“Aye, we will,” Angus agreed. “But until now we’ve done that because we’ve complete confidence that when he makes a decision, it’s based on reason, and is just. If ye ken something that will make what he’s doing now reasonable and just in the eyes o’ the clan, Kenneth, ye need to tell me at least, as Alex’s brother, and as the chieftain when he’s no’ here. Then I can choose whether to tell the others or no’.”
They all watched as Kenneth sat in silence for a while looking down at the ground. His enormous forearms rested on his knees, his strong, long-fingered hands clenched into fists. Then he nodded to himself and looked up, speaking directly to Angus.
“Alex glanced in the hut after he saw I’d knocked the redcoat down. He saw the woman, but he thought she was dead. I went in after wi’ the thought to bury her,” he said. “When I got close to her I saw she was alive, but the only kind thing I could do was to kill her, quickly. She was tied to the roof beam, her hands above her head. And her arms…Christ!” He stopped for a moment, and, taking a great shuddering breath, fought to bring his emotions under control. “He was flaying her,” he continued, his voice harsh with suppressed rage and hatred. “He’d cut the skin at her wrists, and had peeled it back, very carefully so she wouldna bleed to death, both arms, right back to the oxters, like he was skinning a rabbit. And he’d started to cut down her sides too. She was alive and she was conscious, and I’ve never seen anything like it, and never want to again. No one could do that, no’ without a good deal of practice first.” He looked around the group of silent, white-faced men. “I hope the bastard takes weeks to die, and then I hope he burns in hell for eternity. And that’ll still no’ be long enough.”
The silence after Kenneth had finished was profound and prolonged. After what seemed to all of them like a very long time, Angus stood.
“Are we all in agreement that Alex has the right of it?” he asked quietly.
Wordlessly the men nodded.
“I’ll away and tell him, then,” he said. “It’ll comfort him to ken that we’re all in accord wi’ him.”
* * *
Alex sat on a flat-topped stone in the cave, carefully whittling away at a piece of wood with his sgian dubh. After a while he stopped, and observing his handiwork, smiled.
“Aye, it’ll do. I havena got the skill of my brother, but even so it’s a bonny way to pass the time,” he said pleasantly to the man sprawled on the ground a little further back in the cave.
Richard’s back was propped up against the stone wall so he was half-sitting, his legs stretched out in front of him. The left side of his face was puffy and black with bruising, the eye on that side almost closed. His right arm, the wrist badly swollen, rested uselessly in his lap. There was some sort of protuberance in the cave wall behind him, which was pressing into his spine. Bracing his left arm on the dirt floor, he attempted to shift position a little, halting abruptly as the pain knifed through his gut. White lights danced across his vision and he clenched his teeth, determined neither to faint nor cry out. He couldn’t stop the shivering, or hide the icy sweat which soaked his hair and shirt, but he was damned if he’d give voice to his agony. He could not last much longer now, surely? He must have lost a lot of blood; the constant pins and needles in his arms were intensely painful, his heart was racing, and his breathing was fast and shallow.
“Ye’ll no’ bleed to death,” Alex said conversationally, as if reading his mind, “no’ if my aim was true. And I think it was, because it’s been over a day now. No, ye’ve a wee while to go yet.”
Had it been a day? He had no idea how long it had taken them to carry him to where he was now, because when they’d lifted him he had fainted from the pain. But he knew it had been dark when he’d woken for the first time in the cave, and now it was daylight; the sun filtering through the foliage hiding the cave entrance told him that.
He was very thirsty. He ran his tongue around his lips, which were dry and cracked. Alex, seeing the gesture and interpreting it correctly, put down the little carving and the knife, and reaching for a flask at his side, moved across to Richard, holding it to his lips then tilting it. The cool water poured into his mouth, and he swallowed, thinking in that moment he had never tasted anything as delicious as this.
And then the water hit his stomach and he convulsed with the pain, and this time in spite of all his efforts, he did cry out, tears of agony and rage spilling down his cheeks. Alex waited patiently until the spasm had passed, and then offered the flask again.
