Authors: Marsha Canham
Moreover, the vast tracts of mountain ranges cut by lochs and hostile sweeps of frozen moorland would not appeal to the English for a winter campaign; weather and terrain would discourage pursuit until at least the spring, when the Jacobites would have had time to regroup.
For Anne's part, she was disappointed to say the least, having come this far only to be told they were likely turning around and going back to Invernesshire. At the same time she was elated and vicariously delighted at the thought of marching home with an army of thousands to oust Lord Loudoun and reclaim the capital city for the prince.
The rest of the clan chiefs, men like Lochiel and the MacDonalds of Keppoch, had their own reasons for wanting to return to the Highlands. In their absence, the English had strengthened their positions at Fort William and Fort Augustus, placing heavy garrisons at either end of the Great Glen, and with the ancestral homes of the Camerons and MacDonalds located in the middle, it was urgent to send relief. News from the remote regions of Lochaber had been sporadic at best, but the effects of such a harsh winter could prove devastating. Many of the clansmen had been away from their farms since the previous July; they needed to assure themselves that their families had not starved and would not starve if the war dragged on through another long summer. Despite the snow and frigid winds that kept the prince hemmed in at Falkirk the latter two weeks of January, at the first sign of a thaw, fields would still have to be plowed, crops planted.
That was the trouble with raising an army of farmers and shepherds. As brave and loyal and valiant as they might be, if they had no land, no homes, no crops, no herds to go home to, what was the point of fighting at all? The chiefs would demand their rents and tithes regardless if they won or lost, and while the grand castles at Achnacarry and Blair Atholl might suffer from a lack of wheat for fresh
uisque
, they had stood for centuries and would stand for centuries more, supported
by the sweat and toil of the common tacksmen. In the feudal system, it was the crofters who would starve from the lack of bread, and when they could not pay their rents, they would find their meager sod cottages torn down or burned and the land taken over for cattle.
The prince turned belligerent. He had forbidden Lord George to pursue the English farther than Linlithgow, but when he heard Hawley had escaped to Edinburgh, he did an about-face and laid the blame squarely on Murray's head. To make matters worse, news arrived in the Jacobite camp on the last day of January that Cumberland had left London and marched his army to Edinburgh in near record time. He had brought reinforcements of cavalry and infantry, as well as a fresh artillery train to replace the heavy guns lost at Falkirk— guns that took a week to haul and position to best advantage around Stirling, and that fired no more than two rounds apiece before they were blown off their carriages by the superior firepower of the English gunners on the walls.
Lord George, with his last nerve snapped, ordered the ineffectual siege to be abandoned and dragged the remaining cannon to the nearest cliff, where he had them spiked and rolled over into the churning waters of the firth.
The prince did not take either the news of his cousin's arrival or the departure of the artillery well. He ranted against Lord George, believing now more than ever that his general was determined to sabotage his every effort to win back the throne. He raged and banged his head against a wall until he staggered like a drunkard, at which time he retired to his wagon with two bottles of whisky and became one. With the prince mired in self-pity, it was decided to once again split the army into two divisions, the prince being escorted by the majority of regiments through the high mountainous passes that cut through the Jacobite territories of Blair Atholl, Dalnacardoch, and Dalwhinnie. Lord George would travel a more circuitous route by way of Aberdeen, hopefully to draw off any pursuit Cumberland might be mounting. The two divisions would reunite at Inverness, where they could then set about routing the government forces garrisoned at Fort George.
“Might I play devil's advocate a moment,” said Angus
Moy, “and ask what the prince will be able to do with Inverness even if he does take it?”
The question was practical and forthright, greeted by the silence of a grim circle of men that included Alexander Cameron, Aluinn MacKail, and John MacGillivray. Angus had been surprised by the invitation to join the others at the tavern, but he had had his own reasons for obliging.
