Page 17 of Midnight Honor (Highland Wolves #3)

16

A ngus Moy arrived back in the Hanover camp in plenty of time to see General Henry Hawley riding hell-bent across the field, the large white square of what looked to be a dinner napkin flapping at his throat. Close on his heels were Majors Garner and Worsham, neither of whom brought his horse to a complete halt before they veered off in opposing directions to join their regiments.

The entire camp was in an uproar with men running hither and yon, yelling for horses, for muskets, for saddles, fastening buttons and strapping on leather neck stocks as they ran past. Rain was adding to the confusion. The storm had descended with a fury, bringing high winds and torrents of freezing rain throughout the morning. As the layer of snow on the ground turned to ice, the slopes became ever more treacherous, slippery with dead grass and bramble.

Earlier, MacGillivray's escort had left Angus a mile from the moor; it had taken him nearly two hours to struggle over the uneven terrain from there to the camp. Having been shocked by the sight of Highlanders pouring through the ravines and clambering up the slopes, he had been forced to periodically find cover while the men led by Lord George Murray had taken command of the high ground. Accomplishing the deed without firing a single shot, three regiments of men from Clan Donald had held the road open for the rest of the advancing Jacobite army to snake their way onto the moor, and by noon, with the Elector's troops still scrambling to button their stocks and find their ammunition loaves, Prince Charles was erecting his standard at the rear of the field. With the pipes skirling, the MacDonalds took their traditional place on the right of the battle line with their flanks protected by a morass of bogland. Occupying the far left were the Appin Stewarts and, in between, the Camerons, Frasers, MacPhersons, MacKenzies, and the lustily cheering men of Clan Chattan.

The second line was made up of seven more battalions, including Lord Elcho's Lifeguards, and three of Lord George's Atholl Brigade. Lord John Drummond's men formed up behind them in reserve. The only part of the master plan that had not gone according to dictates was the positioning of the heavy artillery. Led by the flamboyant Italian gunmaker, Count Fanducci, the cannon sank up to their carriage axles in the mud as soon as they left the road, and could not be coaxed up the unstable slope in spite of a steady stream of florid invectives.

When Angus heard the haunting strains of the MacKintosh piob' rachd , half of him wished he had the golden-maned MacGillivray standing beside him.

The other half prayed.

He had searched the moor, the ravine, the surrounding slope for a glimpse of Anne, but he had not seen her—not until the very last, when Hardy, at his wits' end, had been about to drag his master from the field to avoid being seen and shot out of hand.

Anne had ridden to the field with the men of Clan Chattan, but after securing their position on the battle line and delivering some words of encouragement, she had retreated reluctantly to the rear, where the prince stood with his royal guard. Angus prayed harder than he ever had in his life that she would remain there, surrounded by a phalanx of Highlanders whose sole responsibility it was to protect Charles Stuart and his entourage with their lives.

Three regiments of dragoons gained the moor first, followed by twelve battalions of Hawley's veteran frontline troops, with the general's artillery lagging well behind. Despite the far superior firepower of their heavy guns, they were able to haul only two four-pounders and one smaller “grape-thrower” that might just as well have been left in the bog.

The infantrymen were hardly better off. The rain soaked through their paper cartridges and wet their powder, so that when it came time to unleash their first volley, one in three muskets misfired.

Hawley was furious but not daunted. He put his faith in his dragoons and ordered the drums to beat, sending nearly three hundred mounted Horse into a full charge.

Facing them down, their lines holding steady, the Jacobites nervously fingered the triggers of their muskets, one eye on the thundering wall of approaching horseflesh, the other on Lord George Murray, who walked up and down the line encouraging the men to hold their positions, ordering them not to fire until he gave the signal. He, like every other clan chief, was fighting on foot that day.

He waited until the charging dragoons were ten yards away before raising his musket and signaling the steady line of clansmen to fire. In the deafening noise and smoke-filled discharge of a thousand guns, the dragoons balked. Their lines broke apart in wild confusion, with half their number dead in their saddles. Those who kept coming forward discovered why the Highlanders had remained so calm: Not twenty feet in front of their lines there was a deep rift in the ground that the rain and mist had obscured and where, lying in wait at the bottom of the trough, there were more Highlanders with pikes and clai' mórs ready to slash at the exposed undersides of the horses.

