It was one of the drainage ditches that ran into the river, he realized. It smelt of ordure and rotting flesh, and there were other bodies in it. He could hear his executioner rustling about above him, looking for him, afraid he might be going to shoot back.
Dead in a ditch, he thought vaguely. The pain was growing in his chest. There had been no pain at first. And then he thought, shot while trying to escape. That sounded better. He let his head sink back into the mud, and smiled.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
For more than a week the tiny island of May supported them. The weather was cold and windy, and food was a problem, though they eked out their supplies with gulls' eggs and seaweed and one or two fish. The few people who lived on the island viewed the arrival of two hundred soldiers with fear, and rightly so, for their stores of food were commandeered for the soldiers, and they foresaw starvation ahead through the winter. Karellie tried to ensure that a little was left for them, but it was difficult to stop the men slipping to the cottages under cover of the dark.
There were other troubles, too - Lord Strathmore's battalion was made up of some Highlanders and some Lowlanders, and the traditional dislike of the one for the other was exacerbated by their imprisonment on this comfortless rock. Strathmore and Karellie did all they could to keep them apart, Strathmore taking the Highlanders to one end and Karellie the Lowlanders to the other, but there were fights every day, disturbances at night, and furious accusations of theft and unfair division of food. Meanwhile the government ships cruised about the island, waiting for the sea to moderate enough for them to get closer in.
On the eighth day the wind veered sharply and increased in strength, and the marooned soldiers saw the government ships, for all their tacking and beating, gradually being forced further and further out into the open sea. Karellie and Strathmore held a hasty consultation. The wind was strong, the sea high, and rowing would be hard in such conditions, but on the other hand there might not be another chance like this for weeks - by which time they would have all starved to death.
‘Better we go while the men have strength to row,' Strathmore said, and Karellie agreed. They lost one man in the embarkation, whose hands slipped as he was climbing aboard and who was at once swept away amongst the rocky outcrops. There was an hour of muscle-cracking strain and nerve-racking tension as the men laboured to pull the boats clear of the sharp rocks and pounding waves, but at last they reached open water and were pulling towards the distant outline of Fife. It was an exhausting, nightmarish journey. As soon as they were in open water the boats began to be scattered, according to the weatherliness of the craft and the strength of the men at the oars, and as the cold, wet, grey day drew to its close there were only two other boats in sight of Karellie. Every man was soaked to the skin by the icy green sea; hungry, unshaven, with blistered and bleeding hands, not the least like an army; but as darkness fell they were at last close enough to the Fife shore for the tide and currents to bring them into Grail harbour.
However unwilling the citizens had been to aid the army, they took unstinting pity on the exhausted rowers. Three boats made it into Crail, and every man was comfortably billeted and fed. Other boats had been seen heading for the harbours further south - Pittenweem and Kilrenny -and Karellie sent out messengers to find out the numbers and condition of survivors. One boat had been blown too far and had been seen passing to the north-east of Fife Ness; Karellie sent a messenger up the coast to ask for news of it, but the boat was never heard of again, and it had to be assumed that they had drifted out to sea and drowned.
They lay up in the fishing villages for three days, and then Karellie formed up his men and marched them down to Pittenweem, having sent orders for the other survivors to meet him there. Lord Strathmore arrived with thirty men, and others drifted in during the day, but many had evidently had enough and slipped off home. They spent the night in Pittenweem, and the next morning marched off for Perth with a hundred and thirty men. They arrived in Perth on the evening of 28 October, to discover that General Mar had still done nothing, though his army numbered almost twelve thousand, as against Argyll's reported army in Stirling of three thousand.
