The Blood of Roses (29 page)

Alex did not need any further elaboration to recognize O’Sullivan and Murray of Broughton; they had been against Lord George from the outset, despite his military experience and brilliant strategies on the battlefield. Though he rarely troubled himself with politics, on more than one occasion Struan had offered to toss them both over the top of the nearest corrie.

“It started even afore we crossed the borther intae this soddin’ country.” The big Highlander growled. “The pair O’ them as like talked the prince intae makin’ the march instead O’ listenin’ tae the good common sense O’ Lord George who told him he should keep himsel’ in Edinburgh an’ be happy tae have won his own country back. Well”— he paused for a big huff of air—“he dinna listen, an’ here we are halfway tae bleedin’ London wi’ less men than we started out wi’. Meanwhile them two kept up their blither-blather about how Lord George were secretly an agent f’ae the
Sassenachs
an’ how He had plans tae deliver the prince intae the hands O’ the king an’ collect himsel’ a big fat reward. Lord George had heard enough, an’ at Carlisle he gave the prince his resignation.”

“He
what?”

“Aye. An’ what’s more, the prince took it. Well, he werena resigned more’n two, three days when the prince were struck wi’ a bolt frae the heavens an’ realized as how it were the general the men followed an’ trusted, an’ the general the men respected an’ believed, an’ the general who was holdin’ this scrinty band O’ rabble togither since we left hame. It galled him tae the quick tae admit it, but he had no choice but tae ask Lord George tae take up the command again. In those two days he’d lost near three hunnerd men.”

Alex swore inwardly. They could not afford to lose three men, let alone three hundred, and if anyone was conspiring to undermine their success, it was the prince himself.

“Did ye ken the council voted tae retreat at Manchester?”

Alex drew a deep, angry breath. “I suspected it was coming. And long overdue, by my way of thinking.”

“Aye. Yourn an’ just about everyone else’s.”

“So what the devil are we doing in Derby? Surely the prince isn’t still dreaming about all of England rising up in support?”

Struan fidgeted uncomfortably under the sarcasm. “Aye, that he is. It were Lord George, out tae prove once an’ fae all the gillie bastards were full O’ shite, who talked the lairds intae givin’ the
Sassenachs
one last chance tae keep their promises. But he swore, by Derby, if there werena any sign O’ an English army come tae join up wi’ us, he would turn the men ‘round whether the prince came wi’ them or na.”

Christ
, Alex thought savagely. This then must be the reason for the early-morning meeting of the council. When he asked as much of Struan, the brawny Highlander only shrugged his shoulders.

“I wouldna take wagers against it. We had but two hunnerd men join in Manchester an’ less than twenny outside Derby.”

Not even enough, Alex reflected bitterly, to make up for the three hundred who had left upon hearing of Lord George’s resignation—men not unlike himself who had been convinced long ago of the folly of invading England with an army less than equal in numbers to what King George’s supporters could put in the field. Many of those men simply had been melting out of camp by twos and threes and returning to Scotland, more than willing to fight to defend their own borders if the need arose but not to fight—and very likely die—for the possession of a country that obviously did not want to be liberated.

“What would you have me do?”
he had asked Catherine.
“Desert?”

“Yes
…
no … I don’t know …”

Alex did not know either. He had committed himself to stay and fight to the end, but suddenly he found himself with more urgent reasons for wanting to fight for a new beginning.

“Gentlemen, you cannot be serious.” Prince Charles appeared genuinely surprised when the suggestion of a retreat was put before him. “How can you even contemplate such a thing when we have accomplished so much, come so far, and have so little to conquer ahead of us?”

Lord George Murray seemed all alone where he stood at the opposite end of the table. None of the other chiefs could bring himself to meet the Stuart prince eye to eye; none of them could believe him to be still so deluded as to think they could reach London on their own resources.

“Highness,” the general began, “we have had word the Duke of Cumberland—”

“Yes, yes, I know. My esteemed, warmongering cousin has returned to England to take command of Ligonier’s army. But there, you see? His own troops are battle-weary and must endure several days’ hard march to bring them anywhere within striking distance! In that same time we could be in London!”