Hearing the screams of the startled soldiers who were pulled down out of the saddles and slashed to bloody ribbons, what was left of Hawley's cavalry turned and fled the field. Major Hamilton Garner, hatless and splattered with the bloody brains of a fellow officer, managed to turn a handful back through the threat of his own screams and slashing sword, but for the most part it was a repeat of their shameful performance at Prestonpans. So eager and desperate were the dragoons to clear the field, they trampled back through the advancing ranks of their own infantry, causing an even greater crush of confusion and panic.

On the left, the Highland regiments led by the Camerons, the Appin Stewarts, and the MacKintoshes took aim and discharged their muskets in response to the first full volley of Hawley's infantrymen. As the general had boasted, the line was impressive, once assembled. Their tunics glowed scarlet through the haze of rain, providing well-marked targets between the stiff white leather of their neck stocks and the tall white spatterdash gaiters.

By contrast, the Highlanders in their muted plaids and plain woolen coats blended into the browns and grays of the surrounding moorland, and with nothing to aim at, most of the royalist volleys went wild.

As was their habit, the clansmen threw down their spent weapons and ran forward, the air filled with the centuries-old battle cries that had carried their ancestors to meet their fate. When what remained of the Hanover front line saw them charging out of the mist and smoke, their broadswords raised overhead, the infantry was not far behind the dragoons in breaking rank. As they ran they took the second line with them, and General Hawley found himself staring aghast at a sea of red uniforms spilling down the slopes and rushing down the road toward the camp.

They ran by in clusters of forties and fifties, fleeing without a care for the muskets they left behind, the ammunition packs they flung from their belts, the stocks they tore off and cast aside. They ran for safety in the streets of Falkirk, and when that was not deemed to be far enough, they kept running, all the way to Linlithgow, ten miles away.

Not everyone fled the field in a panic. Lord George's Athollmen, with the Camerons and MacKintoshes fighting alongside, encountered several regiments who were determined to stand and fight. A squad of government troops attempted to circle around behind Lord George in a flanking maneuver, hoping to catch his men in a crossfire. MacGillivray saw this and shouted the rallying cry of “Loch Moy,” calling for the men of Clan Chattan to veer off and charge to the rescue .

His long legs scything through the bramble and frozen grass, MacGillivray led his men into a headlong confrontation with the Elector's troops. He went in with his clai' mór at the ready, hacking and slashing in great sweeping motions that sliced through flesh and bone as if neither was of any substance. A pocket of infantrymen had the presence of mind to mount a volley and John felt a prick in his thigh, two more in his calf and rib. He shook them off as annoying stings, but something else caught the corner of his eye and took him by such surprise he tripped over a fallen clansman and went tumbling down into a shallow ditch.

Robbie Farquharson saw MacGillivray pitch headlong and bloodied into a culvert, but he had no time to stop. He ran alongside his twin, their two swords carving a fearsomely gory swath through the English lines. Eneas was close on their heels, as was Gilles MacBean, the stocky Highlander spattered in blood and mud from head to foot.

The English faltered, turned, and found the Camerons closing down on them like a swarm of demons from hell. In a body, the Elector's troops threw down their muskets and thrust their hands high in surrender, some of them squeezing their eyes tightly shut and bursting into tears in anticipation of feeling limbs hacked from their bodies.

Alexander Cameron shouted in time to stop his men from doing exactly that, but it did not prevent them from slapping out with the flats of their swords, spitting and hurling insults, especially when it was discovered that some of the captured troops were in the Royal Scots brigades.

With the lot of them surrendered and surrounded, Gilles MacBean doubled over at the waist to catch his breath. He was not yet fully recovered from his drinking contest with Struan MacSorley the previous night and when he turned green enough that it looked as if he might actually vomit, it gave the other men a reason to laugh.

All except Robbie, who turned and stared back into the sulfurous mist.

“What is it, lad?” Aluinn MacKail asked, clapping him soundly on the shoulder. “The bastards are in flight. We have won the day. Why are you wearing such a long face?”

“’Tis The MacGillivray. He were caught in that last crossfire, God preserve him, an' now it's that balky he could bleed tae death afore we find him.”

“Aye, well, God preserve yerself, lad,” MacGillivray said, limping up behind him out of the mist and rain. “I've no need of His aid just yet. Someone else might well beg it though, by the by.”

