The Storm Breaks (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 4)

by Julia Brannan

  “It isna a wee scratch, ye gomerel,” said Maggie, slapping his hand away as he reached for the flask of whisky. “It needs cleaning, then stitching.”

  Whilst Alex sat on his legs and gripped one arm and Beth tried to hang on to the other, Maggie poured a generous slug of the alcohol onto Angus’s wound. The resulting howl of agony brought Kenneth, Duncan, Iain and Robbie Og running through from the next room, where they had just finished binding a gash on Duncan’s arm.

  Kenneth took one look at Angus’s white face and Maggie’s set one, and grabbed Angus’s arm, to Beth’s relief. She had been starting to feel like a rat in the mouth of a terrier as Angus had frantically tried to shake her off, presumably so he could strangle Maggie.

  “What the hell are ye doing, woman?” Iain said to his wife, who was now threading a needle.

  “I’m stitching this,” she said impatiently, gesturing at the still-bleeding wound. Angus’s screams had now subsided to a series of low-voiced curses as the pain subsided.

  “I dinna mean that. What are ye wasting good whisky for?” he said.

  Beth looked warily at Angus, making sure he was well secured.

  “It was my idea,” she admitted. “I remembered Anne Maynard telling me that alcohol was very good for cleaning cuts, but that it stung a bit.”

  Angus shot her a look of the purest hatred she had ever seen, his blue eyes threatening slow dismemberment once he was free.

  “I…er…didn’t realise it would sting quite that much,” she said.

  “Does it work?” asked Robbie.

  “We dinna ken, yet,” said Maggie. “We’ll find out if it heals well. Now hold still, man, and when I’m done ye can go and sit quietly by the fire. No dancing.”

  She set to work stitching the wound, during which time Angus gritted his teeth and made not a sound. Beth glanced at the bloody bandage round Duncan’s arm, and he backed away, obviously thinking she intended to suggest his cut might benefit from being bathed in whisky too. It was only then that Beth realised just how painful cleaning a wound with alcohol must be. She had never seen Duncan, or Angus for that matter, flinch from anything before. She tried to think of a topic of conversation that would lighten the atmosphere, but before she had come up with anything, Alex came to her rescue.

  “I believe I’ve to congratulate you, laddie,” he said to Robbie Og. “Ye killed your first man today, did ye no’?”

  “Aye, I did,” said Robbie proudly. No one reminded him that as soon as he had done so he was violently sick over the body. That was normal, the first time you killed. After that it got easier.

  Alex jumped down from the table, thereby freeing Angus’s legs.

  “Well done, Robbie,” he said, clapping the boy on the back.

  “I think I killed another, too,” Robbie said. “But I’m no’ sure. I wounded him sore, anyway, stuck him in the ribs. It was a hell of a job tae pull my sword free. Everything moves so fast, does it no’?”

  “Aye, it does that. It isna like ye read it in books, with everyone in neat wee lines. Once the fighting starts it’s every man for himself, though ye’ve tae keep an eye on your comrades too, of course. Ye did well today. I’m proud of ye.”

  The youth positively glowed under his chieftain’s praise, being more accustomed to being mocked for his laziness. Maggie finished stitching and Angus sat up, gingerly feeling the wound with his fingertips. Then he swung his legs off the table and got to his feet, before swaying and clutching at Kenneth.

  “Here, take it easy, laddie,” Kenneth said. “It’s a nasty gash ye’ve got. Sit yourself down awhile.”

  “It isna the cut, it’s the knock on the head,” Angus said. “I got up too fast, that’s all. I’m fine.” He straightened slowly and turned to look at Beth, who moved rapidly to stand next to Alex.

  “Dinna fash yourself, Beth,” her brother-in-law said, his cheerful mood already returning. “If the wound heals cleanly I’ll no kill ye. If I get a fever…well, we’ll see. Now, if everyone’s stitched and bound, for Christ’s sake let’s get out there and celebrate!”

  They got out there and celebrated. It was a wonderful sight, after the days of wearying marching and standing fruitlessly in the cold, to see the men dancing and drinking and talking animatedly around their fires. Women were caught up randomly and swirled off into dances, to find themselves sitting round fires with men they’d never seen before, and having to be drunkenly escorted back to their own clans later.

