The Blood of Roses (60 page)

“That would do it,” Aluinn remarked under his breath, and, for his troubles, earned a scathing look from Lochiel’s burning blue eyes.

“A man’s honor is the one thing he canna simply lose an’ find again at will. Once it’s gone, it’s lost forever, an’ the loss suffered by the sons an’ the sons O’ the sons. A man who would save his life over his honor is a man only God might take pity on.”

“God and the Duke of Cumberland,” Alex said grimly, throwing away the thatch of hay and reaching for Shadow’s saddle. “May they both have pity on us tonight.”

At that moment, William, Duke of Cumberland, was pacing the creaking floorboards of the library at Balblair House, his hands clasped behind his back in a stance that made his belly more prominent than usual. His face was red above the white lace collar of his tunic. His wig was slightly over-powdered and had left a film of rice dust on the bullish shoulders. The eyes were dark and bulged like gull’s eggs on either side of his nose, and the lips, hardly more than slashes on the rare occasion they indulged in a smile, were all but invisible as he threw his head back and laughed.

“Stood on the bloody moor all day long, you say? I’ll warrant that played havoc with the kidneys, not to mention the tempers of our fine skirted warlords.”

“Indeed, your Grace.” Hamilton Garner shared the duke’s humor. “Thankfully, the rain will cleanse away much of the stench before the morning.”

The duke harrumphed and wiped at a tear on his lashes. “I daresay it will. Was there something else, Major? You still have the look of the proverbial cat with feathers clinging to its lips.”

“We are told the prince himself was in command of the operation today, that he has relegated Lord George Murray to the task of commanding a minor regiment of Athollmen.”

The duke frowned and peered at Hamilton. “Are you absolutely certain? Why would he dismiss the only man who has managed to give us second thoughts?”

“Glory-seeking, perhaps?”

“Foolish move on his part, if it is. Superb advantage to us, however, and one I’ll not refuse, you can be assured.”

“We are nearly double their number, your Grace. Our latest intelligence confirms they have between a quarter and a third of their total men dispersed on various operations throughout the Highlands.”

“Numbers, or the lack of them, have never stopped them before, major. As I recall, the odds were two to one at Prestonpans and nearly three to one at Falkirk.”

“They also used the element of surprise to their advantage.”

“Yes, they seem to have an affinity for crawling through swamps in the middle of the night, appearing from nowhere, descending upon the unaware like ladies from hell.”

“I have already ordered the sentries trebled and the passwords changed every hour on the half hour,” Hamilton assured him. “They’ll not come within five miles without us knowing it within minutes.”

“And how do you judge the character of the men in our army? Your honest opinion, Major.”

Wary of the verbal traps the duke liked to bait, Hamilton chose his words carefully. “Our men are understandably nervous, sire. Perhaps even a little anxious. They seem to have this unshakable fear of the Highlanders, even though they have been drilled and redrilled in new ways of countering the wild charges that have unnerved them in the past.”

The duke pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should hang a few of them for inspiration; a coward left hanging in full view makes for half a dozen stouter hearts in the ranks. I would not like to see my army running from the field, Major.”

“Perhaps they simply require the proper motivation, your Grace.”

Cumberland looked over. “How so? Would you flog them
all
before they took to the field? Preventive discipline, what?”

“I do not believe we have to resort to anything quite so drastic, sire,” Hamilton said, reaching to an inside pocket of his scarlet frock coat. “The fact is, something fell into our possession this afternoon that might allow the rebels themselves to provoke our men beyond any efforts we might undertake. May I?”

Cumberland waved a hand in assent as Garner produced two sheets of folded paper.

“This one”—he lifted the top sheet—“is a copy of Lord George Murray’s battle orders. We intercepted two of their spies sent out this morning to scout the road between here and the moor. In essence, it reads: ‘It is His Royal Highness’s positive orders that every person attach himself to some corps of the army, and remain with that corps night and day, until the battle and pursuit be finally over. This regards the Foot as well as the Horse. The order of battle is to be given to every general officer’—et cetera, et cetera, so on and so forth.”

Cumberland accepted the offered document, scanned it briefly, and noted the neatly slanted script, Lord George Murray’s signature, and the date, April 14.

“Standard orders; what of it?”

Garner offered a smile. “I took the liberty of engaging the somewhat dubious talents of one of our scriveners and came up with … this, your Grace.”

Cumberland took the second sheet, scanning the contents as he had the first. It was written in the same bold script, signed by the same neat flourish, duplicating the original orders but for the addition of one small phrase.

“‘It is His Royal Highness’s positive orders,’” Cumberland read aloud, “‘that every person attach himself to some corps of the army, and remain with that corps night and day, until the battle and pursuit be finally over, and’”—he stopped and looked up at Hamilton Garner before continuing—”
“‘and to give no quarter to the Elector’s troops on any account whatsoever.
This regards the Foot as well as the Horse.’”

“I took the further liberty of showing the second document to Colonel John Campbell, of the Argyle militia,” Hamilton said quietly.

“And?”

“The phrase
no quarter
seemed to trigger the desired effect. As you know, the Campbells, in particular, seem most eager to come face-to-face with certain of the opposing clans—most notably, the Camerons and MacDonalds. They have some sort of blood vendetta to settle, I gather, and would not hesitate to slaughter them to the last man if the opportunity presented itself.”