“No,” Richard managed, fighting back nausea. Going down it had been agony; he could not begin to imagine what it would feel like to vomit it back up again. Sweat poured down his face, dripping off his chin.
Alex observed him coolly.
“Aye,” he said. “Maybe ye’ve no’ got as long as I’d hoped.” He sat back down and picked up the carving and knife again. “I’d offer to fetch ye a priest,” he continued calmly, “but ye’re no’ of the faith, an’ it’d take a lot longer than ye’ve got left to make your confession, I’m thinking.” He settled back to his carving, the wisps of wood drifting to the floor in front of him.
The nausea successfully suppressed, Richard observed his torturer, taking in the long fingers wielding the knife expertly, if not artistically. A scar snaked across the back of the man’s right hand; a battle wound, most likely. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing strong brown forearms, dusted with reddish hair. No doubt his upper arms and torso were equally heavily muscled; certainly his long legs, visible from the knee downwards due to the kilt he wore, were perfectly defined. He had the body of an athlete, every inch of him betraying him for what he was; a seasoned warrior in the prime of life.
It was unbelievable that the man sitting in front of him now was the same perfumed and powdered limp-wristed molly who had pranced around the drawing rooms of London society, dressed in eye-wateringly hideous shades of silk and velvet. Everything about him was different; the voice, the mannerisms, everything.
Except the eyes. Now he came to think of it, Sir Anthony Peters had bestowed the same icy blue stare on him on more than one occasion in London. When they’d rescued his bitch of a sister from Lord Daniel at the Fleet Prison, for one. Now that he thought about it, he realised that he should have suspected something was amiss with the man then. No one as feeble as Sir Anthony seemed to be would have behaved as he had that night when the whore Sarah had come bursting into Lord Edward’s drawing room with the news. Even so, the man was a master of disguise, Richard had to give him that.
“Even if I was a papist, I’d have nothing to confess,” Richard inserted into the silence, trying to move his mouth as little as possible because of the pain it caused him. “I’m a soldier. I do my duty. I’ve nothing to repent of.”
“I dinna ken the whole of what you’ve done, but if I was as close to meeting my maker as you are, I’d be at least repenting what ye did to that woman yesterday, murdering Martha and trying to kill her bairn, and attempting to rape your own sister,” Alex replied coldly.
“Is that what Beth told you?” Richard said. He smiled, and then wished he hadn’t as the skin stretched over his ruined cheek, making him gasp with the pain. “She didn’t tell you that she begged me for it then, that she came to my room every night until I gave in to her?”
“Ah, no, mo bhràthair-cèile,” Alex replied softly. “Ye’ll no’ rouse me to finish ye off wi’ your lies. I ken the truth of it. Ye can answer to Beth yourself in…” He lifted the candle that was standing in a stub of wax at his feet, so that it shone full onto Richard’s face, “…maybe a couple of hours or so.”
Richard’s mind was slowing. He knew this because it took him a few minutes to absorb the words and realise the import of them. When he did, he laughed involuntarily, and then cried out in pain. A new wave of sweat oozed through his pores, drenching his shirt under the scarlet coat and running into his eyes. He waited a moment until he was sure he could speak without crying out, and then he looked up at his brother-in-law.
“You think she’s dead?” he asked.
“I ken well she is,” Alex replied. Another wisp of wood joined its comrades on the dirt floor.
“She isn’t dead, you fool,” Richard replied contemptuously. “I saw her myself, just a few months ago. She’s in Newgate Prison.”
Alex stopped whittling for a moment and met Richard’s gaze, slate-blue meeting bloodshot brown.
“I’m no’ sure what your motive is for lying,” Alex said after a minute, “but she killed a redcoat and was shot on the day of Culloden.” He looked away and observed his handiwork again.
“You didn’t see it though, did you?” Richard persisted.
“I didna need to. My brother tellt me himself, and if ye’re addled enough to think I’d believe you over him, ye’re closer to dying than I thought.”
