The Blood of Roses (36 page)

On January 13 Lord George made a routine foray to Linlithgow to intercept supplies intended for Hawley’s troops and learned that the government army had departed Edinburgh and was half a day’s march down the road. With less than two hundred men at his disposal, Lord George prudently withdrew to Falkirk, then to Bannockburn, where the prince immediately made plans to lure Hawley into battle.

For two days Hawley remained camped at Falkirk, the prince, at Bannockburn. Aware of the importance the Jacobites placed on Bannockburn, where one of Scotland’s greatest warrior kings, Robert the Bruce, had won a resounding victory in 1311, Hawley was not about to budge from his position to carry the battle to the prince. Annoyed but not daunted, Charles Stuart marched his clans onto the high ground overlooking Falkirk; the move was such a complete surprise to Hawley that the general was not even present in the camp. He had been invited to dinner with the enchanting and curvaceous Lady Kilmarnock (whose husband was, at the same time, forming his clansmen alongside the prince). Stunned to hear of the rebel’s presence on the moor, Hawley rushed back to the field, his dinner napkin still tucked into the collar of his shirt. He arrived breathless, hatless, and in time to see his touted cavalry charging uphill against the sea of Highlanders blanketing the far slope … then fleeing straight back down into the face of their own advancing infantry.

On the age-old cry of
clai’mór
, the Highlanders were unleashed, pouring down the slope and onto the level plain like a screaming tidal wave. Torrential rains had rendered the government’s firelocks ineffectual, and, unable to fire their muskets, the red-coated infantry had little defense against the glittering wall of broadswords. Unfortunately, the rain also worked against the rebels, for instead of pursuing the routed, scattering English as they should have done, they chose to plunder the deserted camp instead, considering food, wine, and clean clothing preferable to a wild chase in the downpour.

Even when the weather cleared, the prince preferred to celebrate his victory rather than send his army in pursuit of the disorganized government troops. He ignored missive after missive forwarded by Lord George and seemed to see no urgent need to march right away to recapture the city of Edinburgh. The urgency became quite clear a week later when it was learned that Hawley had returned safely to the capital city and that William, Duke of Cumberland, had sailed unmolested up the Firth of Forth and assumed personal command of the garrison at Edinburgh Castle.

Enraged over the prince’s lack of decisive action, and knowing they had lost a major advantage by not following up on their victory at Falkirk, the chiefs were faced with a similar situation to the one they had encountered in Derby. Cumberland’s army was en route to Edinburgh, and General Wade’s forces were massing along the border. This time the chiefs refused even to listen to any of the prince’s pretty speeches or impassioned pleas and issued the order to retreat again, to the Highlands. Once they were safely in the rugged terrain of their own lands, they were confident they could hold out against whatever forces the English dared send after them. They firmly believed Cumberland would never venture into the mountains, where his vaunted cavalry, infantry, and artillery would be at the Highlanders’ mercy.

On February 1 the Jacobite army began a northward retreat. News of his enemy’s escape both astonished and angered Cumberland, who had begun to look upon the erratic behavior of his cousin, the prince, as an insult to his own military intelligence.

“I am told the rebels simply packed up their gear and walked out of Falkirk with their noses in the air!” Cumberland declared, his corpulent figure dominating the head of a long dining table. Gathered about him and hanging warily on every word and gesture were the principal officers of the fourteen battalions of infantry and dragoons currently holding command of Edinburgh. General Hawley, conspicuously silent throughout most of the meeting so far, was seated well along the table in a humbling position of demoted importance. Conversely, officers who had distinguished themselves by meeting their enemies bravely and refusing to give ground or flee sat favorably close to the duke. On his immediate right was crusty old Colonel Guest, who had steadfastly held Edinburgh Castle through a lengthy siege by the Jacobites, and on the colonel’s right, one of the few dragoon officers who had distinguished himself at Prestonpans—Major Hamilton Armbruth Garner.

“You may well understand our surprise when we marched to Falkirk intending to engage our cousin,” the duke continued in a droll voice, “only to find the town deserted, the camp in shambles, and, from the few hearty souls who had been left behind to sleep off their drunken stupors, to learn of their successful retreat across the waters of the Forth.”