He dragged his arm forward, sending Anne Moy MacKintosh sprawling across the wet ground. She had lost her bonnet and her braid hung wet down her back. Her fountainous lace jabot had been flung away in the mud. There was blood on her face, on the gleaming length of her sword.

“What the bluidy Christ—?” Eneas pushed his brothers aside and strode forward, offering his cousin no helping hand as she clambered to her feet again. “Where did ye come from? Were ye not told tae stay back wi' the prince's guard?”

“I was told to stay with Granda, which is what I did. When he ran onto the field, I had no choice but to follow. Besides, ye really did not expect me just to sit and watch,” she said, her blue eyes sparkling with defiance. “Not when I can outshoot, outfight, outride the lot of ye!”

MacGillivray snatched up a fistful of her jacket and spun her around to face him. He had caught a glimpse of her through the downpour and not been able to believe his eyes. Even worse, when he had gone down, it was a shot from Anne's pistol that had stopped an English soldier from plunging a bayonet into his unprotected back.

“Ye're the wife o' the clan chief, for pity's sake,” he hissed.

“Aye, that I am. I am also colonel of this regiment, and I'll not sit comfortably under a canvas tent sipping wine and nibbling on sweetmeats while the brave men of my clan fight and die!”

John tightened his fist, drawing her so close she could feel the heat of his steamy breath on her cheek. He was angry enough to throttle her, a sentiment obviously not shared by her cousins, who whooped and tossed their sodden bonnets in the air, giving their answer plain enough, praising her courage. They scooped her out of MacGillivray's clutches and propped her on their shoulders, prancing around in maniacal circles until she grew dizzy from laughing and called for relief.

None of the English prisoners were amused. Huddled together in a forlorn clump, they burned hot enough with shame without discovering there had been a woman on the battlefield. They had heard rumors of a flame-haired Amazon traveling in the prince's camp, but until now had assumed it was just that: rumors. Knowing no decent Englishwoman would be caught within several miles of a battlefield, they reasoned this one must be half man, half whore, but it still did little to soothe their battered pride.

They would remember her.

To a man, they would remember her.

That memory was to be embellished and emblazoned on the minds of a good many more prisoners when Anne rode through the British camp on her huge gray gelding to surveyed the havoc. The prince had arrived a few moments earlier and had not only commandeered Hawley's tent but had found the general's personal valet cowering in a corner and ordered him to fetch wine and victuals from the officer's private stock in order that they might celebrate the full extent of their victory.

The Hanover army, in full flight, had abandoned their camp, leaving nearly all the tents and equipment, fourteen heavy artillery pieces, and a considerable quantity of ammunition, all of which was in short supply in the Jacobite army.

Charles Stuart, suffering the lingering effects of a terrible chest cold, was happiest to discover Hawley had a fondness for French brandy. He was on his third glass when Anne and MacGillivray rode up, leading their prisoners in a straggled column behind them. Only Lochiel and Lord George had proved tardy thus far in joining the prince to celebrate; they were still snapping at the heels of the fleeing English, insisting the victory would be moot if Hawley's army was allowed to escape and reappear another day.

Charles Stuart's soft brown eyes widened, however, when he saw his ' belle rebelle' enter the crowded tent, her clothing rain-soaked and spattered with the evidence of her further rebellion. He had been so involved in watching the battle unfold from his vantage point on the moor that he had not noticed her slip away.

“Good God,” he declared when she rose from her curtsy. “Do you mean to say you disobeyed a direct order from your prince?”

“Ye never actually ordered me to remain by your side, Your Highness,” she demurred. “I could clearly see the battle had turned in our favor—" a statement that won a glare from MacGillivray— “and thought only to be with my clansmen at their moment of triumph.”

The prince started coughing into a lace handkerchief. Although his face flushed a dark red, he waved away the concerns of his two advisors, O'Sullivan and Thomas Sheridan, neither of whom had ventured out from beneath canvas coverings long enough to dampen their wigs.

When the fit passed, he sank back into Hawley's wooden camp chair and took a long draught of brandy.

“If this is what victory feels like,” he gasped, only half in jest, “I should hate to envision defeat.”

“Your Highness—” O'Sullivan began.