  This fate did not afflict Beth. Since their reunion Alex and Beth had spent all their time together, except when necessity dictated otherwise. It was as if they were trying to make up for the month they had been estranged. The MacGregors found it amusing. Beth found it amazing. She had expected there to be a little awkwardness between them at first, after the extreme coldness and hostility Alex had shown towards her, but there was none at all. He had forgiven her. He trusted her when she said she was keeping nothing more from him. They loved each other. The problem between them was resolved and they were back to where they had been before. Why should there then be awkwardness?

  It was a wonderful theory and Beth agreed wholeheartedly with it, but she had never seen anyone actually put that theory into practice before. She had thought it impossible for someone to forgive so completely. But he had. He did not avoid the subject of Richard. He had told her he would kill him as soon as an opportunity arose to do so. She had told him about the letter she’d written to Caroline. Then they got on with being in love. He kept her close to him, and she was happy to be there. Consequently she was not whisked off to a strange fireside, although various MacGregors did whirl her off for a jig or two before depositing her back at her husband’s side.

  Eventually, when people became too drunk or tired to dance, they wandered off to the dying fires to soak up the last of the warmth before heading to their lodgings. There the MacGregors were greeted by the interesting spectacle of Graeme, newly clad in kilt and plaid and bearing an expression of weary resignation. Kenneth and Simon gazed on proudly as Beth took one look at Graeme’s skinny bare legs, deathly white and covered in goose-pimples, and burst out laughing.

  “Who’s done this to you?” she managed through giggles. “Tell Alex, and he’ll string them up for you.”

  Graeme cast a black look at the two culprits, who smiled warmly.

  “Who do you think?” he said. “Do you think I’d have submitted to this,” he waved a hand at his unlikely attire, “if that overgrown freak hadn’t had a hand in things?”

  Kenneth bowed elaborately in acknowledgement of his guilt as Beth looked across at him. She sat down next to Graeme, still giggling.

  “It looks very fetching,” she offered insincerely.

  “Thank you,” he said, accepting the flask thrown to him sympathetically by Duncan, and taking a deep pull on it. “No wonder you spend all your time drinking. It’s the only way to get warm,” he said to the general company. “I’m bloody freezing. And in pain, too.”

  “In pain?” said Duncan, frowning, wondering if Kenneth and Simon had perhaps been a bit too rough when imposing their dress sense on Graeme.

  “Yes. In pain,” repeated Graeme. “How the hell you run around all day with your balls swinging about free is beyond me. I only walked from the tavern to here and I’m in bloody agony. Maybe yours are all so frozen solid you can’t feel them, but I’m not quite that cold. Yet.” He took another gulp of the whisky and glowered round the fire.

  There was a roar of laughter and a general inspection of private parts to prove they were not frozen at all. Maggie and Beth exchanged the slightly contemptuous but fondly indulgent look women adopt when their menfolk suddenly revert to infantile behaviour.

  “Ye get used to it, man,” said Iain reassuringly.

  “I’m sure you do, if you’re insane. I’m going to get changed,” said Graeme. He made to stand, and was arrested by a huge hand on his shoulder.

  “Come on, man, ye wanted to join the MacGregors,” said Kenneth. “Now
ye look like one of us too, instead of a bloody Sasannach molly.”

  “I am a bloody Sasannach, in case you’d forgotten,” growled Graeme. “And my father was a lowland Scot. And the lowland Scots have the good sense to wear breeches. They don’t feel the need to freeze to death to prove they’re men,” he continued, shaking Kenneth’s hand off and standing.

  “Prince Charles wears a kilt most of the time,” observed Beth.

  “More fool him, when he could be wearing nice warm woollen breeches and stockings. I’m going,” Graeme said, glaring up at Kenneth who backed away in mock terror, to more laughter, “to get changed.” Finding himself unopposed, Graeme started to walk off. “And on the way back, I’ll drop in on the lowland regiments and tell them you think they’re all Sasannach mollies,” he threw back over his shoulder.