The army presented a motley appearance: there were country gentlemen in fine suits trimmed with lace and well-curled wigs; there were Lowland peasants, in simple grey or brown woollen with wooden shoes; there were well-to-do Highlanders in their colourful plaids, with bright feathers in their bonnets and great jewelled clasps on breast and shoulder; there were the wildest Highlanders from the remotest parts who went half-naked, barefooted, and seemed to be dressed mostly in their own hair and beards. The horses, too, were a strange collection, ranging from the fine hunters and blood horses of rich gentlemen, through farm horses, right down to Huntley's 'light horse', who were bare-chested, bare-legged Highlanders mounted bareback on tiny hairy ponies no bigger than dogs and controlled with nothing more than a twist of rope through the mouth. The only bit of finery about these last were their blue bonnets, which could be picked out in any assembly.
Karellie tried to keep his men occupied, and organized training games when they were not on camp- or foraging-duty; for the rest he hung about the other generals trying to ascertain what, if anything, was planned. Mar held himself aloof, and appeared to be waiting for orders. Ormonde was intending to land with the Chevalier in the west of England, and it seemed that Mar must have been waiting for this to happen, for when, in the early days of November, word came that the west-country landing had had to be abandoned, and that the Chevalier was now trying to find a boat to bring him to Scotland, Mar at last called a Council of War.
The plan that was devised was simple, but should be effective: three battalions were to remain behind to hold Perth, while the rest marched towards Stirling. Three thousand would there be detached to deal with Argyll's force, while the rest of the army crossed the Forth and marched on Edinburgh. Once they held Edinburgh they would effectively hold Scotland, and when the Chevalier arrived he could lead them triumphantly into England.
They left Perth on Thursday, to November, and by Saturday the twelfth were marching down Strathallan towards Dunblane. It was a clear, frosty day, and Karellie rode along the higher ground above the Allan Water and looked about him at the view of the moor and the low hills on his left, and the higher mountains on his right. They passed the village of Braco, and shortly afterwards Karellie glimpsed away to his right the castle of Birnie, which belonged to his Scottish cousins, but which he knew, from what Allan Macallan had said, was now empty. They reached Kinbuck, with another five miles to go to Dunblane where they were to camp for the night, when a halt was called, and the message was passed back that a boy had arrived from Lady Kippendavie, a local landlord's wife, that Argyll had marched out of Stirling that morning and had just passed through Dunblane, heading in their direction.
It was four in the afternoon and growing dark, and it would have been folly to go on. The horse patrols took up position on the high ground above Kinbuck, and when the main body of foot soldiers arrived at around nine in the evening, they were sheltered for the night in the barns of the tiny hamlet. It was very cramped quarters for so many men, but at least being packed so close together kept them warm. They did better than Argyll's men, whom the scouts reported to be sleeping in battle order on the bare hillside by Kippendavie house.
The men were formed up at six in the morning, on the high ground to the east of the hamlet, and when the sun came up at eight, some of Argyll's horse could be seen on the high ground of Sherrifmuir, little more than a mile away. A skirmishing party was sent out to drive them off, but they disappeared over the brow of the hill before they could be reached. Sherrifmuir was not a flat moor, but a series of low hills, and it was impossible to see anything of the enemy. At about eleven a brief council was held amongst the senior officers, and it was decided that battle should be joined. Mar made a very stirring speech, and everyone but Huntly assented to the motion, but there was little enthusiasm for it. Karellie, looking round the
faces, saw distaste in one or two expressions, and he guessed that the sight of those enemy horsemen had made everyone realize that the enemy were not Frenchmen or Turks, but their own kin, Scotsmen, some of them probably even cousins.
For Karellie it was different: he had been a soldier for twenty-five years, a mercenary, and he had fought for many different commanders and never questioned who it was he was to fight against. An enemy was an enemy, simply by virtue of being on the other side; warfare was a science, soldiering an art. He asked himself no embarrassing questions: for him today there was only one reality, his loyalty to his King, and those who set themselves up against the King were the prey of his sword. He formed up his men, and his grave cheerfulness steadied and heartened them, and at half past eleven they began to move forward towards the place where the enemy had last reportedly been located.