“We have also confirmed reports that Field Marshal Wade has removed himself from Newcastle-on-Tyne and is preparing to swing his army around and intercept us at Leicester.” Lord George paused for emphasis. “If he does, it will effectively place two sizable bodies of men on the road between here and London, with a third speeding to provide reinforcements. Our army, on the other hand, is hardly sizable, nor do we have any reinforcements speeding anywhere.”

James Drummond, the Duke of Perth, hastened to interject, “We do, however, have confirmation that my uncle, Lord John Drummond, has arrived in Scotland with his regiment of Royal Scots and several contingents of French volunteers. A second army of Highlanders is being formed in Perth at this very moment.”

“Therefore,” Lord George added quickly, seeing the flush darken in the prince’s cheeks, “if we returned to Scotland now, we would have shown our strength without actually having to play any cards. We could winter in Edinburgh
as originally planned
and strengthen our ranks sufficiently to launch a second invasion in the spring. At that time we would know what had to be done. We would harbor no illusions as to how much support the English would be providing … or not providing, as the case may be.”

“You believe our Highlanders alone cannot defeat the army of a Cumberland or a Wade?” Charles Stuart demanded. “Have you so little faith in your own brave countrymen?”

“Faith in our men and our country is what has brought us all this far,” Lord George stated flatly. “Faith in their courage and their fighting ability leaves me no doubt we could face either one of those armies and win—but at what cost? There would surely be a horrendous loss of valuable lives, and with no hope of replacements, how then could we expect to confront a second or a third force?”

A grumbled chorus of ayes circled the table to indicate the chiefs were in complete agreement with Lord George’s assessment. There was no question they would fight Cumberland’s army if presented with the challenge, but there was also no faith on earth that could make them visualize their meager army emerging victorious over a combined force of over twenty thousand Englishmen.

The young prince looked at each face seated around the table, his complexion white as chalk save for two bright stains high on his cheeks. His voice, when he managed to fling out the words, stung with a sense of betrayal.

“Is there no one among you who will support your prince in his hour of need? Are there none among you who believe, as I do, that our cause is just; that it will, it
must
prevail?”

The room echoed with the silence of men who had marched hundreds of miles from their homes and families, risking everything, guaranteed of nothing in return. The MacDonalds of Keppoch, Lochgarry, and Glencoe were represented; Lochiel and his Camerons, Ardshiel and his Appin Stewarts; the MacLachlans, the MacPhersons, the MacLeans, MacLarens, and Robertsons; the Grants of Glenmoriston, Lord George Murray’s Athollmen; the regiments of the Duke of Perth, Lord Ogilvy, Glenbucket, and Colonel John Roy Stewart; the Lords Elcho, Balmerino, Pitsligo, Kilmarnock; the MacKinnons, the MacGregors, Clanranald …

“Gentlemen.” Charles Stuart rose to his feet slowly, his mouth pinched into a tight white line. “We are less than one hundred and fifty miles from London. Raise your noses in the air and you can smell the filth of the Thames. Worse, you can hear George of Hanover laughing as he mocks our cowardice for stopping mere feet from his front door! Did you not just hear, with those same ears, of Lord John Drummond’s triumphant arrival from France? Did you not also hear of the treaty signed at Fontainebleau that ensures us the military assistance of the King of France?”

“We heard it,” Lord George said bluntly. “We have been hearing it for months, but where are the men? Where are the guns Louis has promised time and time again?”

“I have it on good authority that there are thirty thousand men amassed at Calais, waiting to embark on a moment’s notice!”

“The moment has long been and gone, Highness. Even a dozen ships with a few thousand men could have been put to good use preventing Cumberland and his troops from crossing the Channel. A blockade could have held them in Flanders indefinitely. No, sire, we can no longer count upon the French nor trust their hollow pledges and treaties. They have proven to be as illusionary as the thousands of loyal English Jacobites we were assured would rise and join us the moment we stepped foot across the border.”

“They will join us! They will!” Flushing an angry red, the prince pounded his fist on the table. “This is what defeats us, this lack of faith! This … this lack of willingness to believe in what we have accomplished, what we might yet accomplish if only our hearts were steadfast enough. Sweet God in heaven, we cannot give up now! The city of London, the throne of England is within our grasp! If we turn back now it will all have been for nothing!”