  Beth looked away as Kenneth launched himself after Graeme, who took to his heels and ran, in spite of the discomfort to his private parts. She found herself staring at the bandaged chest of Angus, who had seated himself next to her unobserved while she had been laughing at Graeme. She looked up and met his dark blue gaze. He surveyed her calmly, one eyebrow raised, waiting.

  “I’m sorry,” she said dutifully. “But Anne’s cures really are effective. Usually.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Angus. “Because it hurt like hellfire, all the more as I wasna expecting it. I’ll ask ye to do something.”

  “What’s that?” she said warily.

  “Next time ye’ve a wee cut, pour some whisky on it, just so ye ken I wasna being soft.”

  “I don’t need to do that to know you’re not soft, Angus,” she said.

  “Aye,” he said. “Even so.”

  “All right,” she agreed. “I will. I promise.”

  He flung his arm around her and pulled her in to his uninjured side, which she assumed meant she was forgiven. Then he offered her his flask of whisky, and she knew she was.

  Kenneth returned, brandishing his own whisky container.

  “He’s away off to get changed,” he offered, in case anyone thought he’d done away with Graeme to get his precious drink back. “He canna see the practical side of the feileadh mhor, poor wee soul.”

  Privately, Beth could understand Graeme. Although the plaid could be used as clothing, blanket or even makeshift tent if the need arose, eliminating the need to carry baggage, and it was very fetching, particularly when worn by a well-favoured man, it did have its disadvantages. Of course the Highlanders were inured to the wind blasting around their bare legs and nether regions and would not see the sense of Graeme’s argument.

  When he returned, clad in warm trousers and a heavy coat, and seemingly none the worse for his tussle with Kenneth over the whisky flask, Beth was relieved. Attractive as the kilt was, it did not suit her ex-gardener, with his thin legs and knobbly knees. In the same way it was hard to think of Kenneth sporting a powdered wig and frockcoat. For a moment her imagination conjured up a clear image of the brawny red-haired giant dressed in peacock-blue silk, a la Sir Anthony. She giggled, attracting a quizzical look from Alex, who had elbowed his way in next to her.

  “It would take too long to explain,” she said, putting her arm round his waist and snuggling into him.

  The men, pleasantly warm and intoxicated, had begun drunkenly discussing what would happen next.

  “Will we go after the redcoats the morrow, then, d’ye think?” asked Iain to no one in particular.

  “Christ, I hope so,” said Alex. “We should strike now while the iron’s hot. They’re demoralised and disorganised. We should march on Edinburgh tomorrow and retake the town before Hawley has a chance to recover.”

  “What about the siege, though?” asked Maggie.

  “We can come back to that. Alex is right. It’s more important to go after Hawley, I’m thinking,” said Duncan.

  Prince Charles was not thinking the same thing. The next day he brought the Lowlanders back to continue the siege of Stirling Castle, leaving Lord George and the Highlanders in Falkirk. Then, suffering a relapse of his illness, he retired to Bannockburn House and bed. Although unable or unwilling to make decisions himself, he had not given authority to anyone else to do so. For ten days the Jacobite cause stagnated.

  * * *

  Alex sat in the corner, as was his custom at council meetings. Strictly speaking his presence was not necessary; there was no need for him to mediate between the prince and his lieutenant-general, as Charles, still convalescing at Bannockburn, was not present. Alex therefore held on to his temper while the chiefs discussed the best way to retreat to the Highlands, until he could bear it no more.

  “I canna believe ye’re actually still talking about retreat,” he said, standing and moving forward into the light. “Ye’d think we hadna won the battle last week. We should have gone after the redcoats straightaway, no’ just sat around here doing nothing.”

  “We have not been doing nothing, sir,” said Mirabel de Gordon, the Franco-Scottish engineer in charge of the siege, haughtily. “We have been getting the artillery into place. We will commence firing imminently.”

  Alex shot him a scathing look. His incompetence was now becoming renowned. Even Lord George, who had initially defended him against his detractors, was coming to see the man was a fool. But Charles had insisted he was the man for the job, so the man for the job he was.

  “While you’ve been getting the artillery into place,” Alex continued, “Hawley has reorganised himself and brought in reinforcements. And now Cumberland’s come back to take over command, and ye want to retreat and let him take the lowlands without a fight. What the hell are we doing? We’ve lost the initiative!”