He was close to dying now; the numbness had spread to the top of his arms, and he only knew his legs were still there because he could see them, stretched out uselessly in front of him.
“She stabbed a soldier; the Duke of Newcastle told me that. She was shot in the head though, here,” Richard said, automatically trying to lift his hand to the left side of his face, then giving up. “She was shot in the left side of the head,” he continued, “and she’ll be scarred for life. But she didn’t die. Cumberland sent her to London to be treated, hoping she’d talk. You’ll be pleased to know she didn’t betray any of you worthless scum. But she paid for it.” He had Alex’s full attention now and smiled again, ignoring the resulting pain.
“Ye’re lying,” Alex said, but there was doubt in his voice now.
“I wish I was,” Richard said viciously. “I wish the fucking bitch had died. It’s because of her that I was sent back to this shithole. She wouldn’t tell me anything when they let me see her either, and Newcastle –” He stopped abruptly. Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that. He hadn’t meant to say anything that would give this savage bastard pleasure.
But then he looked at the savage bastard and thought he saw a momentary expression of pain cross his face; he believed now that Beth hadn’t died at Culloden. Now he’d be roused to anger, or grief, or something, and with luck the fucker would put him out of his misery.
“When did they hang her then?” the fucker asked indifferently, “or did they burn her at the stake?”
“I’ve no idea. I doubt they have, though. I don’t think they’ve killed any of the rebel bitches yet. And even though she’s a traitor, she is beautiful. Newcastle hates her guts, though. I doubt there’ll be much left to hang by the time the warders and turnkeys have finished with her.” He eyed Alex intently, hoping to see a sign that the expression he’d seen before had been pain, but all he saw was utter indifference.
Christ, the man was made of stone! The pained expression must have been a trick of the light. He had stopped carving his stupid bit of wood though, and instead was turning the knife over and over in his hand, obviously pondering something.
A short time passed, during which Richard’s mind wandered. He had always thought to die in battle, or since he had married Anne and money was no longer an issue, perhaps to become a general and live to a fat old age, stumping around the battlefield giving orders and making the soldiers’ lives hell. At least as a captain he’d managed to make a few men’s lives hell, had toughened them up a bit, if not for as long as he’d expected. If only he’d been able to take this bastard with him, that would have been something to be proud of, even if no one ever knew about it. But although Richard had many faults, he was realistic; he no longer felt any pain, his heart was slowing, and he could feel the extreme lethargy of blood loss and infection threatening to pull him into unconsciousness, and then death. He could not kill this man, this arch-traitor who was sitting so coolly watching him die; but he might yet cause him pain. It was worth a try.
With every ounce of his remaining will, he held death at bay and spoke, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth, his voice slurring.
“Did she get a chance to tell you she was pregnant, before you left her at Culloden?” Now the big Highlander stopped twirling the knife and looked directly at him, and Richard saw the distress clearly in his face. “No, I see she didn’t,” he continued. “She probably didn’t know herself then. She tried to use it to avoid being…questioned, but Newcastle let me have some nice family time alone with her anyway.” His eyes started to close, and he forced them open with an effort. He wanted to see this bastard suffer. “At least I got that,” he said, almost to himself. “I got to make that bitch pay for everything. God, that was fun, hearing her scream.”
The Highlander was staring at him now, his body rigid, the hand holding the knife so tightly that his knuckles were white. If I wasn’t about to die anyway, Richard thought, I’d actually be afraid of this bastard.
“Don’t worry though, I did you one favour, at least. I made sure there are no bastards of yours running around London. She lost the brat just after I left her in her cell, screaming for mercy. Of course one of the turnkeys or guards might have put another one in her belly by now, who knows?”
Alex lunged suddenly, gripping him by the throat and half-lifting him off the floor.
“You’re lying,” he said, his voice harsh with pain and rage.
Vaguely, Richard realised that he no longer felt any pain at all; even the hand squeezing his throat like a vice he registered only as a sense of pressure. This is it, then, he thought calmly.