“Yes, yes, I know. This infernal dampness does not improve matters overmuch, and I should find my way back to bed at once. But dammit, man, there are certain pleasures we cannot set aside simply because we do not feel up to indulging in them. Our evening meal, for instance, will be at Hawley's table with Hawley's food served on Hawley's china plate. A petty gratification, perhaps, to gloat at the table of the man who declared me an incompetent wastrel, but there you have it.” He glanced up at Anne, sparing a flicker of the eye to note the clods of mud attached to her boots. “And you, my dear. Apart from a hot bath, what would give you the greatest satisfaction at this moment?”

“Me, Highness?” She shifted her weight self-consciously from one foot to the other. “I am content enough to know your pleasure. However, I would beg one small favor if I may.”

He waved his hand. “Name it.”

“I would ask of your officers if they have had word of… of my husband's regiment.” She looked around at the gathering of chiefs and lairds, most of whom had come bloodied from the field, and thought she saw one or two of them smirk in co ntempt. By the time the prisoners had been disarmed and marched back to camp, it had been too late to search the moor. If Angus had fallen, if he lay bleeding on the cold, wet ground, morning might come too late.

Angus's regiment had been attached to General Keppel, and they had been directly across the field from Anne's MacKintoshes.

“I would beg leave to go back and search, if—”

The prince held up his hand, cutting off her plea. While the royal hand was still upraised, he wiggled two of the slender fingers at someone standing beside the door of the tent. Anne turned in time to see Alexander Cameron lift the flap of canvas. He stepped aside to let another man come in out of the rain—this one with dark chestnut hair plastered flat to his brow and neck, and clear gray eyes that sought Anne's at once and held them fast.

Aware of the warlike chiefs watching her every move, she did not run and fling herself into her husband's arms as she so longed to do. Instead, she kept her face clear and her movements calm as she walked slowly toward him, her gaze sweeping the length of his body long enough to note both arms and legs were intact, and he was in possession of all his appendages. There was a gash on his chin that stalled her breath for a moment, but his eyes were clear and steady, locked on hers with the same intensity she suspected was in her own.

“I am that glad to see ye survived the day, Captain,” she said softly.

A muscle shivered in Angus's cheek before he squared his shoulders and slowly withdrew his sword. Holding it flat by the blade and hilt, he presented it to his wife in the acknowledged manner of a formal surrender.

“Your servant… Colonel,” he murmured, then with a growl under his breath added, “And may I say: most surprisingly so.”

“Quite right,” said the prince, his voice petulant. “Now if you will offer me your parole, sir, I will accept it and we may get on with more pleasant matters.”

Angus hesitated fractionally before stepping past his wife and approaching the royal scion. He went down on one knee and bowed his head. “I offer my word, Your Highness, and my pledge not to take up further arms against your cause.”

“I confess you were a great disappointment to me, MacKintosh. I had hoped I could count you among my dearest friends.” When Angus made no response, he waved his hand again. “Rise. Your word as an officer and gentleman is accepted.”

“May I beg leave, to tend my husband's wound?” Anne asked.

Another flutter of the lace handkerchief dismissed them and they exited the tent together, neither one exchanging a word as they mounted their horses and rode back through the camp. The rain had turned to snow; by the time they returned to St. Ninians, it was full dark, and they were both chilled through to the bone. The escort of Highlanders left them at the cottage and took the horses away to be fed and stabled. The fire had been left untended, the ashes were cold and gray, but before Anne could even divest herself of her jacket, the slamming of the door behind her brought the heat of a blush to her cheeks.

Angus was leaning against the door. He was hatless, and had been during the entire ride from Falkirk. His ears were as red as his nose; the dark locks of his hair were scattered every which way, some curling forward over his cheeks, some trailing down over the collar of his tunic. The icy, appraising gray of his eyes held her steadfast, breaking away only once in the ensuing small eternity of ticking seconds to stare at the floor a moment before looking back up.

“I was under the impression, when I left here this morning, that I had your promise, your word of honor, if you will, that you would not set foot upon the battlefield.”

Trying the same tack she had used with the prince, Anne moistened her lips and attempted to defuse her husband's quiet wrath. “I was only trying to keep watch over Granda'. And I never actually gave my word, not in so many words.”

“And you think that absolves you of any blame for your actions?”

“It is the same excuse ye gave in explaining why ye did not declare for the prince.”