Possessing a very long thin nose, the duke sighted along it now, narrowing his froglike eyes against the haze of pipe and cigar smoke, the better to fix his stare on the bewigged and formally attired company of king’s officers.

“Opinions, gentlemen?”

In the nervous silence that ensued, Hamilton Garner’s jade-green eyes made contact with the general’s and were one of the few that did not instantly flash away. “I should think, your grace, they have lost heart. Why else should they have chosen flight over pursuit? It cannot be denied they held the immediate advantage following the battle at Falkirk.”

“They also held it before and during, as I understand it,” the duke remarked. “Since their methods of fighting are not in the least affected by inclement weather, they had no call to worry after the dampness of their powder or the mud splashing up to soil their pretty white gaiters.”

“They fight like devils from hell,” one of the junior officers commented with a shudder. “They come out of nowhere, cloaked in mist and mud, screaming like banshees and swinging those great bloody broadswords of theirs like farmers scything a corn field.”

“Primitive methods, to be sure, but most effective, would you not agree?”

“Our men are trained in musketry and artillery tactics,” Hawley declared. “Our fighting forces are second to none in discipline and skill.”

The duke’s feral gaze settled on the disgraced general. “But in order to demonstrate this vast superiority, must we wait for temperate weather and extend specific invitations as to time and place, so as not to inconvenience our palates?”

Hawley’s face throbbed a dull, mottled red. “The Lady Kilmarnock was alarmed. She was requesting our protection for her lands. The hour grew late and—”

“And her bosoms undoubtedly grew more and more attractive,” the duke snapped. “I must make a point of meeting this paragon of virtue myself; perhaps you could arrange an introduction?”

When Hawley’s lips compressed to a thin smear of outrage, Major Garner provided a response. “The, er,
lady
in question has withdrawn, your Grace. It seems she found better company with her husband and his Jacobite clansmen.”

The duke drummed the squared stubs of his fingertips on the table. “Indeed. Weather, women … what other seemingly harmless weapons do the rebels manage to use to astonishing advantage? Our own fear, for one thing. Four thousand of them marched to within a hare’s leap of my father’s throne. Not the thirty thousand we had been duped into believing had swarmed across our borders, but four thousand.
Four
, gentlemen, against a combined force easily five times their number. And when we do find the courage to venture out against them, do they trouble themselves to consult a rule book to see how the war games should be properly acted out? Zounds, no! Why should they, when they have caught us fumbling about with our breeches down around our knees every single time? As for their methods, gentlemen, they are neither demons nor hounds from hell. They are mortal men, made of flesh and blood; they cut, bleed, and die just as easily as we do.”

“But their weapons—”

“Weapons!” Cumberland pushed himself to his feet, glaring along the table. “Archaic steel swords, too heavy to wield with anything but the minimum range of accuracy, too long to be effective against anything but turned and fleeing backsides! Hughes!”

A young adjutant came running at the barked command and fitted a captured Highland broadsword into the duke’s hand. Five feet long, made from double-edged steel four inches wide across the blade, and capped by an ornately wrought iron hilt clasped from behind a protective basket-shape guard, it was an impressive weapon. Memories of its devastating capabilities were reflected on the faces of the men, some of whom looked away, others mentally comparing it to the slim steel sabers belted at their waists.

Cumberland lifted the sword, swinging it to and fro, to test the weight and balance. Once again his attention was caught by a pair of intense green eyes, and he paused, signaling Major Garner to join him.

“You were, I believe, Master of the Sword for your regiment?” the duke asked. “You have also seen the rebels in action, witnessed the charge and the ensuing slaughter of our ill-countenanced men?”

Garner begged permission and unsheathed his own sword. “I suggest, your Grace, it is not so much that our men are ill-countenanced as they are ill-trained in ways of countering a Highland charge.”

“Explain.”