*
Matt had at first hardly noticed the coming and goings of messengers and the frequent arrival and departures of letters, for there was always a great deal of activity about Morland Place, and he was in any case disposed to take notice of nothing outside his immediate concerns, for fear of being hurt. It was six years since India had died, but the wound, though scarred over on the surface, was still tender in its depths.
All the same, the healing process that had begun was continuing in his society with Annunciata, and in the course of being with her, walking and talking and riding with her, enjoying her company and feeling a little lost when she was not there, he was bound in the end to understand that she was being active on behalf of King James or, as she always called him now, the Chevalier. Matt wondered vaguely whether he ought to remonstrate with her, whether such involvement with what was at least technically treason would bring danger on them. He had certain reservations also about Father Renard, who was more Catholic than Matt quite liked, and might be having too much of an influence on the children. But Father Renard was so indispensible to Matt, and Matt was so averse to having to interfere with anything that smacked of personalities and emotions, that he let his doubts remain buried.
But the crack in his perfect defences which had been opened up by his reliance on and regard for Annunciata was slowly being widened. Annunciata was the only person, with the exception of Father Renard, who could do much with Jemmy, who was now a well-grown fourteen, and full of vigour, enthusiasms, and wild spirit. The priest beat the boy into decent behaviour, and bludgeoned him by the sheer weight of personality into absorbing a little learning, and then passed him over to the Countess: she awed him into respect, charmed him into love, and coaxed his mind with stories into greater aspirations than stealing pheasants' eggs and out riding his brothers on the moors. Jemmy was in a fair way to being in love with Annunciata, whom he regarded as a mixture of the Fair Elaine and Queen Boudicea. Since he spent so much of his free time with her, Matt was forced into his eldest son's company, for the alternative was to be forced out of Annunciata's.
It was painful, more painful perhaps than with any of the other children, for Jemmy was his first-born, the first fruit of his great and blind passion for India. Moreover Jemmy looked a great deal like him, with a particularly painful admixture of India's features, and even laying aside his resemblance of his parents, he was a handsome boy, strong, well-grown, and lively, the kind of son any man would want for a firstborn.
Annunciata noticed Matt's painful preoccupation in his son's company, and approached it gently one day when they were walking alone together in the rose-garden. It was impossible to lead Matt to talk about India and the past, but she took his hand and drew it through her arm.
‘He is yours, you know. You can see it in every feature, every gesture. Whatever you may think about the others, Jemmy is yours.’
Matt turned his head away and stared hard at a cream-white rose as if he had never seen one before.
Annunciata went on, 'He has been placed in your custody by God - they all have. We do not always relish our duty, Matt, but we always recognize it. God will never give you more than He knows you can bear.’
In the summer of 1715, Annunciata persuaded Matt not only to allow Jemmy to ride one of the horses in the races at Wetherby, but to attend the races himself, and when the moment came when Jemmy spurred the black horse Landscape first past the winning-post, Matt was so overcome with excitement and pride that he yelled with the rest of the crowd, and turned to Annunciata with shining eyes and a grin of delight that almost split his face in half. Annunciata laughed back with relief, for she had not been sure how the plan would turn out. Matt soon recollected himself and composed his face into its normal reserve and gravity, but when the grinning and triumphant boy led the big black horse up to his father and great-grandmother to receive his due praise, Matt shook the boy's hand with fervour, and the solemnity of his face slipped a little.
Back at Morland Place Annunciata tackled Matt again on the subject of Jemmy's future.
‘There are various alternatives before you,' she said. 'You can send him to University; you can send him abroad; or you can keep him here to be trained in his inheritance. If you do the latter, I suggest that you let him for the time being have more to do over at Twelvetrees. He shews agreat instinct for horses, and as a horseman must be born not made, it seemed a pity to waste it.’
