The thirty men of the advance party stopped as one. The sound of several muskets being fired echoed through the air, and from the field ahead of them could be heard the voices of many men, calling the clan rants of the Camerons, Frasers, MacGregors, and Mackintoshes. From the back of the field came more distant voices, calling for the Grants and MacPhersons to hurry up and muster. There were more shots, the balls whistling into the troop of startled soldiers. The redcoats crouched down, and taking aim at the large groups of men who were dimly to be seen congregating in the field from where all the noise was coming, fired. Then they backed away rapidly, knowing that they would not survive an encounter with the whole Jacobite army, which was obviously even now assembling behind its chiefs. They ran to relay the catastrophic news to Lord Loudoun and his main force, which was descending the heights to Moy.
The news that the intelligence had been wrong, and that Prince Charles had not just a small entourage but his whole army positioned in the grounds of Moy Hall awaiting them travelled through Loudoun’s army like wildfire. By the time Lord Loudoun had made sense of the information the advance troops were delivering, five companies of his forces had already fled, and the rest were in a state of the utmost disarray, firing their muskets in all directions.
Faced with no other option but to retreat, Loudoun did so with as much dignity as possible. It was no shame to retreat in the face of vastly superior numbers, he reasoned, and when on arriving back in Inverness he found that two hundred of his men had deserted, he took hasty council with the other senior officers, who agreed that it was not possible for so small a force to make a stand at Inverness against such formidable odds. The next morning the Hanoverian forces under Loudoun began the retreat from Inverness to Ross and Cromarty to await the arrival of the Duke of Cumberland with his greater army.
Hiding in the woods and hearing the distant musket fire with trepidation, the first Prince Charles and his entourage knew of what had transpired was when five men, waving their shirts from the ends of their muskets so they would not be shot in error by their own men, came strolling across the lawns towards the lake, shouting their names and that the danger was past.
With the same speed that the news of the imminent attack of the whole Jacobite force had spread through Loudoun’s troop half an hour before, now the more accurate news that five men running about like lunatics and firing their muskets had fooled fifteen hundred redcoats into retreating to Inverness rippled through the entourage on a wave of disbelief and then laughter.
The five heroes were hoisted high on the shoulders of the Camerons and marched back to Moy Hall, where a jubilant Colonel Anne lit all the lamps and broached the wine cellar for a second time that evening. The Jacobites celebrated, heedless of their partial, and in some cases indecent attire, crowding round the hastily banked-up fires to warm themselves.
There were two absentees from this jollity, although in the jubilation no one noticed. Alex MacGregor, eyes sparkling, still fizzing with excitement, his muscles burning to be active, had thought of a better way to warm the scantily clad, shivering woman who had thrown herself at him the moment he had arrived by the lakeside and had clung to him like a limpet ever since.
They repaired to bed with a bottle of wine, and by the time Beth slid into a blissful dreamless sleep after an hour of imaginative and tender lovemaking, they were both as warm as toast, and far happier than any of the company sleepily making their way to their beds.
Two days later Prince Charles and the three thousand men he had now assembled, all of them fully apprised of the true details of the Rout of Moy, walked in merry mood into Inverness, which surrendered without a shot being fired. The castle capitulated the next day. In the meantime Lord Loudoun and his men were some thirty miles and three saltwater inlets away on the Black Isle. The capital town of the Highlands, with its much needed provisions and shelter from the elements, now belonged to the Jacobites, who set about making it their base for the winter.
* * *
The Duke of Cumberland, struggling into Aberdeen with his forces through ice and snow, decided to stay there until the thaw began, assuming the Pretender’s son and his army would stay put in Inverness for what remained of the dreadful winter.
In his lodgings the duke drew his chair as close as he could to the fire. In spite of the fact that he was almost sitting in the hearth, he was still freezing. How the hell the people could live in peat huts in this climate was beyond him. He shivered and then held out his hand. A hovering servant duly placed a large glass of port into it. The duke had been sipping contemplatively for no more than a few seconds when there came a perfunctory knock on the door, which then opened, and Prince Friedrich of Hesse entered without any further ceremony.
Cumberland sighed inwardly. Of all the people he did not want to see at this moment, the prince was right near the top of the list. The two had already argued on more than one occasion, and although the prince had brought six thousand troops with him to fight the rebels, the duke still wondered whether the price he was having to pay in putting up with Hesse’s patronising attitude was worth it.
The prince advanced into the room brandishing a letter and clicked his heels politely, then waited.
“Ah, Friedrich,” said the duke in a jovial tone that was more than a little forced. “Do sit down and warm yourself. The room is somewhat draughty, but at least the port is quite excellent.”
Prince Friedrich declined the port with a wave of his hand, but did sit down, perching on the edge of the chair in a precarious way that irritated the duke.
“Today I received this letter from Lord George Murray,” he began.
The duke sat up a little straighter. Was the rebel general thinking of negotiating a surrender?
“It was brought to me,” continued the prince, speaking in his native German, “by a hussar, who was taken prisoner by the rebels some days ago. He had expected to be executed, as hussars do not give quarter when fighting and therefore expect none.”
