“Mmm!” he said. “Brandy. Pretty good quality too.” He passed it to Angus, who was sitting to his right.
“That was a good idea about the wolves and the scream,” Graeme commented. “It was a lot easier taking them from outside than if we’d have had to come through the door one at a time.”
“Aye well, I was going tae wait till they slept, but they didna show any signs of doing so, so I had to think of something else,” Alex said. “We’d have been here till dawn else, and we need to have them buried and be gone by then.”
They all sat for a short time, resting. It had been a long day, what with tracking the soldiers, observing them to ascertain their experience as fighters, and then digging a big hole a few hundred yards away from the bothy. And then standing in the pouring rain outside for four hours listening to them chat and complain, waiting for them to go to sleep. The two men coming out had been a bonus; Kenneth had taken them as soon as they closed the door, breaking their necks and killing them instantly and silently.
“There are some coneys here, all skinned and gutted,” Allan said. “Shall we make a fire and cook them before we go?”
Alex thought about it for a minute. He wanted the men out of there, the soldiers buried, and all signs of the brief fight obliterated before dawn. They would have to do a makeshift repair on the door Kenneth had smashed off its hinges. But the grave was already dug and it wouldn’t take long to haul the men up there. Kenneth could carry two at a time.
“Aye, why not?” he said. There was a communal sigh of relief. Angus stood up.
“I’ll away and get some dry heather from under the overhang, then,” he said, grinning. “I’ll try no’ to get lost.”
“Watch the wolves don’t get you,” Graeme said. “I’m damned if I’m coming to rescue you until my belly’s full.”
Angus returned, the fire was lit and soon the appetising smell of roasting meat filled the small room. Kenneth manhandled the door back into place to keep out the rain, and the cold dark place that was unfit for redcoats’ pigs became a warm and homely shelter for nine Highlanders and an adopted Sasannach who still insisted on wearing breeches.
“If I can find a wee bit of wood, I can fix that hinge,” Kenneth said. “It’ll only take me a few minutes.”
“Are we always going to be burying the bodies, Alex?” Dougal asked, as they sat companionably eating.
“No, we’ll no’ always be able to, but when we can we should, I’m thinking.”
The men had objected when Alex had first told them his intentions for the bodies of their victims, back when they’d undertaken the cattle raid. But after he’d explained his reasoning, they’d happily taken on the extra work. It was worth it to keep the redcoats guessing.
* * *
Edinburgh
“Deserted? What, all of them?”
“I’m afraid so, my lord.”
Willem Anne Keppel, Earl of Albemarle, currently and most reluctantly Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty’s Army in Scotland, sat in his luxuriously appointed room in front of a blazing log fire, swirling a glass of fine cognac in one hand.
Colonel Hutchinson stood stiffly to one side, vainly hoping that the great man might invite him to sit down and partake of some refreshment. He had had a long, cold, wet ride to get here, and was heartily sick of being a messenger to great men.
“Are you sure?” the earl asked.
“Well, we cannot be absolutely sure, but from what we can ascertain, they obeyed their orders to clear out the villages to the north of Stirling and then they just disappeared, my lord.”
“There is a difference between disappearing and deserting, Colonel,” Albemarle said. “They were a small group of men. Are you sure they were not attacked by rebels?”
The colonel sighed inwardly.
“We have examined the hut where they were sleeping at night, my lord. There are signs of a recent fire, and of them having cooked and eaten there. But there were no signs of any disturbance; in the few instances of men being ambushed there have always been signs of a struggle.”
To say nothing of the bodies left lying around, which is the most obvious evidence of an attack, he thought sarcastically.
“Have you discovered any more about the whereabouts of those men who went missing last month?”
“Last month?” the colonel said.
“Yes, the ones who were driving the cattle to Glasgow for that man, Grimley, was it?”
Light dawned.
“Ah, Grundy, my lord. No, they too seem to have disappeared. We can only assume that once they got to Glasgow, Mr Grundy and his friends carried on to England with the cattle and the men succumbed to temptation, being closer to England than to Fort William at that point.”
“One of the men was a captain, was he not, with many years of devoted service?” Albemarle said, eyeing Colonel Hutchinson with suspicion, as though expecting him to dematerialise as it seemed the other officer had.
“He was. But there seems to be no other explanation than desertion. It is just possible that this latest disappearance was an attack, although that doesn’t explain the lack of bodies or signs of a struggle. But it’s not possible for forty men and two thousand cattle to just disappear without trace. The only explanation is that they deserted. Perhaps they killed the captain to do so, my lord,” he added.
He would not be surprised if they had. The morale of the men had never been lower. In fact his own morale had never been lower. He had not become a soldier to make war on women and children. There was no glory in that. Many of the men felt the same as he did. Others were just sick of living in threadbare tents and damp draughty hovels, never knowing when they went out of barracks for an evening whether they’d be tolerated by the locals or dirked on their way home. When they were sent out hunting for rebels they had to endure the most appalling conditions and more often than not the men they were seeking melted away into the mountains before they arrived at their settlements, leaving them nothing to do but burn down the houses, trample or steal the meagre crops and drive off the cattle. The men were bored and miserable and all the more savage for that; all of them were desperate to go home, even the vicious ones who enjoyed brutalising others. No wonder they were seizing any chance to desert.
