“It isna normally like this,” said Alex, his eyes periodically scanning the plain and Torwood, squinting as he tried to penetrate the ancient beech and fir trees in the hope of seeing scarlet coats. “Normally ye dinna have to wait so long. Dinna fash yerself,” he continued, smiling at Robbie, who was shivering in his thin shirt and plaid. “Ye’ll get your battle soon enough, laddie.”
“At least it isna raining the day,” said Angus cheerfully, rubbing his hands briskly together to warm them before drawing his dirk and taking a small piece of wood out of his sporran. He bent his head and the ground around him was soon littered with tiny curls of wood.
It wasn’t raining, although the ground was wet; in fact it was sunny, if not particularly warm. The men’s breath formed small clouds of steam as they settled to discuss the situation.
“D’ye really think Hawley will come?” asked Simon, who was beginning to believe the whole Hanoverian army was a phantom.
“Aye, he’ll come,” said Alex. “And dinna expect quarter from him when he does. The man’s a vicious savage. He isna called ‘Hangman Hawley’ by his troops for nothing. They’re terrified of him, wi’ reason. But before ye all run screaming for the hills,” he continued, to general laughter, “there are advantages to having a man like Hawley leading the enemy.”
“What’re they?” asked Alasdair.
“He’s an arrogant bastard. He has a very high opinion of himself, and a low opinion of his men. He rarely gives praise, no matter how commendably his men behave. He’ll order a man hanged or flogged to death for next to nothing. He’s no’ the sort of leader to inspire loyalty and respect. They do his bidding through fear. Which means we’ve only to do one thing when they do finally put in an appearance.”
“Which is?”
“Make them more frightened of us than they are of him.”
“That shouldna be too difficult, from what I’ve seen of the redcoats up to now,” said Kenneth.
“Aye, one look at your ugly face and they’ll be halfway back tae Edinburgh before we’ve time to draw our swords,” Angus commented without looking up. Which was a mistake, because five seconds later he was lying face down in the mud with Kenneth’s knee in his back pinning him firmly in place.
“What’s this, then?” asked Kenneth, turning the little carving over in his hand.
Angus spat out a piece of grass and tried unsuccessfully to dislodge the giant.
“It’s MacGregor,” he said crossly, “Or it will be if ye let me finish it before ye break my spine. Will ye leave off, man!” He pushed himself up with a mighty heave, and Kenneth, distracted by the intricacy of the carving, let him go.
“It’s awfu’ good,” he said, smiling at the tiny feline face with its ragged ears and one malevolent eye glaring at him. He handed it back to Angus, who retrieved his dirk from where it had landed in a clump of heather, and sat back down again.
“The tail’s a wee bit on the long side, though,” Alex said.
Angus considered his brother’s observation.
“Aye, ye’re right,” he agreed after a minute. “It’s an easy matter to shorten it, though.”
“When can we away off hame?” Robbie asked petulantly. He sneezed and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“Oh for Christ’s sake, laddie, will ye leave off moaning!” said Iain, who was privately wondering the very same thing. “When we’re tellt to, that’s when. Ye’ve spent too many days sitting by your ma’s hearth, if ye canna stand a wee bit o’ brisk weather.”
Robbie glared at him.
“Just be glad ye’re no’ on siege duty, man,” Duncan commented. “Those poor souls will be digging trenches and then sitting around guarding them for days, weeks maybe.”
“How long d’ye think it’ll be before they take the castle, then?” asked Dougal.
“I’ve nae idea,” said Duncan. “I havena a notion about sieges. Alex?”
Alex had been scanning the woodland again, seeing nothing but the shadows deepening as the light started to fade. He looked back at his men and shrugged.
“I ken as much about sieges as any of you,” he said. “The castle’s strong, though. If we canna bombard them out, we should be able to starve them out instead, if we’ve the time. We could do wi’ taking it, though. It’ll be a blow to the Whigs if we can.” He got slowly to his feet. “Come on,” he said. “They’re no’ coming the day. Let’s away and get warm. The women’ll have a good fire going by now, and food on the way.” Whatever the meal consisted of, it would taste all the better knowing it had originally been intended for Hanoverian stomachs.