“The entire coastline is under a tight blockade,” he continued, “and unless I've missed something in the thousands of dispatches I've read over the past months, the prince has no navy. Not one single ship. Loudoun, on the other hand, has fresh supplies delivered every day—meat, fish, vegetables, fruit, even tuns of French brandy confiscated by the revenue ships in the Channel. Their lead shot comes in barrels; they do not have to make their own in the field. If a musket fails or misfires, there is another in common stores to replace it. I have seen their warehouses; they want for nothing, whereas I have seen some of your men walking in the snow with rags wrapped round their feet.”
Cameron's dark eyes assessed the two Highlanders seated across the table. Big John MacGillivray was a genuine throwback to a Viking warrior: Nothing seemed to slow him down. He had been wounded in three places on Falkirk moor, but had barely acknowledged his injuries long enough to allow Archibald to stitch and bandage them. The men were in awe of him; his experience as a smuggler and reiver made him doubly valuable to the prince's army.
As for the chief of Clan Chattan, he was a difficult man to read, not given to revealing too much either through his eyes or his expression. Perhaps that was what pricked Alex's instincts the most. Was the chief of Clan Chattan a more formidable adversary than he appeared to be? And if so, could it work to their advantage?
Alex twirled one of his thin black cigars between his fingers and glanced across the table at Aluinn, but there were no insightful glances coming back his way.
“Yes, well.” Cameron cleared his throat. “You play the devil well, Captain MacKintosh, but you are not telling us anything we do not already know.”
“What if I
did
tell you something you didn't know?”
“We might question the motive for your generosity,” came the blunt reply.
“Of course.” Angus smiled. “Then why don't we speak of motives first and clear the air, so to speak?”
Alex spread his hands. “You have our complete attention.”
“Quite simply, when the army returns to Inverness, I want my wife sent back to Moy Hall. I care not how it is done or who does it, or under what pretense, but I want her sent home. I also do not want her to know she is
being
sent home, for if she believes that to be case, she will likely thumb her nose and tell you to break wind at the moon.”
The midnight eyes narrowed further. “And in exchange?”
“In exchange I can give you detailed maps of Fort George, inside and out. I can tell you where the walls have recently been reinforced and where there are concealed batteries of guns. And I can tell you the weakest points in the fortifications, which, conversely, would be the best places to lay your mines—assuming, naturally, that you wish to avoid another comedic debacle like Stirling Castle.”
“We would indeed,” Cameron said after a moment, “but what if I told you your wife has offered us the same information?”
“It would be accurate … to a degree. At least one of her rapscallion cousins has spent time behind bars there, and her grandfather has been around long enough to have seen the original walls go up. But there have been changes in the past year I doubt even they know about. Loudoun has been cautious since he assumed command. In recent months, he has been nervous, too, to the extent that he has had details of enlisted men doing most of the work, digging, building gun emplacements, setting traps and the like.”
“Traps?”
Angus nodded. “In the armory, for one. If you fail to reach it quickly, there are kegs of powder set with fuses that need only be lit by someone requiring ten minutes to exit through a nearby tunnel. If they blow, they will send half the fort to hell and gone—and anyone in it at the time.”
The pause was noticeable as Cameron glanced once again at MacKail, who shrugged but looked intrigued nonetheless.
“It seems to be a fair exchange. It would also help if we
had precise maps of Inverness as well as any defenses in the harbor and surrounding areas.”
“Anne can give you that,” Angus said. “She has a better eye for detail and is more familiar with the moors and bogs. Plus, it will occupy her time when I have gone.”
“Gone? You're going somewhere?”
“Is that not why you asked to meet with me tonight? Because you want me to go back to Edinburgh with the other prisoners when they are released?”
Alex tried not to look surprised—or excited. As had been the case following the Battle of Prestonpans, it had been decided that all prisoners would be released if they agreed to give their word not to take up arms against the prince again. The number was vastly smaller than the fifteen hundred prisoners taken in their first victory, but with supplies short and tempers frayed, the chiefs were more concerned with providing the bare necessities for their own men than catering to the needs of captured soldiers.
