He returned to the tent a few minutes later, where he and his colleagues ate and then, declining an invitation from the military men to join them in a game of cards, they turned in for an early night, having been on the road all day.
“Did ye meet wi’ Lachlan?” Iain whispered once they were inside the tent with the flaps down. Although they had no candle the light from the nearby cooking fires of the soldiers illuminated the interior of their accommodation enough for Iain to see Alex put his finger to his mouth, and he immediately fell silent.
“The soldiers won’t hear our words if we whisper,” he said, still using the flat vowels of Toby Grundy, Yorkshireman, “but Scottish accents have a different cadence, even when whispered, that they might pick up on if they’re astute. We can’t be too careful.”
Iain nodded.
“But yes, I did. I told him that we’ll be leaving in three days, and to tell Angus to wait for further instructions once we get to Fort William. If he’s quick, he should be back with us before we reach there, and we can tell him more then. We can’t go ahead with the plan while there are two hundred soldiers with us. I hadn’t planned on that many. But it’s good that we’ll be heading down the country from Fort William, because we won’t have so far to go to drive the cattle to Glencoe.”
“Unless they send the two hundred soldiers to Glasgow with us,” Graeme commented.
“I’ll deal with that as I come to it. I’ll think of something. Did you hear anything useful, Iain?”
Iain shook his head.
“Tomorrow go for a walk round, be interested in everything, but understand nothing. You’re really good at being a deaf idiot now. The way you jumped when I touched you, if I hadn’t known better I’d really have had no idea you heard us coming a good minute before.”
The deaf idiot grinned and winked, but kept silent.
“You’re a good teacher,” Graeme whispered. “I knew you could act a role, I mean I saw you as Sir Anthony twice, remember?”
“I’m not likely to forget you and Thomas running down the garden to kill me for attacking Beth,” Alex said, smiling at the memory and then trying to dismiss it quickly before the pain came.
“But I didn’t realise just how good you were until today. Everything about you was a blunt northern Englishman, a man who likes to think he’s plain, but is so desperate to make a fortune and rise in the world that he’s moved to tears when he thinks it won’t happen. You were so good I was actually disappointed for you that you weren’t going to get to kiss Cumberland’s hand and dine out on it in Haworth for the next twenty years.”
Alex laughed softly.
“Not as disappointed as Cumberland’d be if he knew that Sir Anthony Peters was lying within a few feet of thousands of redcoats right now, feeling as safe as if he was in his own house.”
“Do you really feel that safe?” asked Graeme. “I’m damned if I do.”
“I do. I have to, or I’d be nervous all the time, and men can sense nervousness. I spent over three years living a lie every day. I had to learn how to relax. We all did. That’s why Iain wouldn’t have choked on his brandy like you did. You covered it well, though. And your story about the injury sounded convincing.”
“I’m a plain man,” Graeme said, grinning. “I’m not used to lying. I’m glad we had the time for you to teach me while we were riding down to Cheshire to get the gold. I’m sorry we couldn’t go to see Thomas and Jane, though. I’d like to let them know I’m well.”
“I’m sorry. But we couldn’t risk it. If you’d been recognised by someone who knew you’d joined the prince…maybe in time you’ll be able to, but it’s too soon now.”
“I know. But at least now you know where the money is, should anything happen to me. It’s worried me ever since Beth…” His voice trailed off into silence and he closed his eyes for a moment, compressing his lips into a tight line to try to contain the grief that had risen in him at the mere thought of her death. “I didn’t want to be the only person who knew where it was,” he continued after a moment. “What would you have done if Cumberland had still been here and agreed to let you kiss his hand?”
“I’d have kissed it. Then one day, when I was sure I was safe, I’d have written to him to let him know how close he was to Sir Anthony this day. Now, let’s get some sleep. I want to look at the cattle tomorrow, pick out the best, and find out more about how the auction’s run. In fact in view of how many I’m buying, I’m hoping to bypass the auction altogether. And I’d rather pay for the cows and get rid of the money before the soldiers find out I’ve got five hundred guineas in gold with me.”