  There was a general murmur of agreement at this, and Lord George held his hand up for silence.

  “It was the prince’s decision to prosecute the siege, not mine,” he said. “I agree it would have been better to march straight on Edinburgh. But he was too ill to make a decision on that.”

  “We should have done it without him, then,” said Alex.

  A gasp of shock came from the company.

  “I couldna make such a decision without the prince’s agreement,” said Lord George. “There is no point in arguing about what’s done.”

  “Aye, but ye can disagree with him when he does make a decision,” said Alex hotly. “Let’s argue about what’s to do, then. Cumberland is bound to come to try to relieve the siege. I admit Charles has made some bad decisions before. Carlisle was one. But the decision to stand and fight Cumberland here on a battlefield of our choosing, when the men are well-fed and rested is a good one. You couldna go against the prince ten days ago, ye say. What’s different now?”

  “The difference now,” said Murray, “is that the prince is not in full possession of the facts. The men are deserting at an alarming rate.”

  “They’re no’ deserting!” exploded Alex. “They’re bored. They canna stand siege warfare. Ye ken the Highlanders, man. They’re men of action, no’ of sitting around guarding trenches. They’re sick of waiting about, and they’re taking the opportunity to take their booty home, see their wives and families. Then they’re coming back. My own men did it in Edinburgh. It isna desertion, it’s boredom.”

  “Whatever it is, we cannot guarantee to have sufficient numbers to fight Cumberland’s army. At the rate it’s going we’ll have less than five thousand men to face an army twice that size,” Lord George pointed out.

  “Muster the men,” said Alex hotly. “Call a muster. Then ye’ll see that for every man that leaves, another’s already stashed his booty and come back. I’ll wager ye’ve lost no more than a few hundred.”

  “I cannot agree with ye, MacGregor,” Lord George said. His face was drawn, and he looked haggard. “I’ve already sent a message to the prince, signed by six of the main chiefs, advising that we retreat to Inverness. If we…”

  The door opened to admit John Murray of Broughton and a blast of rain-scented air which set the candles flickering wildly.

&n
bsp; “My lord,” he began, even before he’d closed the door. “I beg you, reconsider this move.”

  Lord George sighed, and it occurred to Alex that the man was simply exhausted. While the Hanoverian army had been led firstly by Cope, then Wade, then Hawley, and now Cumberland, who had just spent a month resting in London, Lord George had spent five months leading the army with no respite whatsoever. No man could put up with that pressure indefinitely. The prince must be feeling the same way. Maybe that explained his sudden capitulation to what, after all, seemed to be a minor illness.

  “What does the prince say about our recommendation?” Lord George asked wearily.

  “I havena shown it to him yet,” said Broughton. “He’s asleep. But O’Sullivan and I both agree that to retreat now would be a mistake. I’ve come to ask ye to reconsider.”

  “I take it ye think His Highness will no’ be pleased?” said Lochiel.

  ‘No’ be pleased’ was an understatement, and they all knew it. Broughton’s mouth twisted wryly.

  “Aye, ye could say that,” he said, “and he’ll be justified. We canna retreat now. If we do, Cumberland will say we’re running from him because we’re too afeart to fight. The men will desert in droves…”

  “The men are already deserting,” Lord George said. He looked at Alex. “Although not everyone agrees with me on that. But if we stand now, we could well be crushed. As I was saying when you arrived, if we retreat to Inverness we can raise the clans of Ross and Caithness, and field an army in excess of ten thousand by the spring.”

  “And what d’ye think Cumberland will do while we’re raising the clans of Ross and Caithness?” asked Alex. “Do ye seriously expect him to sit around in Edinburgh while we do it? He’ll come after us, force us to a fight on his terms, and Broughton’s right, the men will have deserted in droves, no’ just have gone on a wee visit home as they’re doing now.”

  “I can see another problem, too,” said Broughton. He was not a soldier, but in administration he could not be faulted. He had ensured the adequate provision of the whole army in difficult circumstances for five months. “If we retire to Inverness, how the hell am I going to feed ten thousand men through the winter? There isna enough to feed the people who live there now! We need the lowlands; that’s where the food is. If we retreat now, Cumberland will take them, and we’ll starve.”