“Well, your Grace, in the first place, as you are no doubt aware, the broadsword is an extremely heavy, ungainly weapon, almost impossible to use effectively in a traditional dueling stance of thrust and parry. Instead, it must be grasped in both hands, in most cases and swung in broad, windmilling strokes, at which time the momentum alone is enough to carry even the most experienced swordsman slightly off balance. It also—if I may be so bold as to request a demonstration—leaves the swordsman highly vulnerable in one particular area while he is recouping his stroke.”

Cumberland appeared intrigued as he raised the sword and drew it back as if to slash it in Garner’s direction. The duke was squat and stout, with more than enough weight behind him to wield the broadsword with considerable power and control, but the major’s point was well taken. For a moment or two, when the arc of the sword was at its maximum distance from the duke’s body, his right arm was fully extended and his entire right side was exposed and vulnerable. Garner made the observation even more graphic when, on the duke’s second swing, he stepped forward and simulated driving the tip of his saber into the armpit and straight through for the heart.

“Even in the pouring rain, your Grace, with muskets unable to fire, I suggest our bayonets could do as much, if not more damage in close quarters—assuming we can retrain our men to aim for the enemy on his right and trust his comrade-in-arms to do the same, thus dealing with the rebel directly in front of him.”

“I want this looked into at once,” Cumberland said excitedly. “But could so simple a tactic be the solution to overcoming the men’s fears?”

“We have Highland regiments fighting under our command, your Grace,” Garner said. “The Argyle Campbells, for one, would be able to stage a mock charge so that we could more carefully observe any other weaknesses and possible countermeasures:”

“Excellent!” The duke handed the broadsword back to his adjutant and clapped a hand on Garner’s shoulder. “I shall put you in command of the exercise, Major, and, should it prove promising, you will have my full support in retraining the men as you see fit. I want this myth of invincibility crushed, by God. I want our men convinced they have nothing more to fear from these blasted mountain warlords, and when that happens, we can be on about the business of destroying them once and for all.”

“What if the rumors we have heard are. True?” asked an elderly colonel, his face bloated and veined from a life of debauchery. “What if the prince’s army is disbanding even as it retreats? What if they reach their mountain lairs and deem it more prudent to retire in safety than meet us on the battlefield?”

The duke pursed his lips distastefully as he considered Colonel Putnam’s question. “An obvious and tempting supposition to draw, but I am more inclined to believe these Scots are a stubborn and belligerent breed of rebel. They have been testing the throne’s leniency for fifty years now, fading away into their hills when the smell of defeat becomes too pungent, only to reappear ten, twenty years later when they fancy some new insult to their pride or find themselves some new idiot to rally around. If we allow them to escape again unscathed and to return to their farms as if all is forgotten and forgiven, how many more years will pass before they will use the victories they have gained thus far in this campaign—and that have so far gone unchecked—to rally the passions of the next generation of dissidents and traitors?

“No, gentlemen,” he went on. “It is my considered opinion that we cannot accept anything short of the complete destruction and eradication of the rebellious factions. If it takes a sword to affect this result, then so be it. If it takes the death of every so-called Jacobite—man, woman, and child—then so be it. They must be absolutely stripped of power and utterly discouraged from ever harboring a thought of rising against us again.”

He paused and regarded the gnarled faces of his seasoned officers. “These are not to be considered honorable enemies we face, gentlemen. They are traitors, insurgents— vermin who would see our rightful sovereign, King George, swing from a common gibbet while an old and syphilitic papist king watches on in amusement. You have seen the unholy pleasure they take from slaughtering our brave men where they stand. Should we now reach out with a severed limb and offer an olive branch in the hopes they will not rise against us again for another thirty years? Shall we explain to the wives and mothers of the men who drowned in their own blood at Prestonpans and Falkirk that we were content just to chase the treacherous murderers into the hills, there to return to their rich and prosperous lives unmolested?”

Hamilton Garner drew a calculated breath before raising his fist in anger. “No! No, by God! We will not let them get away with it!”

“No!” The chorus of harsh, guttural nays sped around the table, accompanied by the pounding of fists and the scraping of chairs against the floor as, one by one, the officers stood in support of Cumberland’s policy. Major Garner took the gesture to completion by snatching his half-filled glass of wine off the table and lifting it high in a salute.