* * *
25th July, 1746
It was a glorious day. In London Prince William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland was arriving in London to a tumultuous welcome from its grateful citizens. Much further north, Prince Charles Edward Stuart, back on the mainland of Scotland had, four days earlier, successfully broken through the extremely tight cordon around Moidart set up to capture him, by passing silently between two sentries, and was now safely resting in a cave in the Braes of Glenmoriston in the loyal company of the famous (or infamous, depending on one’s viewpoint) Glenmoriston men, who had vowed to fight on regardless of the Elector’s son’s ‘great and complete victory’.
Meanwhile Tobias Grundy, plain man of Yorkshire, was riding, as proud as though he himself was a prince of the blood royal, along the banks of Loch Ness at the head of the newly bought cattle which were to make his fortune, as he declared loudly to anyone willing to listen. From time to time he would remember that he was in a barbarous country peopled with savages, and would look around nervously as though expecting a horde of tartan-clad fiends to fall upon them at any moment.
Noticing this, Captain Matthew Sewell, who was leading the two hundred soldiers currently doubling as cattle-herders to Fort William, cantered up to join the Yorkshireman and his two companions.
“You need have no fear, Mr Grundy,” he said reassuringly when he reached them. “We are riding through the Fraser lands, or what were the Fraser lands. But we will have no trouble from the clansmen, sir. Those who are left will no doubt be in mourning. Their chief Lord Lovat was taken a couple of weeks ago. Hiding in a tree, he was, but now on his way to London and to execution, if justice be served.”
Mr Grundy was clearly extremely relieved to hear this news.
“I’ll tell you, Captain, I’ve heard people say that the dales of Yorkshire are wild and barren, and it’s true that in the winter they can seem to be. But it’s good fertile land, and in the summer there’s no finer place in the whole of His Majesty’s realm, sir. But this,” he made an expansive hand gesture which took in the waters of the loch, sparkling in the sunshine, the craggy mountains lining it, and in fact the whole of Scotland, both north and south, “I don’t know how anyone can live here. I’ve never been in such a dark and gloomy place in my life.”
“It’s a fine day today, Toby,” his hideous-looking companion observed. “The water looks very inviting. I was thinking to go for a swim later, when we stop for the night.”
“I wouldn’t swim in that for all the tea in China,” another soldier commented. “It’s said to be bottomless, and there’s a sea monster lives there. Even the Highlanders themselves won’t go in it in case they get eaten.”
Tobias and George looked at the stretch of water with horror, while John, as was his way, stared vacantly off into the distance.
“That’s nonsense. I’m surprised at you, Barker, and you a good Church of England man,” scoffed the captain. “Old wives’ tales, just the sort of thing an ignorant papist savage would believe. I’ve swum in there several times myself since I’ve been here, although the water’s a bit murky. It’s not often we have a day warm enough for swimming though, but it’s a lovely day today. I’ll happily accompany you in a swim, Mr Armstrong,” he continued, “as I daresay will many of the men. Just the thing to cool down. You can sit on the bank and watch for sea monsters and mermaids, Barker.”
There was a general chorus of laughter at this, and the hapless Barker reddened and fell silent.
“You are in the right though, Mr Grundy,” continued the captain. “I don’t know why anyone would choose to live in such a place. I’ll admit that when I first went out to help clear the lands – the Cameron lands, sir, up ahead of us – I was shocked by how poorly the people lived. Little huts they have, with no furniture to speak of and a ragged sorry bunch they were when we drove them out. Not a one of them speaks the King’s English, and no doubt they’d think a book was something to light a fire with. All they know to do is kill, and they’ll follow their chief before God. Not that the Camerons’ll be following theirs any more. He was wounded in the heel at Culloden and has since died of it.”
“Died of a wounded heel? I never heard of such a thing!” exclaimed Mr Grundy, who had clearly never been within a hundred miles of a battle and seen how a seemingly minor wound could fester and blacken, and in spite of all the doctors could do, kill an otherwise healthy man in a matter of days.