The earl sighed and took a deep drink of his brandy, while the colonel looked on with envy.
“Well, it cannot be tolerated. At this rate we will have no army at all! The men must be disciplined. This sort of thing did not happen when Prince William was in command, and I will not have it happen now. General Bland is besieged with letters from officers requesting leave on the most flimsy of pretexts. If the officers show such a bad example, how can we be surprised if the men follow them and take every opportunity to desert?” He leaned across to the table and picking up a bell, rang it briskly. A footman appeared, bowing.
“Tell Humphrey I have urgent letters to dictate,” the earl said. “You may go to the kitchen, Colonel, and get some refreshments whilst I write letters, which you will then ensure are delivered to General Bland, Colonel Howard and Lord Ancrum.”
The colonel escaped gleefully to the relaxed warmth of the kitchen, reflecting on the hypocrisy of a man who did nothing but complain to anyone who would listen about how unhappy he was with his position and how much he desired to go home. Perhaps he should look in a mirror if he wished to discover whose example the men were following. Cumberland had never openly demonstrated his antipathy to his position, even though Colonel Hutchinson knew he had been desperate to get back to London.
Whilst the earl waited for the arrival of his clerk with the writing paraphernalia, he finished his brandy and looked gloomily into the fire, heartily wishing he was in a position to desert his post. Unfortunately he was not. He had the good fortune to be the friend of Prince William, which had led to the bad fortune of him being left with the command of Scotland while the prince went off to London to be feted and adored.
He hated Scotland and all its people with a great passion. He ha
d thought that by moving to a comfortable house in Edinburgh he would be able to endure his stay here, in spite of missing his family and friends greatly, whom he had not seen for a long time. But every day he received letters and messengers from all over the country; asking him for advice regarding pay for the men; what should be done about the dangerously overcrowded prisons; bringing him intelligence of the whereabouts of the Pretender’s son, which always arrived too late for him to be apprehended (although the earl still had high hopes that he would be the one to deliver Charles in person to Cumberland); asking him for decisions regarding newly captured rebels of importance. And so on and so on.
He was kept busy from morning till night, and all with a much depleted force stretched very thin indeed, and yet he was expected to continue the pacification of a savage barbaric country seething with broken men and starving women and children.
And now, as if that wasn’t enough, he was receiving almost daily reports of riotous, disobedient behaviour by the troops, no doubt inspired by the open dissatisfaction of their officers. It was not to be borne. He would write a series of scathing letters to the commanders, demanding that they bring their men back under control, and not to spare the whip. Severe discipline was needed. That was the only law the common soldier understood. If they were treated leniently they would take advantage, as they were clearly now doing, thinking they could just go home when they felt like it.
If he could not go home, why the hell should they?
He poured himself another brandy, sat back in his chair, and reflected morosely on how much longer he would have to stay here before his regular letters of complaint and pleading to be allowed to leave would be heeded, whereupon he would flee the country as fast as possible and, with luck, never have to set foot in the damn place again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
London, August 1746
It was evening, and after their meal of mutton and vegetables the women had retired to their cell. The light from the fire bathed the stone-walled room with a cosy glow, and the occupants passed a bottle of wine from hand to hand as they sat on their mattresses and were transported to Rome and the delights of a lightning tour of the city, conducted by the man all of them desired to meet more than any other living person, as told by Lady Elizabeth Peters, who was sitting amongst them currently attired in stays and a grubby quilted petticoat.
She estimated that the proceeds of the yellow dress would feed all of them and provide coal for another month, and prayed that by the end of that time she would have been brought to trial and executed, before the cold, damp, starvation and vermin returned, bringing with it the risk of fever and delirium, which she dreaded more than anything; more than hanging, more even than burning at the stake, which was the statutory punishment for female traitors.
She kept herself from these gloomy thoughts by entertaining her companions with tales of her time as the wife of Sir Anthony Peters. They all knew by now who she was, not because she had told them but because nothing remained secret for long in Newgate Prison. By the same token she knew that John Murray of Broughton had turned king’s evidence and had informed on Lord Lovat, the Earl of Traquair, and the English and Welsh Jacobites.
And yet he had not told the authorities about Alex, or that he had met her before, many times. In fact from what she could ascertain, he had only given evidence against people who had betrayed the cause, or at least reneged on their promises. He had told them nothing useful at all about the whereabouts of Lochiel or Prince Charles, although he must have known something about what had happened to them after Culloden.
He is having his revenge on those who failed to deliver, who he considers responsible for the failure of the rebellion, she thought. He is not really a traitor at all. She doubted that the Jacobite leaders would see it that way though, and would not want to be him if he was ever released and sought to return home.