“Do not attempt to use my own words or logic against me, madam,” he warned, pushing away from the door. “Or to twist them to suit your own purposes. You know damned well your place was not on that field today. You know damned well what could have happened.”

“Indeed,” she answered calmly. “Granda' might have been killed. I thought the risk worth taking.”

Angus's chest swelled as he took several measured breaths. His hands clenched into fists and the knuckles turned pink, then white, as he debated whether or not to strangle her now and be done with it. In the end, he came forward and took her face between his hands, drawing her into a hard and forceful embrace that lasted far longer than reason or sanity decreed. His mouth was bruising, almost brutal, his body clearly aroused when he scooped her into his arms and deposited her summarily on the bed.

With their mouths still joined, his hands fumbled at lacings and closures and in a few feverish moments, his kilt was raised, her trews were stripped away, and his arms were hooked beneath her knees, raising them so that she was completely open to the heat and hardness of his body. He plunged savagely and repeatedly between her thighs, thrusting deep enough to shock them both as the heat poured from his body into hers and kept pulsing, strong and swift, until there was nothing left but the quiet pants of repletion.

“You realize,” he gasped when he could, “that I would be more than justified in beating you blue for disregarding the orders both MacGillivray and I gave you. I could tie you hand and foot to a wagon and send you home with ten men strong enough to keep you locked in a turnip bin if need be.”

Anne swallowed hard. She was bent almost in half, her knees pinned to her shoulders, and the image of being stuffed into a vegetable bin struck her as being a terrifyingly funny threat after all she had been through that day.

“Have you nothing to say? No clever witticisms? No sarcastic rebuttals?”

She curled her bottom lip between her teeth and shook her head. The rest of her body began to shake, bringing Angus's head up off her shoulder.

“Are you mocking me, madam?”

A great, glorious peal of laughter burst from her lips. “Never, my lord husband. I would never mock ye for thinking of turnips at a time like this, not when my leg is cramping and the buttons on your damned Sassenach uniform are leaving imprints of your battalion crest on my belly.”

Cursing softly, he carefully extricated himself and sat upright. There he was, chastising her for her outlandish behavior, yet his own had undergone so many changes of late—many that were so astoundingly out of character he did not know whether to be disgusted or amused by this latest display of crudeness.

“Forgive me. I… I do not know what came over me.”

“The same thing that came over me last night,” she said, touching his arm. “I believe the common folk call it lust.”

He leaned forward and cradled his head in his hands. “Is that supposed to make me feel better, knowing I have lost all self control?”

She rose up onto her knees beside him and rested her cheek on his shoulder. “Why should ye be any different from me, my lord? Ye've only ever needed to smile or crook your finger at me and I can barely stand.”

He stopped short of snorting, but only just. “Me crook my finger? One look from you, madam, the smallest touch, the faintest scent of your hair or skin, and I am reduced to a randy schoolboy stumbling about on three legs. Even now, as angry as I am, as angry as I should be, all I can think of is being inside you again. It is as if I cannot get enough of you. As if I am afraid I will never get enough of you.”

"Is that such a terrible thing?" Anne smoothed a dark lock of his hair off his cheek, tucking it tenderly behind his ear. She cupped his cheek in her hand and gently forced him to turn his head, to look at her. “And I wonder: Will ye still feel that way a dozen years from now?”

“Those words will be on my lips with the last breath I draw on this earth,” he whispered tautly, “and the first I take in eternity.”

Trembling, Anne drew him down onto the bed again. “I am so very glad, my lord, for I will never tire of hearing ye say them. ”

At almost the same time Anne was welcoming Angus back into her arms, General Henry Hawley raised his sword and brought it slashing down with out preamble or sentiment. He was trembling as well, but out of rage, not pleasure; with contempt, not anticipation. He stood in the market square of Linlithgow, the snow falling thick as wool shearings over the bowed heads of every officer who still possessed enough sense to have answered the general's summons. To Hawley's immediate left was a long, sturdy tree trunk that had been chopped down and denuded of its branches before being suspended from the corners of two buildings. From this makeshift gibbet the bodies of fourteen men jerked and twisted at the ends of their ropes, their lives forfeit on the downstroke of Hawley's blade.