Slowly, all over the field the men were dispersing back to their camps, disappointed. The same thought was in all their minds. Was this going to be another abortive battle, as Lancaster had been?
When the orders arrived later that evening that they were all to assemble yet again the following morning, there was a general groan of dismay, which soon gave way to murmurs of mutiny. The Highlanders were men of action. They would not endure waiting like this day after day. It was clear that if Hawley did not appear tomorrow, the Jacobite generals would find it impossible to induce their men to stand about for a fourth day. Something would have to be done.
* * *
Falkirk Muir, 17th January 1746
General Henry Hawley, sitting down to dinner at Callendar House, had no intention of appearing on Plean Muir, some two miles north of where he now sat, just to satisfy a bunch of ragged savages. He had arrived here with his army the previous day. He would wait until his men were settled before wiping out the rebels. He had no misgivings about his cavalry’s ability to do that. In the meantime there was his stomach to think of. General Hawley sighed with pleasure. Callendar House was old, but it had a roaring fire in its hearth and its wine cellar was adequately stocked. And, which was most amusing, its owner Lord Kilmarnock was currently fighting with the rebels, although his wife was clearly of a different political persuasion; the welcome she had afforded Hawley and his officers had been a genuine one.
He had barely finished his soup when there was a knock on the door and Colonel Ligonier entered. He looked flustered and was obviously the bearer of bad tidings.
“Sir,” he said. “I am sorry to disturb your meal, but I bring an urgent message. It appears that the rebels are advancing towards the moor.”
“This is hardly urgent, Colonel,” replied Hawley, wiping his mouth. A servant took away his bowl, and filled his glass. “I have had several messages of this sort today. Perhaps a few of them have realised the folly of their actions and hope to run back to their caves and mud huts. Send a troop of cavalry after them.”
The next course arrived. Rack of lamb. General Hawley smiled appreciatively and picked up his knife and fork. Colonel Ligonier looked unhappy.
“General, it would now seem certain that it is not a band of stragglers, but the whole army, sir. Some seven thousand or more.”
Hawley paused momentarily.
“Really?” he said. “No doubt they think to slip past us and run for it. Relax, Colonel. I have already detailed a large party of dragoons to Larbert Bridge. That will stop them if they try to cross Carron Water. There are no other bridges over the river. Sit down, sir, take a glass of wine.”
Colonel Ligonier neither sat down nor took a glass of wine. Instead he took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow nervously.
“The rebels have already crossed Carron Water, General,” he said reluctantly. “They waded across at the Dunipace Steps. They are ascending the summit of Falkirk Muir even as I speak, sir. There can be no doubt that they mean to attack us.”
“Attack us!” roared Hawley, throwing down his knife and fork. Ligonier took a pace backwards. “Don’t be so fucking ridiculous, man! We’re talking about a bunch of ill-disciplined vermin-ridden barbarians, headed by a bloody Italian prick-sucker! And you think they would attack the cream of His Majesty’s army? Are you fucking mad?”
“I am merely passing on a message, Gene…” Ligoni
er began timidly.
“Of course they are not attacking us! I know what they intend to do. They think to give us the slip, and march back to England. Well, they will not do it, sir! Send the dragoons and foot up the hill. That’ll shock the bastards. We’ll give them a battle, sir, if they’ll stand for one. But it’s my view they’ll run the minute they see the cavalry advancing on them.”
Colonel Ligonier left the room without giving any further opinions. It was never a wise career move to contradict the general. For some inexplicable reason the Duke of Cumberland thought the sun shone out of the foul-mouthed old bastard’s arse, even though it was well known that he had long outlived his usefulness. He was incompetent and vicious and Ligonier, along with most of the rest of the army, hated him, and prayed fervently before every engagement that this time the enemy would kill him. But in fifty years of campaigning, no one had ever managed it. The devil looks after his own, obviously, thought Ligonier sourly.
