By now, more clans had arrived at Glenfinnan—including a contingent of Gordons that included Lord Kendrick and his son Sandy—and twelve hundred to fifteen hundred men had rallied behind the prince.
In the beginning they were supporting the cause of the Stuart monarchy. As the weeks passed, however, the newly gathered army grew devoted to the prince himself. Slight of build and boyish in countenance, he nevertheless walked with a soldier’s long stride and an irresistible enthusiasm. Though his bearing was habitually aristocratic, his manner was unpretentious and down to earth. He loved to spend time with the troops, and was always ready with a question, a pat on the back, or a word of encouragement.
Before long, the men in Charles’s army were writing home with words of praise for their “Bonnie Prince,” and more Jacobites arrived by the day to swell his ranks.
It was with this growing army that the young prince moved into Corrieyairack Pass to encounter Cope. The English commander, however, realizing that the mountain pass would not suit his straight-line battle tactics, turned north to Inverness. Suddenly the whole interior of the country was undefended, and a straight road all the way past Stirling to Edinburgh lay open to the Highlanders.
“Will we actually move down into England?” Sandy asked his father one evening while they sat together beside their cook fire.
“If our objective is to restore the rightful King,” his father answered, wrapping his plaid more tightly around his shoulders to ward off the evening chill, “that is where we must go. And it is not really so far, once we get to Edinburgh.”
“It is hard to imagine,” Sandy mused, “taking London. I’ve never even been to Edinburgh!”
“We’ll be there,” added a Gordon cousin who was sharing their fire. “If anyone can do it, our Bonnie Prince can.”
“Ay, he’s a braw one,” answered his father. “And well-enough trained in the art of war. But I am a bit concerned about who has his ear these days. Murray’s a good man, but some of the others, I’m not so sure of. I hope he stays his course and won’t be led astray.”
“Ach, don’t worry,” scolded the cousin. “Our King will have his throne.”
They marched through Atholl, took Perth and Stirling, easily routing what small opposition they encountered, and on September seventeenth entered Edinburgh still unopposed. By the following morning, Prince Charles was in control of the city and had proclaimed his father King James VIII. The Jacobite army by now had grown to twenty-five hundred.
But Cope, meanwhile, had marched from Inverness to Aberdeen, then sailed south and landed in Dunbar with twenty-five hundred men of his own. Calling the prince’s troops “a parcel of rabble, a small number of Highlanders, a parcel of brutes,” he approached Edinburgh on the twentieth.
The prince led his troops out of the capital in the early hours after midnight on the morning of September twenty-first, moving silently in a thick mist, which hid them from view until they were nearly upon Cope’s easily visible red-coated army at Prestonpans.
The attack, when it came, was so sudden and ferocious that it sent panic as well as destruction into the English ranks. The screaming Highland charge came clan by clan, unit by unit, led by the various chiefs and urged on by the deafening skirls of bagpipe and drum. It was the only tactic that had proved capable anywhere of routing the orderly red lines of the British infantry. Coming from all directions—down hills, from out of hollows, and behind trees—the wild charge rendered both muskets and bayonets impotent. The Highlanders flew forward with bull-hide shields in the left hand to absorb the first thrust of bayonet. The rifle-knives were brushed or wrenched aside by the shield at the same moment that great Highland broadswords cut down their owners from the right. It was a devastating strategy that few English armies had successfully repulsed.
With shield on the left arm and dirk clutched in the left fist, the clansmen now ran three-deep into the midst of Cope’s surprised force, firing what muskets they possessed with right arms, those without guns wielding great basket-hilted broadswords or claymores.
The onslaught was terrifying and brutal. Cope’s lines were shattered in eight minutes. He never had the chance to use his artillery. His ranks fled or surrendered, and the cavalry units known as Dragoons retreated all the way across the border to Berwick, Cope with them.
In the first decisive battle of the campaign, Prince Charles and his strategists—and the Highland army itself—had won a stunning victory. Now indeed did King George II in London begin to tremble, realizing for the first time that his throne was seriously threatened. Quickly he began recalling troops from the mainland to bolster his army and placed them under the command of his son, William Augustus, duke of Cumberland.
The initial success of the Highland rebels brought in more clan leaders from throughout the north, and the momentum of the uprising continued to mount. But rather than strike quickly on the heels of the victory at Prestonpans, Charles delayed for six weeks, hoping for more reinforcements. Meanwhile, he was treated as a conquering hero, and the city of Edinburgh was his. Unfortunately, the delay also allowed King George to regroup and field a sizeable army at Newcastle under Field Marshall Wade.
In early November, with five thousand foot soldiers and six hundred cavalrymen—Kendrick and Sandy Gordon among them—Prince Charles led his army across the English border and marched south. The prince wanted to engage General Wade at Newcastle. But his lieutenant general, Lord George Murray, argued against it, urging that they move west instead by way of Carlisle. Entering England through the west, he reasoned, would help rally Welsh and English Jacobites to the cause before significant fighting occurred. Charles finally agreed.
Success continued to follow the Jacobites, although the expected support from England and Wales did not materialize. The army grew in size by dozens and hundreds, not by thousands.