“Not f’ae nothing, sire,” Lochiel said calmly. “We’ve won Scotland. We’ve won the right tae bring our King James—yer father—home again.”

“Home to what? The shame of seeing his army in retreat? The scorn of the English who will know we had victory within our grasp and gave it up in a moment of senseless panic?”

“It was resolved by the council in Manchester to begin the retreat homeward should there be no further evidence of support by the English.”

“You
resolved it, sir!” the prince shouted at Lord George. “Your prince did not! Instead he finds himself begging for a single voice of support for a venture he was assured would be carried by their unflagging faith to the very end. He finds himself facing betrayal and mutiny, arguments, lies, deceit, dissention—all from men in whom he had placed his utmost trust and confidence; men in whom his father, their most righteous sovereign king, had placed his hope for redemption! Where is that loyalty we were most solemnly pledged? Where is the courage we saw displayed so brilliantly at Prestonpans?
Where is your pride?”

Complete silence engulfed the room. From his position in the rear, Alex regarded the circle of taut faces, seeing the conflicting emotions in each man’s eyes. The prince had drawn blood, as he had done so many times before to good success, knowing a challenge to a Highlander’s pride and honor was as good as a gauntlet slapped in his face. Some sat motionless, stiff with indignation. Some faltered visibly and began looking to each other, groping for reasonable alternatives.

“We could withdraw into Wales,” the Duke of Perth suggested reluctantly. “Sir Watkins-Wynn has offered the help of his Welshmen should we first be able to secure their border from the English.”

“And you trust his offer?” Lord George said with icy disdain.

“Aye.” Ardshiel grunted. “Who’s tae say he’ll keep his word an’ march anywhere wi’ us, let alone tae London? Who’s tae say how lang it would take tae secure his bluidy borthers, an’ wha’s tae say Cumberland couldna offer him a sweeter deal or use the time equal well in formin’ up his armies tae catch us comin’ back? Trapped in Wales, by the Christ, we could well end up like chicks in a cavie.”

Most of the chiefs grumbled in agreement. One or two voices rose above the others in argument, but these were halfhearted and evidently meant only to impress the prince with a semblance of loyalty. These men, Alexander noted with a surge of resentment, were mainly the foreigners— O’Sullivan prime among them—officers who held French commissions and were soldiers of fortune rather than rebels against the crown. As such, they could argue and debate points of strategy from a military standpoint, without thought of the consequences to their homes and families. They did not face the risk of execution for treason if taken prisoner. They had no personal stake in the country, no property to forfeit, no wives or children to see thrown out of their homes and reduced to a beggar’s lot. It was not that they lacked dedication, or merely mouthed loyalty to the prince’s cause: They were simply men who had nothing to lose by advocating a bolder course of strategy.

The Highland chiefs, on the other hand, stood to lose everything should the prince fail. They argued passionately in favor of retreat, for there was no dishonor in questioning the senseless, needless waste of good men’s lives—and with armies closing in on three sides, there had been nothing in word or deed to suggest such a terrible waste could be avoided. They were not afraid of fighting or dying, only of doing so without purpose.

“Gentlemen.” Charles had calmed himself, the anger in his voice had relented, and his soft brown eyes held a look of desperation. “I implore you to think carefully on the matter. Search your hearts, discuss it among yourselves and if … if you are adamant in this course … if you can foresee no possibility of success, then … then surely I must … I must accede to your wishes. But, I beg you”—a bright flicker of hope sparked in his eyes—“walk among your men. Listen to their voices raised in song and spirit. They have the will to fight, indeed they are impatient to be about it! They have the courage and the hunger to win it all, if we will but let them! Have faith in your men. Have faith in yourselves!”

A final bright stare circled the table before the prince straightened and walked stiffly toward the door. O’Sullivan was quick to follow, almost overturning his chair in haste, as were Sheridan and John Murray of Broughton. Their departure was noted with derision, for it was sure they would be anxious to convince the prince that, although they had not spoken out against the retreat, they privately shared his sentiments. And all, undoubtedly, at Lord George’s expense.