Cumberland held out his hand, but Prince Friedrich clearly had no intention of handing the missive over until he had recounted his tiresome story.
“Imagine his surprise, therefore,” continued Prince Friedrich, “when he was not only treated with exceptional courtesy, but was also entrusted to bring this letter to me. My man asked Lord George if he must then return to the rebels. Lord George said he should only return if I demanded it.”
“Well of course he would not return, once he’d been released,” said the duke. “Murray would know that. What does the letter say?”
The prince looked outraged.
“My soldiers are men of honour, William,” he said. “If he had been charged to return to Lord George’s custody, he would of course have done so. The letter addresses a matter we have discussed before.”
Still he did not hand it over, and Cumberland gave up, relaxing back in his chair again and holding out his glass for a refill.
“In it Lord Murray asks you to outline on what footing you propose to make war in the kingdom, and whether you intend to agree a cartel by which prisoners will be mutually exchanged on a regular basis, as is the custom in all civilised countries at war.”
They had discussed this matter before. Cumberland sighed again.
“No, I do not intend to agree a cartel, Friedrich. These are quite exceptional circumstances, as you must surely see for yourself now, having spent some time in this Godforsaken country.”
“I fail to see the exceptional circumstances of which you speak, William,” said the prince.
Cumberland swallowed his irritation at what he considered the prince’s patronising tone, and when he spoke his voice had only a slight edge to it.
“These men are not civilised, Friedrich. They are hardly men at all. Just look at them, for God’s sake. They live in tribes in mud huts and caves, they make their money by thieving and forcing honest farmers to pay blackmail so they won’t have their cattle stolen. They obey none of the laws of the country, kill each other at
the drop of a hat, and now they are rebelling against their anointed king. They are contemptible primitives who know no laws, and as such I do not see why I should offer them a cartel.”
“Yet you have many of these contemptible primitives in your own army, do you not? Do they know that you hold them in such contempt?”
“Of course not!” said the duke, reddening. “That is, of course, some of them wish to change,” he amended hastily. “They wish to abandon their savage ways, and to take part in the enlightened world that my father and his government offer them. The rest wish to plunge the country back into the dark ages, when we all had to bend the knee to Rome. It cannot be tolerated! You must see that the rules of civilised warfare do not apply here. These men have rebelled time and time again. They were treated most leniently after the ’15 and learnt nothing from it. In order for the island to have peace this rabble must be brought to heel, and once this ridiculous rebellion is over, the Highlands must be pacified. It may seem harsh, but these people live by violence; it is the only law they understand. Any form of mercy they see as weakness.”
“I beg to differ, William,” said Prince Friedrich haughtily. “I cannot comment on their normal way of life; I have not enough experience of it to do so. But in war, which is my concern, I have found the rebels’ behaviour exemplary. Their prisoners are treated humanely, and many of them are released on parole. A parole which you have ordered them to break, may I say. Many of your officers feel you are asking them to behave in a dishonourable manner by doing so.”
“Do they?” said the duke, growing haughty in his turn. “Then they should bring their grievances to me, and I will deal with them. In the meantime, I will not negotiate a cartel with Murray. If I do that I will be acknowledging that this rebellion is lawful, and that I will never do.”
“Is that your final word on the matter?” asked the prince.
“Indeed it is. I am sure that when you have thought it through, you will come to agree with me.”
Prince Fredrich stood, brushing down the skirts of his coat.
“And I am sure I will not. If you refuse Lord George’s offer of a cartel, then I have no choice but to refuse to allow my men to fight any further under your command. I do not consider the argument between Stuart and Hanover worth exposing my subjects to men whom you, by your belligerent attitude, are driving to despair. Can you not see, William, that by treating the rebels as less than human you will force them to behave so? It is to their credit that they are still behaving in a civilised manner in the face of your intractability. By refusing them terms of any sort you give them no reason to look favourably upon Hanover, and every reason to fight to the last man for the Stuarts. I will be in my quarters if you wish to reconsider the matter.”
He bowed stiffly, clicking his heels, and strode from the room.
“Scheisse!” the duke roared, hurling his glass at the fire, where it shattered. The hovering servant took several paces backwards. Although the duke was not known for taking his temper out on innocent bystanders, it was nevertheless unwise to draw attention to yourself at such times.
Cumberland leapt to his feet, pacing the room in a fury, uttering oaths under his breath in German and English. The prince was a bloody fool! If it were his precious province of Hesse that was being threatened by a bunch of savages, he would soon see things in a different light, instead of standing on piffling points of law! He would be damned if he would negotiate a cartel, or anything else for that matter, with these bastards. If the prince would not see reason, then there was nothing to be done. It was regrettable, the loss of six thousand troops, but he could manage without them. Better that than to legitimise this rebellion. If he did, it would be tantamount to acknowledging that the Pretender’s cause was lawful. Then people might start thinking about the fact that George of Hanover’s claim to the throne was far more tenuous than that of James Stuart. And they might think that he, Prince William, Duke of Cumberland, Commander in Chief of the army, was becoming soft. His men regarded him as a firm disciplinarian, but a fair one. If he lost their respect he would lose everything. No, it could not be done, and there was an end of it.