As it turned out, many English Jacobites who enjoyed drinking toasts to “the King over the water” were reluctant actually to shoulder arms for the cause of a Stuart Restoration. The same could be said within Scotland herself. Had every available man throughout the north rallied to the prince’s cause, his army might have been thirty to forty thousand strong—easily enough to regain the throne. His army of a mere five thousand showed how little practical support the cause actually had.
Nevertheless, the city of Carlisle surrendered on November 15, and Charles entered triumphantly on a white charger preceded by a hundred bagpipes. They took Manchester on November 28 and continued south. Finally, by December 4, the Jacobite army had reached Derby. London lay only 130 miles away.
Prince Charles now anticipated victory. His army had been almost unopposed all the way from Scotland. London itself was in a panic. Word had spread south that the Highlanders were savages and cannibals. The very word Highlander seized the London heart with no less fear than the words Chippewa, Creek, or Crow would present to American colonialists who heard that New York was under siege and every citizen in danger of losing his scalp. London shops closed, and a run on the Bank of England began. George II made contingency plans for an escape to Hanover, and the royal jewels were packed up to accompany him.
Charles was ready to strike the decisive blow at the very heart of the capital. But Lord George Murray saw disquieting signs. He shared his concerns at a council of war held on the fifth of December.
“We are losing men and gaining none,” he said. “The weather is against us. Our rations are poor and will not get better. Fatigue is severe among the men. And what is worse—Wade is approaching from the midlands and Cumberland from the southwest.”
“We have not been defeated once,” objected O’Sullivan.
“Because we have not been seriously opposed,” rejoined Murray. “There is also said to be a militia at Finchley of five thousand. We are badly outnumbered and far from our lines of supply.”
“But if we reach London, I am confident of Welsh and French support,” insisted the prince.
“Perhaps, my lord. But if they have not suppo
rted us till now, can we be sure of it then?”
“What do you suggest, then, Lord George?” asked Charles, perturbed at such a negative report.
“Retreat, my lord.”
“Retreat! But we have been unopposed, I tell you. London is before us.”
“And Wade and Cumberland are closing in with thirty thousand combined troops. We are virtually surrounded.”
“If we strike decisively—”
“We haven’t a chance of victory, my lord. We would face annihilation. Desertions continue. Winter is setting in. Every day we delay, our conditions grow more risky.”
“There is nothing to be gained by retreat,” the prince argued. “Rather than go back, I would wish to be twenty feet underground.”
“Our only hope of victory lies back in Scotland,” insisted Murray. “There might we raise further support throughout the winter and use the time to appeal again to France.”
The debate continued bitterly. In the end, the prince was outvoted by his advisors. On December 6, retreat was ordered for the Highland army. A depressed and moody Prince Charles quit mixing and talking with soldiers and kept to himself. Lord George Murray conducted the retreat as shrewdly as he had orchestrated the southern march, beating off several attacks from the rear. On December 20, with the duke of Cumberland marching north behind them, the Highlanders waded a hundred men abreast through the flooding River Esk back into Scotland.
By this time the size of the army had shrunk to thirty-six hundred infantry and five hundred horsemen. In the meantime, during their absence, Edinburgh had been taken back by the government and was in the control of General Hawley with eight thousand troops. Cumberland, with several thousand more, now took Carlisle and there had paused his northern march.
After a respite in Glasgow, Charles marched to Stirling and took the town on January 8, 1746, then began a siege on the castle. In response, General Hawley marched out with his eight thousand men from Edinburgh to put an end once and for all to the uprising. But again the masterful generalship of Lord George Murray proved victorious. Occupying the high ground south of Falkirk, the Jacobite army was in a much better position. When Hawley ordered his army to attack during a fierce winter downpour, several successful Highland charges dispersed them in panic.
King George sent orders to his son Cumberland in Carlisle to march north and take charge of the government army.
Meanwhile, the Highlanders continued in the attempt to take Stirling Castle. Two weeks passed. Aware of Cumberland’s advance with an army of well over seven thousand, and knowing that their victory over Hawley at Falkirk had not been decisive, again the prince’s advisors recommended retreat from Stirling, this time into the Highlands.
“Good God!” Prince Charles exclaimed bitterly at still another counsel of retreat. “Have I lived to see this!”
But by now, sick with a cold, he had no choice but to allow his officers their way. The shrinking and dispirited Highland army began its retreat from Stirling on February 1, 1746.
Twenty-Five
EARLY FEBRUARY 1746
Through scattered reports and an occasional brief letter from the front, Aileana Gordon had been able to keep track of the movement of Prince Charles’s troops. As the army reached Scotland, more and more refugees and returning soldiers carried news that spread up and down and across the land—news that both armies were on the march.
Then came word that the Highlanders had laid siege to Stirling Castle and beat back an attack of government troops at Falkirk. But still it had not been the decisive battle that would put an end to the conflict.
For two long weeks afterward Aileana heard nothing. She was nearly beside herself for fear of what might have happened.
