Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5)

by Julia Brannan

  Instead he had followed them everywhere for the last three days, grinning inanely at them and generally getting under their feet. He had even tried to follow them into the fort itself, no doubt intending to sleep in their barracks, but luckily that grim-faced ugly old fart Armstrong had come along and dragged him away to the room they’d managed to get in the remnants of Maryburgh, which had been burnt in March but was now being repaired.

  Since the incident by Loch Ness Grundy had been subdued and had kept himself to himself, no longer boasting about his future fortune, which was currently grazing in the meadows near the fort, guarded by a detachment of forty soldiers, who were to accompany the three men down to Glasgow. No doubt he knew that the soldiers held him in contempt for his fear of the mythical monster. How the hell he’d had the balls to ride all the way from Yorkshire to Fort Augustus with only an idiot and a decrepit old man for protection was beyond them. But then, the lure of money was a powerful incentive and could cause a man to take all manner of risks.

  A case in point being the five men now entering the tavern, shadowed by the idiot. They had initially done their utmost to avoid being picked to herd the cattle down to Glasgow, aware that to do so they would have to pass through rebel territory; until they had been informed that Mr Grundy was willing to pay two shillings per man per day for the journey south from Fort William. For less than half of that they had stood on the battlefields of Dettingen, Prestonpans, Falkirk Muir, to name but a few, while the enemy shot and slashed them to pieces. All of a sudden taking cows to Glasgow seemed positively harmless. They had leapt to volunteer, telling themselves that they would only be passing through a few miles of enemy territory; most of their way led through the friendly Campbell lands.

  Captain Sewell had told the men that herding the cattle for Grundy would give them an ideal opportunity to survey the territory. They were not expected to engage with any rebels, although of course if they came across a few isolated villages they could use their initiative. The main foray would come later, once Mr Grundy and his companions were safely on the road to England.

  As far as Matthew Sewell was concerned, this whole exercise promised to be a waste of resources; the bulk of the rebels had come from the areas already ravaged. Further south support for the Pretender had been far more sporadic.

  For his part Captain Sewell would have preferred to head north in search of the Young Pretender and those sheltering him. Thirty thousand pounds was a powerful incentive, to say nothing of the glory and praise that would be showered on the lucky man who captured the Stuart upstart.

  But he had his orders, and they were to disarm that part of Dumbarton which lay on the east, west and north sides of Loch Lomond. And orders had to be obeyed.

  The five soldiers, with money in their pockets and the promise of much more to come in the next days, embarked upon their night of drinking in high spirits, which soon became even more elevated when the idiot produced a golden guinea, which he surely must have pilfered from Grundy, giving it to the barmaid with one hand whilst with the other making a sweeping gesture which took in the whole table, followed by a reasonable mime of drinking. The soldiers gave a great cheer, and John the idiot became their best friend for the evening.

  They had determined to have some sport with him, but he had no head for liquor and after two tankards of good ale and a brandy he fell asleep slumped over the table, his head pillowed on his folded arms. Feeling magnanimous in view of the fact that he was paying for the evening’s drink they left him there, and set to discussing the days to come, and seeing if they could drink a whole guinea’s worth of alcohol between them.

  It was after midnight by the time George Armstrong found them, by which time the men had made considerable inroads into the guinea. He took one look at the snoring figure of John, and sighed.

  “What the hell are you up to, letting him get like that?” he said accusingly to the bleary-eyed redcoats. “You know he’s soft in the head.”

  “We din’t do nuffin’ to ‘im, you ugly old bugger,” one of the men slurred, swaying in his seat. He waved an arm around the table to indicate the innocence of his companions and in doing so lost his balance, toppling backwards off the bench and landing on the floor, giggling.

  Armstrong looked at the group and seemed to realise he’d get no sense from any of them.

  “Come on, lad,” he said instead, grasping John round the chest and lifting him bodily from the seat. “Let’s get you home.”