“I will admit the thought occurred to us,” Cameron said. “The possibility of having someone close to Cumberland's command is intriguing, and your name did come up several times in various conversations.”
“Now hold on a minute,” MacGillivray began.
“You did not know this was what they wanted to discuss?” Angus asked.
The big Highlander looked like he wanted to smash the table in half. “I did not.”
“As I said”—Cameron leaned back and gave his cigar another thoughtful roll—“Aluinn and I were only toying with the idea. And it isn't as if you would be doing anything out of the ordinary. No skulking in dark alleyways, no cloak drawn over your face with a dagger at the ready. You would simply have to do what you do already: read dispatches, follow troop movements, let us know who is moving where and what their intentions might be. Then it would just be a matter of—”
“Tying a cryptic note to the ankle of a carrier pigeon and releasing it from a rooftop?”
Cameron smiled at the dry sarcasm. “Nothing quite so dramatic. We have other people in the Elector's camp who act as couriers.”
“Like Adrienne de Boule?”
Cameron's midnight eyes flickered again. “Yes. Like Adrienne. Unfortunately, her access is somewhat limited and she cannot move freely around the camp every day.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then it ends here, no harm done. You can leave or stay— which you would, of course, be most welcome to do. The terms of your parole would give you an honorable release from any obligations you might have had to serve the king, although I expect your wife's participation at Falkirk would render the terms of the immunity Forbes offered moot either way.”
Angus turned slowly to glare at MacGillivray again, and this time the Highlander only glared back. “I was not goin' to die the only one knowin'. An' if ye've no' learned by the now that ye can trust these two men above all, then I'll send ye back to Edinburgh maself on the toe o' ma boot. Not”—he added gruffly, qualifying the endorsement by glowering at Cameron and MacKail across the table—“that I'm sayin' it's a good idea to send him back at all. We already know Hawley has nae fondness for Scots officers at the best o' times, an' if it's true he has already hung sixty-three of his own men for desertion an' cowardice, what makes ye think The MacKintosh willna be swingin' from a gibbet the instant he walks through the gates o' the city?”
“Because I don't imagine any of those officers or men were returning of their own accord, or that they were bringing back valuable information from the rebel camp.”
Angus's mouth curled up at the corner. “I would be bringing back valuable information?”
Alex hesitated long enough to draw on his cigar. “I'm sure we can find something of merit. The prince has written enough memoranda in the past month alone to fill a warehouse. A few of them should prove interesting reading for Cumberland, if nothing else.”
Angus's wry smile faded quicker than it had appeared, and he stroked his thumb down the side of the tankard, tracing patterns in the tiny beads of condensation. “In truth, I have not had too much of a problem dealing with Hawley. It's the other two, Worsham and Garner, who watch me as if they would like to take my gizzard for their next meal.”
“Major
Hamilton
Garner?” Cameron asked with quiet curiosity.
Angus nodded, not looking up. “And Major Roger Worsham. Major headaches, the pair of them; both eager for promotion and favor within Cumberland's inner circle.”
“I don't think you'll have a problem winning Garner's confidence,” Cameron said, exchanging a glance with MacKail. “In fact, I would be willing to stake a considerable fortune on his becoming your closest friend and ally if you but tell him you and I spent time in the same room together.”
Angus started to frown, then remembered. “Ah, yes. He and your wife, Catherine, were … acquainted, were they not?”
“They were engaged, actually, until I won her off him in a duel.” He grinned through the smoking stub of his cigar. “Long story. In any case, let's just say that he and I have some unfinished business, and any information you bring him concerning my whereabouts will elevate you to the rank of champion.”
“I haven't agreed to anything yet,” Angus said.
“And you certainly do not have to, either”.'
The men looked up as Anne approached. She had come into the tavern so bundled in plaid, no one had paid her notice until she came near their darkened corner and pushed the tartan back to reveal the bright red hair beneath.
The men started to scrape to their feet, but she waved them down with an angry gesture that told Angus the flush in her cheeks was not all due to the cold.
“Did I hear you correctly? You want my husband to spy for you?”