“Indeed, it’s more common than you’d think. It’s said by many, on both sides, that Lochiel – that’s the chief’s name – was a man of honour. He certainly had a fine house. I saw it before it was burnt. All made of wood it was, and beautiful gardens round it too.”
“I don’t see how anyone could fight against his rightful king and be called a man of honour, Captain,” Mr Grundy said indignantly.
“I take your point, sir. But it doesn’t matter now, because he’s dead and his clan scattered. Our job here is almost done, I think.”
“You must be looking forward to going home then,” Mr Grundy remarked.
“Not yet,” Captain Sewell said, with obvious regret. “We have another task ahead of us, which is why we’re on our way to Fort William.”
“And I’m glad you are, sir. Your men are doing a fine job of keeping my cows together. They’ll make my fortune when I get them back to Yorkshire.” He beamed. “You don’t seem happy about this task of yours, Captain. Is it a dangerous one?”
“Dangerous? No, I don’t expect it to be,” he replied.
“Is it building work you’re doing then?” Mr Armstrong put in. “I remember the fine roads that Wade built, back when I was a younger man. They made getting here easier, that’s for sure.”
“I heard that too, George, though I don’t remember them being built, being just a sprat at the time. Didn’t the rebels use them to bypass the army on their march south, though?”
Captain Sewell cast a venomous look towards Mr Grundy, who returned it with a look of the utmost innocence. No, ignorance. The man obviously had no idea that it was not politic to bring up such things as the enemy using your own roads against you.
“Well, they will not be using them again. No, it is not building work we’ll be engaged in, Mr Armstrong, although I’m afraid I cannot say what we will be doing. Orders, you understand.”
“We need to find out what they’re intending. Glencoe is only a morning’s march from Fort William, and we’re only a couple of days further,” Alex muttered as the three men stood by the lochside later that evening. A little way back from the shore the men had set up camp for the night. A number of them, undaunted by the prospect of being devoured by a sea monster, were splashing and swimming in the loch fifty yards or so away. No one was in earshot, but they were in sight. With this in mind, Graeme was stripping off in preparation for his swim, while Alex had only gone so far as to take off his stockings with the intention of merely washing his feet, and demonstrating trepidation even at that. Iain was sitting on a rock between his two companions, throwing pebbles into the water in a deliberately inept attempt to skim them across the surface.
“It’ll take more than two days for the redcoats though,” Iain said, his face turned to the west so that no particularly keen-sighted observers would see his mouth moving. “Five, maybe.”
“That depends if they’re riding or marching, and how many they are. If they’re gathering in such numbers though, they’re up to something big. The question is, is it something big north, or south?”
“What do you think about Lochiel?” Graeme asked as he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a white but surprisingly well-muscled torso for a man of his years. He was indeed a man of the soil, and his years of outdoor toil had left him with the athletic body of a much younger man.
“I dinna ken what to think. I heard he’d died at Culloden, then that he’d escaped to France, and neither of those rumours were true. His wounds were healing when I last saw him, but that was a while ago. But we canna do anything about that. Iain, I want ye to split away from us the morrow. Watch the cows, and if ye can, when we get to Fort William wander about and see if ye can find anything out. The soldiers are bound to talk amongst themselves.”
“It’s a shame Angus isn’t here,” Graeme commented, taking off his breeches and standing in all his naked glory, ready to go into the water. “He could have gone to the tavern and drunk them all under the table. They’re most likely to talk when they’re drunk.”
Folding his breeches carefully and placing them on top of his shirt on the rock, he strode fearlessly into the water. Alex followed more slowly, stopping when the water was up to his shins.
“How’s the water?” he called to Graeme, all Yorkshire again.
“Bloody freezing, till you get used to it. Then it’s lovely,” Graeme called back. He swam away strongly in the opposite direction to the soldiers, and was soon a mere speck in the distance.