Finally one afternoon the despair nearly sank her spirits altogether. It was far too early for bed, but darkness fell early in the north, in the dead of winter, and she was too cold and sick of heart for normal activity. Only sleep brought comfort.
After a soothing cup of tea, she took to the stairs and sought her bedchamber. A few minutes later she blew out the remaining candles and turned down the lantern. She lay down, crept inside, and tried to find some pocket of warmth in the lonely bed under the thick covering of blankets.
But she lay wide awake. Slowly the minutes passed, finally an hour.
Something sounded outside. She started up.
Had her ears deceived her? But could it have been . . . horses?
There it was again . . . yes, someone was approaching!
Aileana threw back the coverings, leapt out of bed, grabbed her dressing gown, and proceeded to grope for the lantern. Within seconds she was flying down the stairs.
With trembling hands she fumbled with the latch and bar of the front door, then flung it wide to the night. Only pitch black met the squint of her eyes.
Slow, heavy steps shuffled toward her. She held up the lantern, directing its light outward. The face that gradually came into sight in the pale glow of the flickering wick looked like a ghost’s.
“Sandy!” she exclaimed in mingled joy and shock. “You look—”
She could not say it. She glanced momentarily away with heart in her throat. The next instant she was pulling him inside and lavishing him with kisses of which he scarcely seemed conscious.
He was gaunt and pale, his eyes red from lack of sleep and almost bulging out of their thin sockets. Behind him, his father now also approached, bearing the same general appearance.
“Oh, Kendrick!” exclaimed Aileana. Quickly she set down the lantern and took her husband in her arms. “You look so exhausted!”
“Exhausted and cold,” he said, forcing a wan smile. “The rest of the army is only a few days behind us. We won battles at Falkirk and Stirling—”
“Yes, I heard,” said Aileana, leading her husband inside.
“Now the army is heading north toward Inverness.”
“How many men have been lost?” she asked, closing the door behind them.
“Actually, very few,” he replied. “There has not been a great deal of fighting—only marching, long marching, nearly the whole length of Scotland and England and back, without enough food or clothes for the men, worn boots, thin coats. We have not lost numbers to battle, but to fatigue and exhaustion.”
“And now?”
“Most eventually just became too tired. In ones and twos they have gradually left for home, simply worn out and unable to continue. Especially since we arrived back in Scotland, the lure of the fires of home has become stronger and stronger.”
“I am glad you two joined them. It is so good to have you back,” she said eagerly, leading them into the kitchen, where she immediately began to stir the banked coals.
“Prince Charles can have his rebellion,” she went on, “but I want my husband and son back.”
“I’m afraid you don’t have them back quite yet,” sighed the earl, slumping into a chair.
“Why . . . what do you mean?”
“We are not here to stay, Aileana,” said the earl as he watched his wife throw two or three fresh peats on the fire. “We have only come for a few days—to rest and enjoy some warm food and get new clothes.”
“No,” Aileana wailed, feeling the tears well up as she turned again to face him, “you can’t mean—”
He nodded. “We will rejoin the others when they come through the pass and turn north. If you want to meet the prince—”
“I don’t want to meet him!” interrupted Aileana in tearful frustration. “His rebellion is not mine!”
“I am sorry. I know it is difficult for you.”
“But why, Kendrick . . . why?”
“Aileana, we have to.”
She looked away. It would be pointless to argue. Sometimes men and their principles of honor were more than she could understand . . . more than she wanted to understand.
“Have you seen Culodina’s father anywhere?” she asked after a moment.
Kendrick shook his head. “The occasional rumors of his activitie
s and loyalties are not encouraging.”
“Worse than that,” added Sandy. “He is reportedly one of the duke’s chief advisors.”
“What duke?” asked his mother.
“The duke of Cumberland—King George’s son. The new commander of the King’s army. Reports are that he is advancing north from England after us with reinforcements.”
Twenty-Six
Even as they spoke, at Tullibardglass Hall less than ten miles away, Culodina’s father was pouring a drink for the newly arrived son of the King, whose girth gave evidence that the supply lines throughout his drive into Scotland had remained more than ample. He and a few trusted advisors had retired secretly into the Highlands for a strategy session following the defeat of the Hanoverian army at Falkirk.
“Where do you think the rebels are heading?” asked Cumberland.
“It’s hard to say, but scouting reports indicate Inverness their likely destination,” answered the duke of Argyll.
“Then we shall pursue them. That is your country, is it not, Forbes?” said Cumberland, turning to the new Lord President.
“Precisely, my lord,” replied Culloden, shifting uneasily in his chair.
“If I may be so bold as to propose a recommendation, my lord . . .” now began Murdoch Sorley.
Cumberland lifted his glass and nodded, indicating for his host to proceed.
Despite his cool demeanor, Murdoch Sorley had begun to have a few second thoughts about his choice of allegiances. This Cumberland was but a fat twenty-four-year-old who knew next to nothing about military strategy. What if the fool of a so-called Scottish prince actually succeeded in his gambit for the throne? Where would he be then? He could be sent to prison for treason, all his financial dealings uncovered, both estates taken away. He had a great deal at stake, and had thus given the outcome of this conflict much thought.
An Ancient Strife Page 11