He went off to relay Hawley’s orders, with profound misgivings. The rebels knew the field they had selected for their battle well, which Hawley’s men did not, having not bothered to reconnoitre it. They had had no intention of fighting here. And Ligonier was not as confident as Hawley that they would run, although it was true that the sight of a well-disciplined troop of cavalry advancing on you when you were on foot and therefore considerably disadvantaged, was indeed a terrifying thing. Well, it seemed they would soon find out.
The young captain of dragoons surveyed his men. They were an impressive sight when fully armed and mounted, their scarlet coats a welcome splash of colour on this dull grey afternoon. He held up a hand and they reined in their horses to listen to him. He looked to the sky where the heavy clouds were gathering fast, and then up at the hill they were to ascend. The wind would be blowing into their faces, he realised. Not a good thing. In the distance he could hear the caterwauling sound of the bagpipes as the enemy arranged itself in battle order at the summit. But at least they should have no problem with the rabble gathering at the top, providing they kept discipline. He felt the familiar thrill of anticipation at the thought of shedding blood, and smiling, looked back at his men.
“Today it seems we are at last to have a little action,” he said. He had trained his voice well; although he did not shout, every one of the sixty men under his command heard him clearly. “When we reach the top of the hill, you will see the enemy. They will appear fearsome, perhaps. They will shout at us in their gibberish. They will beat their chests like apes and bang their rusty swords against their shields. And they will flee in terror the minute we are among them, and show them that we are a force to be reckoned with. You all know the treatment meted out to the 13th and 14th dragoons, who distinguished themselves greatly by the speed with which they ran away at Prestonpans.”
The men laughed. They did. The 13th and 14th were the laughing-stock of the army. In Edinburgh they had been turned out of their quarters to make way for braver men, and were spat at and ridiculed everywhere they went.
“This will not be the fate of any of you today,” continued the captain, “and I will tell you why. Any man who runs away today, and survives this battle, will be called before me to explain why he did so. And I will personally castrate any such man who does appear before me, no matter what his reasons for running. There are no excuses for cowardice, and I will not accept any.”
The captain smiled coldly at his men, who had stopped laughing and were now quiet and white-faced. In any other officer this would be seen as an idle threat. But anyone who had served under Captain Cunningham for any length of time knew that he did not issue idle threats. Nor could they expect any reprieve if they appealed to General Hawley. It was well known that the general was insane. Any man who would hang the body of a deserter inside his tent, and eat and sleep with its flayed hide hanging over him, had to be insane. He would probably applaud the captain’s novel idea of a punishment and adopt it for the whole army.
It started to rain, the wind blowing it into the faces of the silent men.
“It is my view that any man who behaves like a silly fainting female does not deserve to retain the appurtenances of a man. But I am sure,” Richard concluded confidently, “that you will all acquit yourselves bravely this day. Advance, gentlemen.”
He turned and started to ride up the hill, followed by his men, who, if they had had any idea of fleeing before, had not the slightest notion of doing so now.
And so it was that when they reached the crest of the hill, half-blinded by the battering rain and hail that was driving into their faces, and saw the three regiments of MacDonalds they were to attack standing in massed ranks before them, neither beating their chests nor shouting gibberish, but silent and watchful, heedless of the rain at their backs, Captain Cunningham’s dragoons mastered their nerves and rode slowly forward, telling themselves the clansmen would fall back.
The clansmen did not fall back. They waited, as they had been ordered to do, in spite of the fact that the dragoons drew their swords, brandishing them in a fearsome way. They waited, and waited, until the cavalrymen were within ten paces of them. Then Lord George Murray lifted his arm and as one man the MacDonalds raised their muskets, each of them aiming at a dragoon, and fired. During the resulting chaos, the 14th once again took to their heels and ran, riding straight over a troop of their own foot soldiers in their panic and on into a large number of civilians who had come from Falkirk and the surrounding villages to watch the fun.
