Charles was silent for a while, but whether it was because he was trying to assess his future chances of raising another Highland army, or whether because he was feeling guilty for having been instrumental in taking all meaning from the life of this loyal subject, he did not say.
“Well,” he said finally, “I think you may be interested in meeting my current companions, when we reach my lodgings.”
Alex was indeed interested when he met them. They were known as the seven men of Glenmoriston, although in fact there were eight of them, and they had all vowed to continue the fight against Cumberland and his army, in whatever way they could. For the past three weeks they had been doing that by sheltering the prince, disregarding the huge reward out for his capture as no fit price to pay for a man’s honour.
They were currently sheltering in a cave at the foot of Loch Arkaig and waiting for word from Lochiel of his whereabouts so they could take the prince to him.
“I ken where he is,” Alex said. “I’ll gladly show ye the way. Lochiel would have come himself, but although he’s healing, he’s no’ fit to make the journey yet.”
They had discussed the importance of a good hiding place and the need to keep it secret and as well provisioned as possible, and the various tactics that could be employed to harass soldiers already depressed at being in this gloomy dark hell of a country.
And then, having nothing else to do for the evening, they had eaten a large meal, mainly consisting of venison, and had drunk an even larger amount of whisky, had sung Highland songs, of which the prince now knew a good number, and overall, in view of the circumstances, had been very merry indeed.
Alex smiled at the sea of faces around him, all raptly listening to his tale of meeting with the prince. It was growing dusk now and several people were waving their hands around their heads or slapping at their faces.
“It seems that Prince Charlie is one of us, now,” Dougal said.
“Aye, he’s happy here, in spite of the constant risk of discovery. Maybe because of it, for he’s a man who seeks adventure and relishes danger.”
“He must have MacGregor blood in him then,” Janet said, and everyone laughed.
“Well, Clan Gregor’s motto is ‘Royal is my Race’, is it no’?” Allan commented.
“Aye, that’s true,” agreed Alex. “We’re said to be descended from the son of King Kenneth MacAlpin, as is he. And another way he’s like us is that he’s sore plagued by the midgies.”
En masse they repaired to the midge-free safety of the cave, where they lit candles, having found a supply of them in the redcoats’ baggage.
“Charles tellt me that one of the most miserable days he had was no’ when it was raining, but when it was overcast and he had to spend the whole day and night in the heather, being feasted on by the wee bastards. He said he looked as though he had the measles by the end of the day, he was bitten so bad.”
“What happened after your party, then?” Morag asked. She was snuggled next to Angus, who had his arm wrapped round her shoulder. Alex felt both happy to see the two of them clearly so much in love, and sad at the memories it roused. He would never hold a woman like that again.
He shook his head to clear it.
“The next day, while we were still all suffering, Dr Archie arrived and said Lochgarry was on the way too, to meet wi’ the prince and guide him to Lochiel.”
“Is that why ye didna take Charlie back yourself, then?” Kenneth asked.
“No, it isna. I was thinking to go wi’ them, to make sure Charles arrived safe wi’ Cluny and Lochiel. But then Dr Archie tellt me his news, and I left for home within the hour.”
Everyone looked suddenly alarmed.
“What news?” Angus asked.
“He tellt me that Broughton has turned king’s evidence.”
The silence that followed this statement was almost as profound as that which had greeted him earlier in the day when he’d entered the cave, sword drawn. And then the questions came, all at once, so Alex could only make out the sense of a few. He raised his hand, and the noise died instantly.
“I dinna ken if the intelligence is good, because Sir Anthony is no’ running the spy network frae London, being otherwise occupied, as ye ken well,” he said, causing several people to laugh, and the tension to dissipate slightly. “I find it hard myself to believe Broughton would do such a thing, but on the other hand he was a secretary, no’ a fighting man, and he’s been ill for some time. I dinna ken what he’d do if threatened, or if his wife was threatened. In any case I canna take the chance that he willna betray me. Dr Archie has promised to send me news if he hears any more.”
“Why did ye no’ tell us this as soon as ye got back?” Kenneth asked.
“Because when I got back, I was thinking to do all the things that ye’ve already done here. Make the cave safe, try to find a way to defend it. Once I saw your fine work, I decided to enjoy my homecoming first, and tell ye the story in the proper order. And it’s no’ every day, in fact it’s no’ every year that a brave young warrior chooses to join the MacGregors. I didna wish to spoil that. And nor do I now. We have more celebrating to do. And then tomorrow we need to make this place more fitting for a longer stay, for we canna go back to the village yet awhile. If Broughton betrays me the redcoats will be up here within a week, because I’m damn sure that after the prince and Lochiel, yon wee German lairdie would rather see my head on a spike at the Tower than anyone’s. And before I end up there, I’ve a good many more redcoats to send to hell before me.
“So, let’s drink to that, to Allan, and to the children o’ the mist. For we may have no name, and no lands, and no rights in law, but by God we’ve still got our swords, and our pride. ‘S rioghal mo dhream, and we’ll be here when usurper Geordie’s bones are dust, and his sons after him!”