  The deaf man seemed to rouse for a moment, opening one eye and attempting to get his legs to support him, before collapsing onto the bench again. It was with some considerable difficulty that George managed to stop himself from landing on the floor with the soldier who had insulted him and who was now subsiding into sleep, his mouth hanging open.

  “He’s bloody heavy for a bony bastard,” George said to no one in particular, and taking John by the shoulders, shook him hard, which met with more success in that he woke up enough this time to stagger to his feet. George put his arm round the idiot’s waist to support him, and John, finally realising that he was going to have to walk, slung his left arm over the older man’s shoulder and attempted to stand upright, while with his right he fumbled with his breeches.

  Those of the soldiers still sober enough to notice what John was doing, started laughing.

  “Watch out old man, he thinks you’re his doxy,” one of them said.

  “Only chance you’ll ever get to be fucked, face like that,” another one mumbled, to general hilarity.

  John took out his penis drowsily and then proceeded to urinate, aiming with deadly accuracy into the collapsed and now comatose soldier’s open mouth.

  George’s mouth twisted in that strange sneer he had, and then he tightened his grip round John’s waist and attempted to head for the door, clearly intending to get out quickly before the others realised what was happening. John, penis still in hand, lurched round in George’s grip, spraying the table and the soldiers sitting at it in the process, before staggering across the room and out of the door.

  They continued to weave their way drunkenly down the street until they rounded the corner, where John miraculously and instantaneously sobered up and the two men slumped against the wall, laughing hysterically.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” Graeme said, once he could speak. “You could have got us both killed.”

  “No, they’ve been drinking solid for four hours. I doubt a one of them could even stand up, let alone draw his sword.”

  “Well, you made good use of your sword, so to speak,” Graeme spluttered, giggling like a five-year-old. “And they say Angus is the reckless one.”

  Iain grinned.

  “I couldna resist. My ma would hae washed my mouth out wi’ soap, an I’d insulted an elder like that wee gomerel insulted you. I just didna have any soap to hand, so I improvised. I doubt they’ll remember, come morning,” he said.

  “They might, when they wake up stinking of piss,” Graeme said. “Come on, let’s get back to the room.”

  Five minutes later they walked into the small, sparsely furnished but more importantly private room they were sharing, still giggling. Alex, occupying the only chair, looked up in surprise at the unexpected hilarity.

  “Christ, man, how much did ye drink?” he said, instantly concerned. Iain was no Angus where liquor was concerned.

  “Enough to give a Highland baptism to five redcoats,” Iain said cryptically.

  Alex watched with astonishment as the two men, neither of them normally prone to such childish behaviour, collapsed into laughter again, grinning in spite of the fact that he had no idea what this Highland baptism of Iain’s was. It was good to see him laugh again. He had barely even smiled since Maggie’s death.

  He waited until the laughter subsided, and then put the question he’d been intending to ask when they’d first come in.

  “Did ye find anything out about the redcoats’ mission?”

  Iain looked across at his chieft
ain, and his face grew serious.

  “Aye,” he said. “They mean to disarm the MacGregors. The soldiers have been told tae spy out the land while they’re guiding us. And then once they report back, they’re sending more down to wipe us out, once and for all.”

  “How many more?” Alex asked.

  “They dinna ken, but a lot. More than we can fight, anyway. They’ve over two thousand men in the fort, and more coming.”

  Alex nodded then swept his hand through his hair, absently combing through the tangles with his fingers. He sat for a few minutes, silently.

  “Well,” he said finally. “At least we’re forewarned, which is more than the Camerons and Frasers were. Ye did a good job tonight, Iain.”

  “What will you do?” Graeme asked.

  “Run,” Alex said bluntly. “I canna fight an army wi’ fifty men. Lachlan is back. I saw him this morning. And Angus tellt Jamie, Hector and Donald to spread out along the way home, in case we need to get a message through quickly. If I speak wi’ him in the morning, the news will be wi’ Angus by the following day. That will give the women time to move everything out and away up into the caves.”