Captain Cunningham did not retreat. Spurring his horse forward, he charged full tilt at the MacDonalds, in no doubt that his men would follow him. They did, trampling clansmen underfoot and slashing about with their swords, sure now that the rebels would turn and run.
To their astonishment the Highlanders did no such thing. Stretched out on the ground, so tightly packed they had insufficient room to draw their swords, they instead drove their dirks into the underbellies of the horses, before dragging the riders off and stabbing them or clubbing them to death with the butts of their muskets. The ground became churned and slippery with mud and blood, and it was impossible to give orders over the screams of the wounded and dying. More of the dragoons fled the carnage, veering to the right and therefore giving the Jacobites not yet involved in the fight some excellent target practice, as they had to ride past the whole of the rebel army’s left wing before they could reach safety. The battle between the fifteen hundred or so MacDonalds and what remained of the eight hundred dragoons degenerated rapidly into wholesale butchery.
Having discharged their muskets at the fleeing redcoats, and now becoming bored of watching the MacDonalds hack the dragoons to pieces, the remaining clansmen, Alex’s MacGregors among them, drew their broadswords and charged the infantry General Hawley had confidently predicted would not be needed, sweeping away the first line with ease before settling to fight those of the second line who chose to stand.
Richard, who in his ferocity had succeeded in breaking clean through the Highland regiment, now found himself hotly engaged with the Lowlanders behind them, with only twenty of his men beside him. It was not long before he realised that he had no choice but to retreat, in spite of the fact that he had only sustained a gashed arm and a few bruised ribs. His sword was bloody to the hilt and he had lost his hat in the melee, his blood was up and he did not want to flee, in spite of the fact that it seemed many of his men had. But he was not a fool; if he stayed now he would die, there was no doubt of that. Inexplicably, the rebels had stood their ground, and it seemed, had won the day.
With great reluctance, his heart burning, Richard fought his way off the field with his remaining men, vowing that tomorrow morning the deserters would be eating their genitals for breakfast.
It was not to be. The forty missing men, rather than face the rest of their lives as eunuchs, instead had chosen to face death. The following morning found them scattered across the battlefield along with some three hundred and fifty of their comrades, stripped of their valuables and weapon
s, awaiting burial.
Nor was the slaughter of the Hanoverians over once the battle was lost. General Hawley, noting that too high a proportion of the men killed had been senior officers and correctly deducing that this was due to their men deserting them in the thick of battle, set to work living up to his nickname of ‘Hangman’ Hawley, hampered only by the fact that some of his best hangmen had been taken prisoner by the enemy. The mood of the redcoats as they retreated to Edinburgh was one of the deepest gloom.
Except for Richard, who was commended by his colonel for his extreme bravery, along with the other surviving dragoons and infantrymen who had stood their ground. For Captain Richard Cunningham the future was bright and full of promise, in spite of today’s defeat. At this rate, and with the funds now at his disposal, he would be a colonel before he was forty. He smiled as he rode, in spite of the freezing rain which soaked his dark hair and trickled icily down the back of his neck.
In complete contrast to the Hanoverians, the mood of the Jacobites, who had lost only fifty men, was one of jubilation. Whilst Charles retired to Callendar House to finish the meal Hawley had had to abandon, the clansmen tentatively entered Falkirk to find the Hanoverian army already gone. The prince and Lord George conferred and for once agreed that in view of the freezing weather and the fact that the clansmen had been marching and fighting since seven that morning, no night pursuit was feasible. Instead the victors lit fires to dry their sodden clothes, played the pipes, drank copious amounts of whisky to dull their fatigue and the pain of any minor injuries, and danced the evening away.
Except for Angus, who having suffered a nasty slash along his ribs and a knock on the head, was easily overpowered by Alex, Beth and Maggie, who then set about tending to his wound, in spite of his vehement protests that it was ‘just a wee scratch’ and he’d be fine wi’ a dram in him.
The Storm Breaks (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 4) Page 28