Matt would not be drawn into a discussion, and Annunciata let the subject drop for the time being, intending to take it up later. Then, it was ousted from her mind by the beginning of the long-awaited rising, and her conversations with Matt became exclusively concerned with the Chevalier and matters in Scotland. Jemmy, hanging by her side out of what had become habit, absorbed her interests and views almost open-mouthed, and relayed them to his brothers, complaining bitterly that it had all happened when he was but fourteen and too young to go and fight.
At the beginning of November, Annunciata's intelligence was that the Chevalier was crossing France in disguise to take ship to join his men; on the evening of the day that letter came, Matt came to her in great agitation to tell her that Jemmy was missing.
‘He has stolen a horse and gone,' Matt cried, his mask of indifference quite off. He had allowed himself to love this boy, and had instantly been punished.
‘Gone where?' Annunciata asked.
‘To Scotland, to join the rebellion, where else?' Matt cried. 'You filled his head with all this nonsense about the glorious cause and the true King, and he absorbed it all like a sponge, and now he's gone to try to join them, and he'll be killed for sure, if he doesn't perish of the cold on the way in this bitter weather.'
‘Matt, Matt, be calm,' Annunciata said. 'Just because the boy is missing, it doesn't mean that he has gone off to Scotland. He has probably just gone for a ride somewhere -'
‘He has stolen Landscape,' Matt said, clenching his fists in frustration, 'and taken one of the swords from the long saloon, and packed clothing and food. He got George to steal the things for him and bring them to him at a meeting place between here and Twelvetrees, and he arrived with Landscape and told George not to tell anyone. But one of the men saw them talking, and Father Renard beat George until he told all. Now do you see?'
‘When was all this? This morning? Then we can still get him back. We'll send men after him. He won't be hard to find - he doesn't know the way, and will have to ask. Besides, a boy so young on a horse so fine will be good and conspicuous. Anyone with any sense will stop him or turn him back. We'll send after him, and have him back by morning, don't worry.'
‘It's your fault,' Matt said, turning away from her in bitterness. 'If he comes to harm, it will be your doing. I should never have allowed you to come near him - I should have forbidden him to speak to you.'
‘Matt, you are passionate. Even if the worst happened, even if he should be killed, it would be a glorious thing, to die for his King.'
‘You think so? It's easy for you to say, when he is not your son. You are free with other people's children, but what would you be saying if he was yours?'
‘My eldest son is there now,'
Annunciata said quietly. 'My son Rupert died at Sedgemoor. Do you think I love Jemmy less than you? He is the son of my old age.’
Matt stared at her, silenced by the passion in her voice, and she went on, 'We are wasting time. You had better give your orders to your own men. I will send out Gifford and Daniel - they know this country - and I suggest you send Clement and Valentine, each with a party of two or three.’
Matt nodded curtly and walked away. Annunciata gave her orders, and settled down to wait, aware that half of her mind hoped the boy would be found, but that the other half hoped he might get to Scotland and have the chance to draw his sword for the cause.
‘But you chose the wrong horse, Jemmy,' she said to herself. 'Next time, take a horse built for stamina, not speed.'
*
The first charge of the battle, of the Jacobite right wing against the government's left, broke the government troops and sent them scattering and fleeing in disarray, some downhill towards the Wharry burn, where they were trapped and cut down, and others towards Dunblane. The Jacobite cavalry galloped, yelling, in pursuit, hacking down any they overtook, delighted with the swift and easy victory. Some of the government men managed to scramble over the Wharry, and others skirted the obvious trap of Dunblane, and these headed as fast as their feet could carry them for Stirling.
‘They will not trouble us more,' Karellie said, and began trying to reform his men, to stop their wild gallop, for if they got too spread out they would fall to looting and drinking and be of no further use to the battle. It was an impossible task. Most of them had never fought before, still less taken part in a cavalry charge, and the excitement of it had overpowered them. Karellie, longing for some disciplined troops such as he was used to commanding, cantered after the main body of them, towards Dunblane, where they were scattering down the streets, looking for inns and open houses and easy pickings.
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