She also knew that three of the Manchester rebels had escaped from this very prison, and the rest had been hung, drawn and quartered, that Lord Balmerino and the Earl of Kilmarnock had been executed; and that Prince Charles was still, as far as anyone knew, in Scotland, and had not been captured. She knew that there were so many prisoners they could not all be brought to trial, and so they were being ordered to draw lots, with one in twenty going to trial and the others having to plead guilty to receive His Majesty’s gracious mercy and either be transported, exiled or made to enlist in the British Army.
Although she knew it likely that John Betts was dead, she told herself it was not certain; and it was wonderful to have all the latest news after weeks of being locked in her gilded cage with no idea what was going on. She was part of the world again and was actually enjoying herself, as far as she could given the circumstances.
“Oh, it must have been so wonderful tae meet the prince,” Catriona sighed dreamily. She had followed her husband to Culloden, and like Beth, had no idea what had happened to him. “Is he really as bonny as they say?”
“He is,” Beth affirmed. “And although he’s every inch a prince, he’s interested in everyone, and has a God-given ability to speak to all kinds of people without patronising them. He’ll make a wonderful king one day.” She refrained from telling them about his temper and sulks when thwarted. Let them keep their dreams; they had little else. And in fairness the conditions the rebel army had met with and the squabbling among the council members would have driven a saint to distraction, let alone a prince accustomed to getting his own way.
“You still think it possible he could take the throne for James?” Màiri asked.
“While he lives, there is always a chance. He’s determined to succeed and if he can only persuade King Louis to assist him, then he has an excellent chance,” Beth said, praying that the wily Louis would actually commit himself, should Charles continue to evade capture and make it back to France. Surely all this sacrifice and bloodshed could not have been for nothing?
“Tell us again about the night at Versailles, when you and Sir Anthony danced in front of the king,” Catriona suggested, to a chorus of agreement. They could not get enough of her real-life fairytales, of handsome princes and devious kings, and she was happy to oblige. Her reminiscences stopped short of the Henri Monselle affair though, and she would not speak a word about what had happened after she’d returned from her honeymoon. Apart, that was, from her rejection of the Duke of Cumberland in the box at the theatre, which had been witnessed by over a thousand people, although neither they nor the duke had known at the time how repulsed she had been by his overtures to her. She could only hope that the news would get back to Cumberland that Elizabeth Cunningham was openly bragging of how she had rejected the hero of Culloden, and that he would put an end to her tales and to her as quickly as possible.
“So then,” Beth said, after taking a mouthful of wine, “I had no idea how to dance a menuet, having been brought up in the country, but Sir Anthony, who had always mixed with the best people, was an expert in all the social niceties.” It did no harm to throw a few red herrings in. Hopefully the authorities would start trawling the aristocracy for him. “He made me dance from morning till night until I had nightmares that I was dancing in front of the king and when I looked down, I was naked!” Everyone laughed. “But when we finally did it, it was fine. I even enjoyed myself.”
“Is it very different from the Scottish dances then?” Màiri asked.
Details. She must reveal nothing.
“I don’t know much about the Scottish dances,” Beth lied smoothly, “but if you want, I can teach you the menuet. If you all stand along the wall we should have just enough room to do the first few steps, at least. I will be Sir Anthony.”
The sound of riotous laughter coming from the women’s area drew the attention of the keeper, who had been asked to keep a watch on a particular prisoner to check for signs of her becoming dispirited and therefore more susceptible to persuasion. But when he drew back the grille and observed what was taking place in the cell, he shook his head in amazement.
Beth was doing a very creditable impression of Sir Anthony Peters being overwhelmed by the beauty and impeccable dancing skills of one of the ragged inhabitants who had succeeded in mastering the first three steps of the dance. At that moment Beth was on her knees delivering a flowery speech of undying love to the fortunate woman, to the amusement of the onlookers.
The keeper shut the grille. In spite of himself, he had to admire the girl. She was tiny and looked as though a strong breeze would blow her away; but she had more courage and determination than most men he had met. In spite of the fact that she was undoubtedly an unrepentant traitor, he admired her spirit enormously. She was certainly not going to see sense and reveal the identity of her husband, not to anyone.
He found himself hoping she would be reprieved, to his own astonishment. He was not a man prone to sympathy. And yet there was something about this woman’s unshakable loyalty to the man who, if not dead, appeared to have abandoned her to her fate, that caught at his heart. He prayed that she would, against all the odds, see sense and save herself. Because right now all he saw in her future was the gallows. Quietly he walked away and left the women to their amusement.
The women all now had a mattress of their own, so they no longer had to sleep in shifts, which had been very difficult in such a small space. Beth lay awake listening to the regular breathing of her companions, punctuated by the odd snore or muttering as one or other of them dreamt. It was strange that all the rebel prisoners were desperate to live, thanking God for every day that they got through without being brought to trial, whereas she was desperate to die, and doing everything she could to achieve that. Every time the cell door opened she prayed that they were coming for her, and every time she was disappointed.
Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5) Page 30