Page 24 of Midnight Honor (Highland Wolves #3)

23

C harles Stuart made his headquarters at Culloden House, a short mile from the moor. Having been apprised by his scouts that Cumberland's cook-fires were in full bloom at Nairn and the soldiers showed no signs of marching out that day, he gladly took the opportunity to ride up and down the field, a heroic figure in his scarlet-and-blue tunic. He brandished a jeweled sword overhead as if victory had already been declared, posturing for the men who stood freezing in their ranks, watching him.

It was late afternoon before the prince conceded and agreed that his cousin was not coming to answer his challenge that day. By then the men were too cold and tired to care. Some had cheered their prince until their throats were raw, others had simply stared and wondered if all royalty was a little mad. They were hungry. Most of them had rushed onto the field without so much as a biscuit to break their fast. They wandered back to the parks around Culloden and huddled under what shelter their plaids could provide, or roamed farther into Inverness, where they begged scraps from angry townspeople who blamed them for the false alarm.

The few tents erected on the grounds of Culloden House quickly filled with chiefs and lairds who held heated debates over their prince's choice for a battlefield. Drummossie was flat and treeless, and would afford no protection against Cumberland's artillery. Lord George had found a field a couple of miles to the east that was pitted with bogs and hills, far more adaptable to the Highlanders' way of fighting and far less friendly to heavy guns and disciplined rows of trained soldiers. But his efforts to persuade the prince to change his mind failed and on one of the few occasions since the campaign began, the dejected general was overheard to say: “We have lost, gentlemen. God save us all.”

With nothing to be gained by spending a cold, hungry night out in the dampness, MacGillivray tried equally hard to persuade Anne to return to Moy Hall, but she would have none of it. Nor would she accept the invitation from the prince to dine with him or stay at Culloden House, making the excuse that it was her duty, in her capacity as colonel of the regiment, to remain with her men and keep their spirits high. It was only an urgent summons from Alexander Cameron that brought her away from the barn where a large body of MacKintosh men had taken shelter. Since she was still addressed as “Colonel Anne” by most of the lairds, she supposed another endless round of debates and arguments had begun. Naturally, for such mundane things as diplomacy, MacGillivray had made himself scarce.

Cursing her captain's selective nature—and secretly envying it—Anne tramped through the light drizzle that had begun to fall. The ground had been churned to mud and the wind was shaking the trees with a frosty hand, a harsh reminder that winter was not completely out of the air. The clouds were low and there were no stars, no moon; no pipes played and no singing echoed around the campfires. It was a quiet, forlorn contrast from the night before the battle at Falkirk and Anne shivered herself deeper into her plaid as she walked.

The twins, who had escorted her from the barn, melted away with the aplomb of their golden-haired captain after delivering her to the designated tent. Anne heard voices inside and refrained from sighing before she ducked beneath the canvas. Cameron was there along with his two brothers, Lochiel and Dr. Archibald. Aluinn MacKail was off to one side with Lord John Drummond and another tall Highlander. Leaning over a lamplit table, his hands braced to support his weight, was Lord George Murray .

A gust of wind came into the tent with Anne, causing him to look up from the maps he was studying. A corner of the topmost paper fluttered and curled back; the flame inside the glass candle shuddered and gave off a thin plume of black smoke.

“Lady Anne. I see Monaltrie found you; I trust we have not taken you away from anything important.”

Lord George's voice was completely devoid of any sarcasm, and she had no reason to suspect he was anything but tired and frustrated.

“I was just trying to stay warm and dry,” she said with a faint smile. “If that would be considered important.”

“I vow both sensations have become completely foreign to me, so yes. I would regard both as being crucial. Come in, my dear, come in.” Lord George waved her closer to the small brazier that was glowing near the center of the tent. “Warm yourself. I'm afraid there is nothing so humble as a dry crust to offer, but lest we be accused of having forsaken our manners altogether,” he addressed one of the other men, “have we something the Lady Anne might sit on?”

Since no one else was sitting and they were surely twice as tired as she, Anne shook her head. “I have no need of a—” She lifted her hand in a staying gesture as the Highlander standing with MacKail turned and she saw his face.

“Ahh.” Lord George followed her startled gaze. “Yes, I suppose that was cruel of us not to warn you beforehand, but even a whisper these days seems to spread like a roar. Angus … come and let your wife pinch you so she knows you are real.”

