so close to winning, and we’ll never get another chance. For Christ’s sake, and for the Stuarts, dinna retreat now.”

  They heard him out, and then they voted. The decision was almost unanimous. Tomorrow, although now only a hundred and twenty miles from London, the army would begin the retreat to Scotland.

  Beth and the clansmen had been enjoying the hospitality of the citizens of Derby, which included warming bonfires, energetic dancing in the street, and for the men at least, the willing attentions of shrewd-eyed, buxom young ladies. Buoyed by the exuberant mood of the Jacobites, Beth danced up the stairs of the Nag’s Head Inn to the room she was to share with Alex, the flame of the candle she held to light her way wavering wildly with her motion. She had heard that the council meeting was over, and wanted to drag him off to join his clansmen. She opened the door and stepped lightly into the room, then stopped, her exuberance quenched immediately at the sight of him.

  He was standing with his back to her looking out of the window, his arms braced on the heavy wooden dresser which, apart from the sturdy bed and small bedside table, was the only furniture the room possessed. His whole body was quivering with suppressed emotion, but what that emotion was, she had no idea. She tried to think of the right words to say, wondering what could be wrong.

  “It’s over,” he murmured, his head bowed and his voice so soft that she could hardly hear him.

  “What’s over?” she asked.

  “Everything,” he said, in the same soft tone. “Everything I’ve worked for, all my life, all of it, all of it wasted, all of it for nothing.”

  She took a step towards him, not knowing what had happened, but sure that whatever it was it must be terrible. Alex was not prone to melodramatic statements.

  “Alex…” she began.

  His shoulders tensed suddenly, the heavy muscles bunching, and his fists clenched. He straightened and uttered a roar of rage and despair so loud and unexpected that Beth jumped back, colliding painfully with the door. He reached out and with one sweep of his arm cleared the top of the dresser, smashing the ewer of water and basin to pieces against the wall. Various small items clattered to the floor, including a candle, which rolled across the floorboards before extinguishing itself under the bed. The hubbub of conversation from the public room downstairs subsided, then slowly resumed. No one came to interfere in what they no doubt assumed was a domestic dispute.

  Alex turned to Beth, his face pale, the tears on his lashes sparkling in the light of the candle she held, which was now the room’s only illumination. He looked at her, his eyes full of an anguish she had never seen before, that tore at her heart. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, then his face crumpled and he reached out blindly for her. Placing her candle on the table, she moved silently into his arms, and they sank down onto the bed, where he laid his head on her shoulder and gave way completely to his grief, sobbing brokenly like a small child and clinging to her while she stroked his hair and uttered soft endearments, and wondered, terrified, what could have happened in the council to bring the iron-willed, powerful man she knew to such utter despair.

  It was a good half hour before he could calm himself enough to tell her what had happened.

  “But is there nothing that can be done?” she asked, horrified.

  “No,” he said, his voice husky with emotion and the aftermath of weeping. “The chiefs willna advance further. They’ve lost their trust in Charles’s promises.”

  “But the men…”

  “Will follow their chiefs,” he said. “As will my men.” They listened for a minute to the sounds of celebration in the street outside, the laughter, snatches of song and music. Celebration because tomorrow they would advance to London and finally, after nearly sixty years, seize the throne back for the Stuarts.

  “What will you do?” she asked.

  “I must speak to the men,” he said. He made to rise from the bed, and she held on to him.

  “Not now, Alex,” she said. “You’re in no state to do this now. Can’t it wait until the morning?”

  “No,” he replied, stroking her cheek gently with one finger. “The other chiefs are of a mind no’ to tell their men, for they fear a riot if they do. We’ll be leaving while it’s still dark in the morning, so they willna ken we’re no’ heading for London until we’re well on the way. I willna do that to my men. I’ve always been honest with them, and I intend to continue so. Where are they?”

  He would not be deterred, she could see that. She stood with him.

  “Most of them are in the Corn Market,” she said. “A few of them went off to the bawdy-house, though.”

  “Right,” he said, purposeful now. “Can ye round the ones in the Corn Market up? Bring them to the field behind the churchyard at St. Peter’s, here. I’ll away and get Angus, Dougal and Robbie Og out of the brothel.”

  “Angus didn’t go,” Beth said as she retied her head scarf, which had come loose in the recent torrent of weeping.

  “Did he no’?” said Alex, surprised.

  “No. He was asked, but he wouldn’t. He told me he was betrothed now and would be married soon, and it didn’t seem right to betray Morag when she was saving herself patiently for him.”

  A ghost of a smile flitted across Alex’s face.

  “Aye, he�
��s grown, at last,” he said. “God help him, he’ll need to be, now. Duncan didna go either, did he?”

  “No,” said Beth.

  “He’s awfu’ fond of young Sarah, I’m thinking, although it’s no’ his way to talk about it. He’ll be sore disappointed no’ to be marching to London the morrow.”

  “They all will be,” said Beth.

  They all were. When he told them, there was a cry of outrage loud enough to waken the dead sleeping quietly in the graveyard adjoining the church. Alex raised his hand, and they quietened. His face was white in the bright cold rays of the moon which shone down on their meeting and he made no attempt to hide the fact that he had been weeping. His eyes were bloodshot, and tears stood in them as he watched his men’s reaction.

  “I’m telling ye,” he said, “because ye’ve followed me this far, and I owe you the truth. It’s the council’s opinion that if we advance we’ll be trapped between two, or maybe three armies, whose combined force outnumbers us six to one. I can understand their reasoning.”

  “To hell wi’ the council’s opinion,” said Dougal. “It’s you we follow. What’s your opinion?”

  “My opinion is the same as the prince’s,” said Alex. “The cause is lost if we retreat now. We’ll never get the momentum back. We may be able to keep Scotland, and raise more men, but I doubt it. If we can defeat Cumberland or Wade on the way back to Scotland, maybe more men will flock to us then, and…” His voice faltered and died. There was a silence, where normally men would have jumped in with opinions and arguments. They were as stunned as Alex had been. Some of them were openly crying, although their faces were set.

  “No,” Alex continued after a minute. “I willna give ye false hope. When we cross the border, many men will go home, I’m thinking. That’s what I want ye to do, as well. Go home, and look to your families and the spring planting.”

  “What will you do?” asked Graeme. Although officially with the Manchester Regiment, he had been, as was his habit of an evening, carousing with the MacGregors when Beth had come to tell them of the meeting, and had followed along with them.