Alex stood in the shallows, doubt and apprehension in every line of his body.
“Come on in, Mr Grundy!” one of the soldiers shouted, swimming a bit closer to them. “We’ll save you from the sea monster!”
There was laughter from the other men, who were also drawing nearer. It became evident that they were intending to compel Mr Grundy to take a dip.
“That’s very kind, but I cannot swim, sir,” he called back. He didn’t want these military men to see him undressed, and if they dragged him in fully clothed as they clearly intended to, they would certainly expect him to take off his sodden garb when he emerged from the loch. You did not achieve a body like his by being a cattle dealer in the Yorkshire dales. Maybe the legs, yes; walking for miles around the moors would certainly build calves and thighs. But it would not give you a massive solid torso, nor would it give you shoulders and arms knotted with heavy muscle, gained from years of practice with weapons of all kinds. They were trained fighters; they would recognise a warrior’s body.
He turned and began to walk out of the water, hoping that they would give up once he was on dry land, although from the looks of them, he doubted it. They were clearly amused by his apprehension and were egging each other on. He didn’t blame them; it was just high spirits, the sort of thing the MacGregors would do if faced with a timorous Englishman. He would have to improvise a pugilistic background. He was a keen boxer in his native dales, and had once defeated the champion of somewhere…Harrogate? York? Although that would not explain the sword cut on his side, nor the scar on his chest inflicted by a MacFarlane dirk on a cattle raid across Loch Lomond some ten years previously. Nor would it explain why his eyebrows were black, but his hair red-brown. Damn.
A rock flew over his left shoulder and landed in the loch with a loud splash, and then the deaf mute idiot behind him stood suddenly and ran fully dressed into the water, eyes fixed on the opposite shore, oblivious to either the shouts and hand gestures of Mr Grundy on his left or the jeers and laughter from the soldiers on his right. It was clear that he had seen something on the other side of the loch that appealed to his dim mind, and was determined to go to it.
“John! John!” Mr Grundy bellowed, to no avail. John, now up to his waist, fell forward in the water, preparing to strike out for the other side. Mr Grundy walked back into the loch up to his knees, then stopped. “Please, bring him back!” he begged of the soldiers who, faced with this new diversion, had temporarily abandoned their plan.
“There’s no sea monster, sir!” one of them called mockingly. “He won’t be eaten.”
“He can’t swim!” Mr Grundy shouted back desperately. “He’ll drown! Please, I beg you, bring him back.” He was almost in tears now as he watched his servant, who had in fact managed to swim with some skill until Mr Grundy made his plea, suddenly flounder and go under the water before resurfacing a moment later, arms and legs flailing in all directions. Mr Armstrong, having observed the commotion from afar, turned and began to swim back, although there was no doubt he would be too late to save his companion.
The soldiers hesitated, clearly torn between watching to see how long it took the idiot to drown, and rescuing him. One of them called out, “Sixpence that he lasts to the count of two hundred!”
“A shilling for the count of one hundred!” another replied. All thought of rescue was forgotten in the excitement of a wager.
“One, two, three, four…”
“Ten shillings to the man who brings him safe to shore!” called the Yorkshireman, beside himself with anguish.
Two minutes later a reluctant John, still intent on making it across the loch, was dragged unceremoniously out of the water and deposited at his master’s feet, shivering and dripping from head to toe.
“Thank you,” said Mr Grundy earnestly, clasping the rescuer’s hands in gratitude. “I’ll get him back and out of those clothes, or he’ll catch his death. Come to my tent in an hour, sir, and I’ll give you your reward.”
He helped John to his feet, and taking a firm grip on his arm to stop him making a second attempt to cross the loch, led him away in the direction of the tents.
* * *
It was really amusing. The idiot seemed to actually think they were his friends, just because they’d dragged him out of the loch. He had no idea that if that pathetic coward Grundy, too scared to get wet himself, hadn’t bribed them to drag him out, he’d have been feeding the fishes now. Or the sea monster, if it really did exist.
Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5) Page 18