Angus Moy hesitated as long as it took him to give his woolen bonnet a twist in his hands, then came forward into the brighter light. Since Anne had seen him last, the circles around his eyes had deepened, his face was shadowed with stubble, and the rags he wore would have been better suited to a beggar.

“You look well, Colonel,” he murmured.

“Whereas ye look dreadful, Captain. Have they no barbers in the king's army?”

That caused an eyebrow or two to lift in surprise, since the last thing she was expected to notice was the unkempt shagginess of his hair. Another man's wife might have remarked first upon the long, ragged cut that ran from just below his left ear and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. The wound was no more than an hour or two old, still leaking fresh blood where it was chafed by the wool of his plaid.

“Perhaps you would like that seat now?” Lord George asked.

She still had her knees, but experience told her that her husband's presence in camp did not bode well. “Aye, thank ye. I feel I may have need for it after all."

“You have undoubtedly been apprised of the reason Cumberland kept his army at home today?”

“I heard tell it was the duke's birthday?”

“Indeed. He gifted his army with a day of warming their toes by their fires, toasting their valiant general's health with half a pint of brandy apiece. Would that I could even remember the taste of fine French brandy, never mind think to spill it down the throat of a common batman. Ah, well. Envy does not win us battles, does it? The way I see it, gentlemen—and Colonel—is that we should thank whatever God we pray to that the battle did not happen today. More men arrived late this afternoon, and Keppoch sends word he is but a few hours away. What is more, the duke may inadvertently have given us the opportunity we need to turn this fiasco into a victory. See here,” he said, leaning over the map again. A long, slender finger touched on the black marking that denoted their present position, then followed a smudge of charcoaled lines to where a second mark identified Nairn.

“I have been told that this is in reality a long wynde that follows the river well to the south of Drummossie and comes out surprisingly close to Cumberland's camp.”

He looked up for confirmation and Anne realized it was one of the maps she had drawn of the area. “Aye, my lord. Passable in summer, but it is low ground, doubtless flooded now with the spring thaw.”

“But usable?”

“Not easily.”

The general's smile was crooked. “Have we done one thing easy thus far? It is my intention to set a proposition before the prince. I am going to press that we attempt a flanking move, leading the army out by two columns, dispatching one here—" his finger tapped the area east of Nairn—“and one here to the west, thereby taking the English camp between us in a pincer that would allow Cumberland nowhere to retreat but into the sea. If the action is conducted in stealth and surprise, we might just be able to catch them nursing their hangovers and yawning over their morning fires.”

“A night march along a boggy riverbank?” Lochiel said, frowning. “Christ, but, ma men have gone without sleep for two days as it is.”

Lord George straightened. “The choice, as I see it, is to draw on our reserves or be prepared to line up on that damned moor again in the morning. The only possible advantage we can hope to gain at this point is surprise, and surprise will require a night march. It is roughly twelve miles from here to there; we could cover it easily enough in, say, four hours. Military etiquette aside, if we catch them abed or drunk as beggars, it can only go in our favor. Angus, you say his artillery park is facing west, toward us?”

“They point the guns in the direction they intend to march.”

“Then it would behoove our vanguard to attack that position first and remove any possibility of their catching us in a crossfire. Alex, I hate to ask …?”

Alexander Cameron merely smiled. It had been solely due to his rash heroics and those of his clansmen that the government artillery had been silenced at Prestonpans. A hundred men had charged a battery of forty guns and captured them, but at a terrible cost in brave lives.

“How many?” The question was directed at Angus.

“Ten three-pounder battalion guns, four signal-pieces.”

Cameron pursed his lips and exchanged a glance with his brother Lochiel. “We will take Fanducci with us; he has brought us luck before.”

“Which leaves only one other satin-clad prima dona to deal with,” Lord George said wryly. “John?”

Lord Drummond sighed. “Aye. Ye're saddlin' me with the prince?”

“Unless you would rather he come in my column, in which case you would have to retrieve him after the battle, buried up to his neck in a bog and left by the side of the road.”

“Och, he's no' that bad. If ye flatter him all the blessit day long an' tell him ye like the cut of his tunic.”

“Then the only question remaining is guides. We will need men who know the wynde like they know their own bodies. With the mist we have tonight, there are too many chances for error.”