“I see,” said Cumberland, and he did. A common soldier reading these orders, already primed by stories of the terror a Highland fighter inflicted upon his enemies, would interpret them to mean no mercy, no leniency, even to those wounded honorably on the battlefield. The order, with its added phrase, condoned slaughter, and would lend credence to the belief that the rebels were not men at all but bloody savages who offered live sacrifices to the druids and drank the blood of their slain enemies. It wasn’t true, of course, and there were many more stories centering around Charles Stuart’s compassionate and honorable treatment toward the captured and the wounded … but a man walking into battle believing he will face only disgrace and defeat if he should throw down his sword fights with far less conviction than a man who believes he faces certain slaughter.

“I have vowed to end this damned Jacobite curse once and for all,” Cumberland muttered, almost to himself. “I have vowed to end it if it means killing every man, woman, and child in the process.”

Hamilton Garner waited in silence for his commander’s decision.

Cumberland looked at both copies of the order again. He took one and held the corner of it over a candle. The edge of the paper charred and curled in upon itself, then burst suddenly into flames that quickly devoured their way across the inked script until the words were consumed in a sheet of bright yellow and flickering orange. Cumberland dropped the burning document and waited until the fire had almost expired before crushing the ash to a smoky powder beneath the heel of his boot.

The second, forged copy he handed back to Hamilton Garner. “I trust you will see this gets into the right hands, Major?”

The jade-green eyes burned almost as brightly as the expired flame. “You may count on me, your Grace. As always.”

Culloden
22

L
ord George Murray had started the men marching at eight O’clock, as soon as it was dark enough to move them out unobserved. He took his Athollmen in the lead, with Lochiel’s Camerons by his side. Lord John Drummond and his contingents were in the center of the column, the prince and the Duke of Perth brought up the rear.

Colonel Anne Moy marched proudly at the head of a small party of MacKintoshes acting as guides over the rough tracts of moorland. As eager as they were finally to meet the English and defeat them on their own home land, the vanguard moved swiftly and silently through the deep basin of a glen—so swiftly they had to call for frequent stops in order for the straggling rear guard to catch up.

The rain that had fallen all day had turned the paths and marshes into treacherously slippery mud traces. The men had to expend twice as much energy to travel half as far over rough weed-tangled ground. The columns slowed, the gap between the front and rear became almost half a mile, and Lord George began to fear he would not have enough troops with him to launch any kind of an attack, never mind the two-pronged pincer movement that gave them their best chance for success. Moreover, while the prince’s column was still dragging its way through the marsh, Lord George’s forerunners were bringing back reports of unusual activity in Cumberland’s camp. There were pickets and patrols marching the camp’s perimeter—too many and too close to ever hope to surprise. Something, or someone, had already put them on the alert; to go ahead with the attack might mean walking into an ambush.

Lord George, conferring with chiefs and officers who rode with him, decided they had no option but to turn quickly and quietly back, before daylight arrived and caught them on the open marsh.

Charles Stuart could hardly believe his eyes when he saw the men from Lord George’s column doubling back toward the coast road. He stood silhouetted against the rim of pale-blue light that smeared the sky, saying nothing while O’Sullivan ranted and hurled accusations charging Lord George with everything from cowardice to outright betrayal.

It was all Alexander could do to keep himself from drawing his pistol and shooting the Irishman outright. As it was, it took the calmer, persuasive powers of Lochiel, Colonel Anne, and The MacGillivray to convince Charles Stuart that Lord George had made the only sane decision. But the harm was done. Lord George, rigid with pride, angered that his loyalty and courage had been questioned openly before the staring ranks of men, strode back to Culloden in stony silence. The prince, confused by the turn of events, was forced to accept yet another humiliation over which he had no control, and retreated behind a wall of sullen petulance and would speak to no one, least of all his chiefs and council members.

The men, exhausted by hunger and fatigue, staggered back to Culloden. Some wandered farther, into Inverness; some spread into the neighboring farms. Almost a thousand collapsed on the sheltered parkland surrounding Culloden House, sleeping the sleep of the dead, too weary to think about their hunger, too weary to rouse themselves even when, a short time later, the message was delivered alerting them that Cumberland’s army was on the road, less than two hours’ march away.

“Keep ye’re heids down, lassies,” Struan warned, a fiery hazel eye touching on both Catherine and Deirdre, in turn. “We’ve come too far tae let the bastards take us now.”

Catherine nodded, calmly moistening her lips and tightening the grip she had on the loaded pistol. Since the attack the previous afternoon, she had moved without thinking, obeyed without questioning any order or instruction. In return, she had won the unqualified admiration of Struan MacSorley—not given lightly under any circumstances.

“I don’t know how he can see them or hear them,” Deirdre whispered. “I don’t know how he knows they’re even out there. I have not seen or heard anything for hours.”

“Struan has lived in mountains and forests all his life,” Catherine reasoned. “It must be instinct … or some such thing.”

Deirdre glanced sidelong at her former mistress, wondering how she could sound so calm and matter-of-fact. For the past twenty hours, MacSorley and the handful of men who had survived the ambush had led them on a twisted, convoluted retreat back over the mountains toward Inverness. Early in the chase, Deirdre had feared for Catherine’s state of mind as well as her health—she had, after all, just seen her beloved brother killed before her eyes. Since then she had been bounced and jostled along the treacherous paths in an attempt to elude their scarlet-clad pursuers, yet not once had she shown any sign of faltering or succumbing to the weakness Deirdre knew had to have invaded her every bone and fiber. Deirdre knew because she could feel it within herself—the cold, chilling terror of the unknown.

Catherine had not balked when Struan ordered them to conceal themselves in the foul-smelling lair of some wild mountain beast. She had blatantly refused to eat what meager foodstuffs they had salvaged from the knapsacks unless it was shared equally among them all. She had helped Deirdre with the wounded and relinquished her seat on one of the few horses they had managed to recapture, declaring she was perfectly able to walk while some of the severely wounded men could not.