Most of them were dragoons whose names had been put forward by a choleric Major Hamilton Garner. Another score waited hatless, their tunics stripped of any identifiable rank or rating, their hands bound behind their backs. When the macabre dance of their comrades ceased, they too would be summarily hoisted above the solemn crowd by way of demonstrating the extent of Hawley's outrage and disgust.

“Cowards!” he screamed. “Cowards and curs! Look well on these fornicating dogs, for they are no better than the dung they left behind in their haste to desert their posts! Was there ever an army so rife with yellow bellies and miscreants! Was there ever a general so cursed, so shamed, so humiliated, so completely appalled by the character of his troops! Hang them! Hang them all, by God, for they are not worth the powder it would take to shoot them! Powder, I might add, that we no longer have in any adequate supply since every godforsaken piece of equipment, fourteen heavy artillery pieces, and ammunition was left behind for the enemy to enjoy!”

Winded by the fury of his diatribe, Hawley paced to the end of the raised boardwalk and, having no other immediate outlet for his rage, broke his sword over the head of the nearest man.

“I want names,” he raged at his officers, his chest heaving, his mouth flecked with spittle. “I want the names of every man in every regiment who turned and ran. I want them flogged! I want their skin flayed and hanging in shreds, and I want them left on the racks so that every soldier who sees them will know the consequences of cowardice in my army! I want them to know,” he screamed, “that in future, death on the battlefield will be a thousand times preferable to dereliction or dishonor! Never think … never think for one foolish moment that I will hesitate to hang the lot of you if you fail me again! Now go! Get out of my sight! You disgust me!”

He strode off the end of the walk and stormed away into the darkness, leaving the officers shaken and silent enough to hear the heavy flakes of snow falling around them. As the bodies of the first hanged men were cut down and new ones pushed forward to take their place, those who had been lucky enough to avoid the worst of Hawley's wrath began to slink away.

Hamilton Garner was one of the few who lingered, as was Major Worsham, both of whom had found redress on the battlefield following their inauspicious departure from Callendar House.

Both men were wounded. Garner stood with his hand pressed over a slashed rib, his face gray with the pain. Worsham's cheek had been sliced open to the bone and his left arm hung limp and nerveless by his side. The injuries to both men had been hastily bandaged by a surgeon stained to his elbows with other men's blood, but he dared not detain them for a proper stitching until the general's spleen had been vented.

The opening Jacobite volley had shattered the resolve of the dragoons; less than half an hour later, the government forces had been in full flight. It was impossible at this time to even begin to know the tally of dead, wounded, or captured, for there were surely those who were still running and would keep on running until they were certain they would never be found again.

Worsham had no qualms about hanging deserters or cowards. It was a harsh fact of army life that any man who signed his name to the roster was giving his oath to obey the orders of his superiors regardless of whether he agreed or disagreed with the execution. Any man who violated that oath did so at his own peril.

There were also men who'd had no intention of fighting at all. They had formed up in their ranks and they had marched onto the field, but once there, they had crouched down to avoid the heated fusillades and, when those had passed, had run across the moor and joined their Highland clansmen. Worsham had shot one such man just as he was about to hand off Pulteney's regimental colors to a kinsman in the Jacobite ranks.

The MacKintosh contingent was a fine example of this attrition. Most had deserted on the march from Edinburgh, but of the handful who remained to take the field that day, not one had returned to his regiment. Their chief, Angus Moy, had not been seen since forming up on the field, and Worsham sincerely hoped, for the bastard's own sake, that he was lying among the dead on Falkirk Moor.

He closed his eyes against the sharpening agony in his arm and reached into the pocket of his waistcoat for the small packet of powder the surgeon had given him to dull the pain. He had only taken a few grains the first time, cautioned that too much would render him so free of pain he would think he could fly from the rooftops. He measured out more this time, holding it on his tongue until he could reach one-handed for a flask of wine confiscated from one of the condemned men. The powder was bitter and it required several swallows to wash away the worst of the taste. What remained was a dry metallic taint that coated the back of his throat, not unlike the taste of blood.

And, oddly enough, not unlike the aftertaste left by the dinner wine served to them the previous evening at Callendar House.

He dismissed the thought, attributing it to his own state of near exhaustion. He looked into the swollen face of one of the last men to stop twitching and recognized him as the young corporal who polished his boots each night.

Now that was a genuine waste, for he had been the only man able to polish the boots to a satisfactorily high gloss.