  “Caves?” said Graeme.

  “Aye. There’s a reason the MacGregors are called ‘The Children of the Mist’,” Alex said. “Over the years we’ve grown accustomed to disappearing from time to time. But as we’re no’ magical, but flesh and blood, we’ve found places we can disappear to. Places where the redcoats’ll no’ find us. And if they do, we’ll be able tae kill an awfu’ lot of them before they take us. We’re no’ in the habit of showing Sasannachs where those places are. But I guess we’ll make an exception for you.” He winked.

  “I’m honoured,” Graeme said, intending it as a joke, but then realising that he actually was. It was no small thing to earn the trust of a clan that had learned, over a hundred and forty years of proscription, to trust no one.

  Alex looked at his companions and smiled, a real smile that lit up his eyes.

  “At least we can be sure we’ll no’ starve while we’re in hiding,” he said. “We’ll have plenty of meat, at least. And,” he continued, “before we go we’ll gie the bastards a leaving party to be proud of.”

  He stood, stretched, and yawned.

  “Let’s away to bed,” he suggested. “We’ve a busy few days ahead. I’ve a fancy for a wee bedtime story tae send me to sleep though.”

  Iain grinned.

  “Ye’ll be wanting the one about the deaf idiot and the ugly old bastard and the Highland baptism then, I’m thinking,” he said.

  “You read my mind, laddie.”

  * * *

  It was a dull morning, but one that promised to be fair once the sun had risen high enough in the sky to burn off the haze. Mist shrouded the mountains which surrounded them on all sides, and the path which snaked between them that they were to head down today was visible for only a few yards, as were the tents of the soldiers, from which they were sleepily emerging in various states of undress.

  Some particularly early risers had already lit fires and started to cook breakfast, while Mr Grundy, perpetually afraid that someone would steal his cattle in the night, had risen and breakfasted before sunrise and had ridden off, dragging the sleepy Mr Armstrong with him, to attempt to count his fortune, which could be heard but not currently seen, lowing all over the valley.

  The deaf idiot had dutifully taken down the tent and packed all their belongings and was now sitting on the grass, seemingly oblivious to the heavy dew soaking through his breeches, all his attention concentrated on a small chestnut-coloured squirrel which was currently some three feet away from him, but edging slowly closer, enticed by the piece of bread that he was holding out to it. It moved forward again, now only two feet away, and sat up on its back legs, its bushy tail fanning out behind it, watching him warily with large brown eyes.

  John continued to hold the piece of bread between his thumb and index finger, his arm outstretched. A short distance away a small group of soldiers looked on, equally entranced, but more by the preternatural stillness of the man than by the squirrel, who was now chattering at him before edging closer still, then even closer. It stretched its neck to take the bread, its mouth a mere inch from John’s fingers.

  A shot rang out, echoing off the surrounding hills, and the squirrel exploded, spattering John’s arm and the grass with blood and fur. John started at the animal’s sudden transformation from living creature to red mush, and then he turned his head slowly to look at the soldier, who looked back and grinned, before slinging his musket across his shoulder.

  “Vermin, they are,” he said. “Carry all sorts of diseases.”

  John did not react, but continued to stare at the man in shock, his mouth hanging open slightly. The soldier’s comrades had all jumped and uttered expletives when the shot was fired, but now they started laughing at the expression on the idiot’s face.

  Somewhere down the line of tents could be heard a commotion, and appearing through the mist to the left of John came Sergeant Applewhite, his face almost as red as his jacket. All the soldiers shot to attention and saluted instantly, but he ignored them, instead briefly surveying the remains of the squirrel and blood-spattered deaf mute before grabbing the unfortunate marksman by the throat and shaking him like a rat.

  “You fucking idiot!” he roared, spraying the man’s face with spittle. “You never fire your weapon unless ordered to, and then only at an enemy! You could have killed the man, for God’s sake!”