The resultant cheer would probably have been heard across the loch, if anyone had been there to listen.
* * *
London, August 1746
It took Beth less than a week to adapt to her new surroundings. After she had beaten the bullying woman she had expected to be victimised by her protector, who the other women had identified as Meadows, a brute of a man who had a particular hatred of Scots. Well, Beth wasn’t a Scot by birth, but she was by marriage and in her heart, although of course she couldn’t reveal that. So she waited, determined that whatever Meadows did she would not break. While she waited for him to act, she spent her time getting to know the other women she shared the unspeakably filthy cell with, whilst giving away as little about herself as she could.
They were all rebel women. Some of them had been married to Jacobite soldiers and had been taken at some point after Culloden. Some of them had been caught sheltering men after the battle. Two of them had been prostitutes and had been reported by loyal citizens of Edinburgh and Inverness for giving their favours to rebels for free. And one had actually had nothing whatsoever to do with the Jacobites, but had picked up a white cockade in an Inverness street, thinking to unpick the ribbon to tie her hair back, and had been seen by a redcoat captain whilst holding it. Incensed by the treatment she’d been subjected to for that innocent, if foolhardy act, she now declared herself wholly for Prince Charlie, and to hell with Hanover and all its spawn of hell.
Some of them wore irons, not because they were more dangerous than the others, but because they could not afford the half-crown fee to have them removed. All of them, being on a diet of bread and water, and not enough of that, were malnourished. Nor could any of them afford 3s 6d a week for a bed, so they slept on the mildewed boards of the floor.
In the morning they emptied their chamber pots and then had breakfast, which consisted of a thin gruel and water, after which they were returned to their cells and left until mid afternoon, when the main meal of the day was served. To Beth’s surprise, whilst the others who could not pay for good food had bread and water for six days a week and a cheap cut of meat on the seventh, she was served with a meal of meat and vegetables and a cu
p of beer, although she had not paid either.
When she got the same treatment on the second day, and then the third, she realised that the Duke of Cumberland had not given up on her as she had hoped, but was in fact just letting her have a taste of the difference between luxurious and common imprisonment. That was why she had not been fettered, but was in a common cell. And why she was receiving good food instead of starvation rations. And it was, presumably, also why Meadows, whoever he was, had not made an appearance after his whore had been removed for medical treatment.
She was still under the protection of the duke. Which meant she was probably being closely observed for signs that she was cracking under the strain of having to live without carpets and featherbeds, for signs that she was ready to betray Sir Anthony rather than live in a filthy stone room designed to accommodate five prisoners, with ten other women who were her social inferiors.
Thinking about this she smiled to herself, and raised an imaginary glass of champagne in a toast to the Elector’s fat son. She was used to living in straitened circumstances. Unknowingly he had given her the one thing that she had been struggling to live without; sympathetic human company. The quiet courage of these women as they chewed their stale bread and settled down to shiver themselves to sleep reminded her of the MacGregors. And that gave her the will and determination to fight back.
On the third day Fiona, the woman who had had the misfortune to pick up a white cockade in front of a zealous soldier, complained of a headache. No one thought anything of it even when she refused to eat her meagre breakfast, saying that the sunlight coming through the small windows in the dining room was making her head hurt so badly she felt sick. It was no doubt a megrim; she would go and lie down in the cell and would feel better after a few hours.
The other women tried to be as quiet as possible to let her rest. But in the afternoon she started moaning and calling for Hamish, who presumably was her lover, and when Catriona shook Fiona to wake her, thinking she was having a nightmare, her skin was burning hot to the touch.
Word spread round the prison like wildfire: gaol fever. Feared even more than execution, an epidemic of gaol fever could decimate a prison’s population, and was the major cause of death in jails. It was caused by putrid air, the surgeons said. And the air in this cell, in all the cells, was certainly putrid.
That evening Beth asked to see Mr Jones. He came to her a couple of hours later, but did not open the door as he normally would have done. Instead he addressed her through the grille. In the corner Fiona was alternately crying out with the pain in her head and her joints, and rambling about people she had known in happier times.
“How much would you give for my gown?” Beth asked without preamble the minute the grille was drawn back and the keeper’s face appeared.
He looked at it.
“Fifteen shillings,” he said.
Beth laughed.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were a businessman and knew the value of things, but clearly I overestimated you. Good night to you, Mr Jones.”
She turned her back on him and made to join the others, who had received sixpence from a well-wisher, and had spent it on a quart of brandy. They had given some to the sick woman in the hopes that it would ease her distress, and were now passing the rest around between them.
“Wait!” he said, once it became clear that this was not just a delaying tactic and that she really had dismissed him from her mind. Beth kept him waiting while she took a drink from the bottle, then turned back. “How much do you want for it?” he asked.
“Well, let me see. Brocaded satin of this quality costs eighteen shillings a yard,” she said, thanking God that Sir Anthony Peters had been a man of fashion and had imparted this information to her, “and it takes around fifteen yards to make a gown like this. So the material alone would be over twelve guineas. Add to that the cost of making it up, the Brussels lace and silver embroidery on the bodice, and the fact that it had never been worn before the day I made your acquaintance, and you are looking at seventeen guineas of anybody’s money.”