With an immense effort he smiled, for the last time.
“Why would I bother lying now, when the truth is so much better?” he said. And then he heard the Highlander’s roar of agony and dimly registered the first blow to his already ruined cheek, before, finally, death took him.
The MacGregors had in the main now abandoned their settlement, had moved their belongings up to the main cave and were lounging around on the saucer-shaped depression outside it, taking in the last of the afternoon sun. When they heard their chieftain’s roar of anguish, as one they all moved instinctively towards the small cave, the men’s hands gripping the hilts of their swords. Then they stopped uncertainly. When Alex had carried the redcoat into the cave, he had told his clansfolk not to disturb him. They all looked to Angus, who thought for a moment then came to a decision.
“I’ll go,” he said.
He was about ten feet from the cave entrance when the foliage covering it parted and his brother emerged, stopping him dead in his tracks. Alex’s face was white and drawn, and he seemed to have aged ten years. His right hand was covered to the wrist with gore. He stood for a moment, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, and then he moved forward.
“He’s dead,” he said as he reached Angus. “Take the body back to the hut. Leave it there, so it can be found.”
Angus nodded, and then to his surprise Alex continued past him and strode towards the edge of the depression.
“Where are you going?” Angus called.
Alex turned back to face his clan. “Beth’s alive,” he said to them, his voice husky with emotion. “I tellt her to be strong and that I’d come for her. She’s kept her promise. Now I’m going to keep mine.”
Then he turned, and started to make his way down the hill.
HISTORICAL NOTE
As is now my habit, and because some readers have told me they find it interesting, I’m enclosing a note about the historical background to some of the events featured in the book.
In the prologue I mention that a signed letter was found on one of the dead rebels to the effect that Prince Charles had issued orders to the Jacobites that no quarter was to be given to the enemy at Culloden. This was certainly given as a justification for the brutal behaviour of the British troops towards the rebels in the days following Culloden. The day after the battle Cumberland gave orders to his men to search the area around the battlefield for rebels, and in them he stated: ‘the public orders of the rebels yesterday was to give us no quarters’. This was taken by the men as an order to kill all rebels t
hey met, which they subsequently did.
The Jacobite leaders categorically denied that any such orders were given by Charles, and it does seem odd that he would do so, when until then he had been renowned for his mercy to what he considered to be misguided subjects of his father. There are surviving orders written by Lord George Murray, none of which mention that no quarter was to be given, and yet the press were told that such an order had been found, and this was widely printed in the newspapers at the time as justification for the brutality meted out to the rebels both at Culloden and later.
In Chapter Three I detail the attempt by the rebels to continue the fight. This happened pretty well as I’ve described it in the chapter. Lord Lovat did, after prevaricating all the way through the rebellion and sending the Frasers out under his son, the Master of Lovat, finally commit wholeheartedly to another rising. He was cordially hated by John Murray of Broughton, and distrusted by many others.
The aim of Cumberland appears to have been to wipe out the Camerons in a pincer movement, but the northern arm of the pincer movement under Lord Loudoun got bogged down in the dreadful conditions, made worse by the frequent heavy rainfall, and failed to arrive in time to stop Lochiel and his men escaping along Loch Arkaig. Lochiel did watch helplessly as the whole of his clan lands went up in flames, which must have been extremely distressing for him.
It does seem that Cumberland offered Lochiel favourable terms if he agreed to surrender – Lochiel mentions this himself in his later account, Mémoire d’un Ecossais, and Glencarnaig was also told that if he would surrender, the proscription of the MacGregors would be lifted. His reply to the offer was as I’ve written.
Eighty-one Grants surrendered on the advice of their chief, who had taken no part in the rebellion himself. They expected, once they had laid down their arms, to be allowed to return home, but instead they were imprisoned on transports at Inverness, some being sent to Barbados, and some to English prisons. Three years later, only eighteen were still alive.
Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5) Page 47