  “It was only a squirrel, Sarge,” the hapless private managed to splutter. “They’re vermin. He’s not harmed.”

  “A month ago you didn’t know one end of a gun from the other and now you’re telling me you’re an expert? You’re lucky you didn’t blow the man’s head off! If Captain Sewell gets to hear of this, you’ll hang!” He looked over at John, who was still staring at the humiliated private, now looking down at the ground and clearly wishing himself anywhere but in His Majesty’s Army.

  “Wouldn’t be much of a loss if he had,” one of the other soldiers muttered.

  The sergeant threw the man he was holding away from him and rounded on the mutterer.

  “I know the man’s deaf and an idiot,” he growled. “But he’s also the servant of the man who’s paying all you lumps of shite a shilling a day for strolling through the mountains, money that none of us have seen yet, and won’t till we get the cattle safely to Glasgow. Do you think he’s going to pay us if one of you kills his man? Both of you report to me when we camp this evening. A hundred lashes for the pair of you.”

  “But Sergeant, it was just –”

  “Two hundred.”

  A deathly silence fell over the group of men.

  “You’ll get your chance to shoot real vermin soon enough, on the way back from Glasgow. That’s what I was coming to tell you, when I heard this idiot firing his gun.”

  The men instantly brightened.

  “I thought we were just spying out the land, sir,” a private from one of the other tents said.

  “Yes, we are, on the way down. But I’ve just been told that the general’s sending a regiment on after us in a few days, and we’ll meet them coming back up Loch Lomond. We’ll trap the rebels between us, and then you should get some real action. And maybe next time you shoot a squirrel, it’ll be through skill rather than luck. In the meantime, keep your eyes and ears open on the way. We’re not out of MacDonald territory yet.”

  He strode off back the way he’d come, to general applause and cheers.

  John, oblivious, stood and tried to brush the bits of sticky orange fur off his shirt and breeches.

  The sun rose higher in the sky and the mist started to lift, so that by the time they’d travelled a few miles up the track, only the tops of the mountains were still invisible. Mr Grundy and his companions rode at the head of the column of soldiers along with Captain Sewell and Sergeant Applewhite. As they walked behind the riding officers, making slow progress due to the cattle, t
he soldiers glanced left and right from time to time at the hills that hemmed them in. The lower slopes were lush and green, providing food on the go for the cattle, the higher slopes thickly covered with heather, now in full bloom and clothing the mountains in hazy purple. Waterfalls cascaded down over the rocks to swell the stream which bubbled merrily along at the side of the track. Some people might have thought the landscape beautiful.

  Mr Grundy clearly was not such a person. He regarded the looming mountains with an expression of terror on his face, swivelling his head from left to right as though expecting the whole Jacobite army to appear on the horizon at any moment.

  “You need have no fear, Mr Grundy,” Captain Sewell said reassuringly. “You are perfectly safe.”

  Mr Grundy remained unconvinced.

  “When I heard that shot I nearly had an apoplexy, sir. How I kept my seat, I will never know. I thought we were being attacked.”

  He had in fact come galloping into the camp a full five minutes after the incident, and must have been half a mile away when it happened. The captain sighed inwardly. The sooner he could pocket his money and be rid of this cowardly fool the better. And his companions. God, Armstrong’s face could curdle milk, and the idiot, far from being ‘good with cattle’ as Grundy had claimed, seemed only to be good at trailing along behind others and staring blankly around him.

  “And one of the men, Private…er…Johnson?” Grundy rambled on. “Anyway, he told me that we’re in MacDonald country and the MacDonalds are rebels, are they not?”

  “Were rebels, sir,” Sergeant Applewhite put in. “No more. They were among the first to submit to His Majesty. Their chief made a grovelling apology, and they’re no longer a threat to anyone. In just a few minutes we’ll be in Campbell land, and they’re loyal to the king. That’s right, isn’t it, Corporal?” he called to a man behind him, who ran up to join the company.