The other women in the cell gasped. Seventeen guineas was a fortune! Who was this woman who could afford such costly gowns, who said she had no friends but was served meat every day, who spoke with a refined English accent, but had the Gaelic and drank from a shared bottle without hesitation?
“However,” Beth continued, unaware that she was an enigma to everyone in the room, “I’m aware that you must have your profit, and after three days in here the dress will need cleaning. So you may have it for ten guineas.”
Now it was Mr Jones’s turn to laugh.
“Ten guineas? You do value yourself highly, don’t you?” he said.
“You mistake me, sir. I am offering you my dress for ten guineas, not myself. I am not for sale, at any price.”
“Everyone has a price,” he said, nettled.
“Perhaps in your world they do,” she replied. “But in my world, that is not the case. Ten guineas for the dress.”
“Three,” Mr Jones replied.
“Ten.”
“Four.”
“Ten.”
“This is not how it works, madam,” the keeper said, exasperated. “You must lower your price to meet me. Four and a half.”
“Ten.”
“Five.”
“I see you do not want the dress. Very well. If you change your mind, come back to me with ten guineas.”
She turned her back again and went to sit with the other women, and this time when he called her back, she ignored him.
Beth sat on a feather mattress in her petticoats and stays, warming her hands in front of the fire. Two candles cast a cosy glow around the room, which currently smelt strongly of the vinegar with which the whole room had been scrubbed, reducing the lice infestation in the cell considerably. At present the smell of the vinegar warred with the scent of lavender oil, which she had sprinkled on all the mattresses. It had worked in France for her and Alex; she hoped it would have some effect here. She had paid for four mattresses and blankets for a month, reasoning that the women could sleep in shifts. The rest of the money would pay for decent food for all the occupants of the cell, for a few weeks at least.
The room was no longer putrid-smelling, but it was too late to save Fiona. Beth had intended to spend part of her ten guineas on a doctor, but Mr Jones had told her in no uncertain terms that no doctor would visit Newgate Prison if there was gaol fever there, not for a hundred guineas. So the women took it in turns to bathe Fiona’s forehead with rosewater, and to try to get her to eat a little soup and drink some wine, all bought at inflated prices by Beth.
She kept them all awake for three nights with her fevered ramblings, during which they learned that she had seven younger siblings and a grandmother who seemed to visit her in her delirium and with whom she would have long conversations. And then she developed a rash, which rapidly spread all over her body. And then she died.
The body was taken away, and her cellmates grieved for her. But none of them contracted the fever, which was almost unheard of in such cramped quarters. As far as they were concerned this was all due to Beth, who had saved them by purifying the air and getting them good food which was building up their strength.
As a result of this Beth now had nine intensely loyal friends, none of them wearing irons any more, who respected her wish to keep her past private, and the atmosphere in the room, once they had said prayers for Fiona, was one of conviviality. It made Beth smile to know she had raised the morale of these women who had done nothing wrong except be loyal to their menfolk, have been caught helping strangers, or be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It had also raised her own spirits enormously. She had a clan of sorts again, temporarily at least, and was making the most of it to distract her from thoughts of the future.
This comfort they were all enjoying now and the high spirits that went with it, would not last. When the money ran out she had no means of getting any more, and then the warmth, the beds, the n
ourishment would all disappear. And the lice and vermin would return, and the smell. And with it the likelihood of disease.
On a personal level she could deal with malnourishment, with discomfort, even with death. Without Alex, and with no hope of release unless she betrayed him, life meant little to her. Defiance was all that she had now, and she was drawing her strength from that and from the camaraderie of the other prisoners. Dying of malnutrition or disease would be preferable to hanging or burning in front of a jeering mob, although if that was how she was to end, she would meet her death with as much courage as she could summon up.
What worried her, and what she now realised was very likely, was that if she remained here, in time she too would succumb to gaol fever. If the other women had been concerned or irritated by Fiona’s ramblings, Beth was horrified; it was entirely possible that after withstanding every attempt by the authorities to get her to divulge the identity of her husband, she could nevertheless unknowingly betray Alex and God knew who else, simply by falling ill.
Every night Beth prayed for Alex, for the other MacGregors, and for Graeme and John, that they were safe and well. Nearly every night she dreamt of them; sometimes dark dreams that she woke from in the early hours, heart thumping and her cheeks wet with tears, and sometimes warm, loving dreams from which she would wake smiling and happy, only to be suffused by black despair as she took in her surroundings and realised that in all likelihood she would never hold Alex in reality again. She had lost count of the days again, but knew it was somewhere in the middle of August. She had said she would wait until October before she gave up hope of him contacting her, but every day that passed without any word killed a little bit of that hope in her, and she grew more and more certain that he must be dead, or a prisoner.
She thought about him constantly, and dreaded becoming ill and condemning him; but saw no way to be sure of preventing it once the money failed.
Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5) Page 26