He sat down again, called for another glass of port, and resumed his contemplation of the fire, somewhat more moodily than previously.
Prince Charles would have been ecstatic had he known that through his pigheadedness Cumberland had lost the use of six thousand men. But he was in no state to know anything. Instead he was lying desperately ill in bed in Inverness, having contracted pneumonia shortly after the Rout of Moy, closely followed by scarlet fever.
This time there was no choice; decisions had to be taken without his knowledge or agreement.
* * *
“I would give my right arm,” said Maggie with conviction, “to be completely warm, all over, for just one hour.”
“You could have stayed in Inverness,” Beth pointed out. Her nose was red and her fingers numb. She tucked her hands under her armpits to try and warm them up. “We both could, for that matter.” They had had one hell of an argument with Alex before he had agreed to let them come on this campaign, insisting they’d be better off in Inverness. It was only against his better judgement that he’d given in. That, and his secret reluctance to be apart from his wife for what would be an unknown amount of time. “Alex will skin us alive if we start complaining now,” she added.
“I ken that,” replied Maggie. “That’s why I’m saying it to you and no’ to him.” She peered doubtfully into the pot of thin soup.
“Are you sorry you came?” Beth asked.
Maggie shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I’m with Iain, that’s the main thing. But it’d be nice to be wi’ Iain and be warm. And have a full stomach. Although I’ll have one of those soon enough,” she murmured, almost to herself, but Beth caught the words and halted in the action of putting more wood on the fire.
“Are you sure?” she said, her eyes wide.
“Aye, I’m sure. I havena told Iain yet, though.” Maggie smiled suddenly, radiantly, and in spite of her misgivings Beth couldn’t help but smile with her.
“Oh Maggie, you should never have come, if you’re pregnant. What were you thinking of?” she said.
“I didna ken when we set off. I kent my flux was late but that’s no’ unusual at the minute wi’ all the walking and suchlike. But now my breasts are feeling a wee bit tender, like they did the last time, and I’m sure.”
“You’ll have to go back,” Beth said firmly. “Alex will insist on it now. So will Iain.”
“That’s why I’m no’ telling them yet, and ye mustna, either. They’ve enough to worry about. I’m only two months along, and I feel fine. We’ll be back in Inverness soon enough. I’ll tell him then.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Beth. “I’m starting to doubt we’ll ever be back in Inverness.” She looked in the general direction of Blair Castle, although it couldn’t be seen from where she was standing, and sighed.
The Jacobites had not stayed in Inverness to wait for the weather to improve as Cumberland had expected. Instead nearly half the army were scattered about the country. The Glencarnock MacGregors were harassing Loudoun in the far north, ensuring that his troops could not break through and join Cumberland in Aberdeen; the Grants and the Frasers were on a recruiting drive; Lochiel and the Camerons had attacked Fort Augustus with spectacular success, the commander surrendering within two days, after which they had moved on to try their luck at Fort William, which they now had under siege.
Alex had elected not to accompany Lochiel on this venture. Instead, he and his men, together with the Atholl regiment headed by Lord George Murray, had marched from Inverness to Strathspey, where they had taken Castle Grant, held by the Hanoverians, and then had marched on, joined on the way by the MacPhersons, to conduct an extremely well-planned raid against the hated Campbells. Fighting for the Hanoverians, the Campbell militia had set up a series of outposts, many of them fortified farmhouses from which the Jacobi
te tenants had been evicted, between Loch Rannoch and Lord George’s ancestral home of Blair Castle, now owned by his Hanoverian brother. Splitting his seven hundred men up into thirty companies, Lord George had assigned each a specific outpost, and on the night of the sixteenth of March all the outposts were taken in a perfectly co-ordinated attack without the loss of a single clansman. It was a coup to match the Rout of Moy and the men had been justifiably ecstatic as they descended on the village of Blair, where they were to make their home for the next two weeks while they besieged the castle.
In the last days the food had started to run short, with the result that the evening broth was slowly getting thinner and the oat cakes less plentiful. Rumour abounded that Prince Charles was so short of money he was reduced to paying his troops with meal from the provisions depot at Inverness. The MacGregors had certainly received no pay since they had been at Blair, although this was the last thing on the minds of the ravenous men as they trooped into the house they had made their home. They had rented it from the landlord of the Blair Inn, although how they would pay him was anyone’s guess.
Alex swept Beth up into a breathless embrace, before plopping himself down as close to the fire as he could get without setting himself alight. He looked into the pot and grimaced.
“Ah,” he said. “No’ a moment too soon, then.”
In explanation of this remark Dougal hoved in view brandishing a brace of rabbits, already skinned and gutted. In record time they were chopped into chunks and added to the pot, and the meal soon started to smell appetising. The room became crowded with hungry, red-cheeked men all jostling for a place near the fire, and Beth gave up any idea of pursuing her conversation with Maggie for the moment.
“How’s the siege going?” she asked instead. There was a universal groan, which answered her question.
“We’d do well if we had more artillery,” said Duncan. “But ye canna get through seven-foot-thick walls wi’ a six-pounder cannon, no matter how hard ye try.”
The Storm Breaks (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 4) Page 31