“MacGillivray and MacBean,” Anne said at once. “They practically own the river. My cousins and me as well; we grew up—" she ventured a finger forth and touched the map— “here. Right where the wynde splits away from the bog. John can take the first column; we can lead the second.”

It was Angus this time, his objection halfway off his tongue, who forced himself to remain quiet. Just as Anne had refrained from crying out with wifely concern over the gash in his neck, he respected the sense of desperation in the group and held his fear in check … for the moment.

The general rolled up his maps. “I will take the final proposal to the prince, with the approval of those whose opinions matter, and put it to him in such a way as to leave him no options. I suggest you return to your clans and prepare them for an immediate departure. Angus, I thank you for the final count, and you may consider you have the grateful thanks of the entire army for the risks you have taken. I will have an escort waiting outside to take you back when you are ready. Unless, of course—?”

Angus shook his head, answering the unasked question. Lord George nodded to acknowledge his decision—and his courage—then signaled the rest of the chiefs to give Angus and Anne a few moments of privacy. Angus barely waited for the flap to drop over the door before he tossed his bonnet down on the table and gathered his wife into his arms.

When the first order of business was settled to a mutual, bruising satisfaction, he tackled the second. “I suppose it is my own fault. In the list of promises I extracted from you, I neglected to specify ‘and do not volunteer to lead an army through a bog in the middle of the night.’”

“And you, my lord husband.” She touched the side of his neck, able to show her horror now at how close the cut lay along the jugular. “I suppose ye earned this while ye were copying out lists?”

“My visit tonight had not been prearranged, so I did not know the proper response to give the sentry. He held his knife to my throat with a little more enthusiasm than was warranted, though not as much as might have been displayed had I not been able to produce my brooch and prove I was who I claimed to be.”

“I thought ye were in Skye with Lord Loudoun.”

“I was. Until three days ago, anyway. It seems Cumberland put in a ‘special request’ for myself and a dozen other prominent lairds. He wants all the Highland companies in the front line—and that is not the worst of it. He has deliberately chosen officers with no conscience, like Hawley, and given them command of battalions led by brutes and butchers. I have seen things of late that have left me sick at heart. Men hanged for simply stating their opinion. Women raped because they happened along the road and were wearing the plaid. Farms burned and livestock slaughtered for sport. They call the Scots barbarians, then turn around and disembowel a man for refusing to take a penny for his daughter's virtue. Just yesterday, a thirteen-year-old boy was accused—just accused, mind, not proven—of spying, and was hanged. He swung for over ten minutes before he died; all the while the duke's men took wagers. Another man was given a hundred lashes in the morning and made to stand his post at night or receive a hundred more. These are the men who want to bring the Highlands to heel, to make them bow to English discipline and order.”

“Then what can ye possibly hope to accomplish by going back? Ye're only one man, for pity's sake.”

“Prince Frederick was only one man, yet he has refused to allow his Hessians to fight under such barbaric conditions. Perhaps there are more. Perhaps there are enough of us to stop the bloody sword of Damocles before it descends.”

Anne was not entirely sure who Damocles was, but if Angus feared him, it did not bode well. “Ye sound as if ye do not believe we can prevail.”

“My belief, my faith has already been shown to be a poor thing next to yours.” He sighed and took her face between his hands. “I suppose the best I can hope for at this juncture is that you will trust MacGillivray and take your lead from him. If he says it is lost, believe him and run. Run for your sake and for mine. Will you promise me this?”

The tremor in his voice, in his hands frightened her, and she nodded. “I will trust MacGillivray. I will do as he says.”

Even that much was a blessing and he closed his eyes, angling his mouth down to capture hers. The kiss was tender and poignant and conveyed a wealth of emotion in a simple gesture that had to end far too soon.

“I must go. If Lord George prevails with the prince, I may be of some help at the other end.” He hesitated a moment, then reached under his coat, withdrawing a silver brooch embedded with a large cairngorm, engraved with the MacKintosh motto: Touch not the cat bot a glove. “Take this. It is only fitting that the Colonel of Clan Chattan wear the proper badge of office.”

She said nothing as he pinned the badge solemnly to her plaid, but when he was finished, she slipped her arms up and around his shoulders, burying her face in his neck, breathing in the scent of his hair, his skin.

“Swear to me,” she pleaded softly, “that ye will steer well clear of this General Damocles.”

Angus drew a breath into lungs that were almost too tight to allow it, then claimed her lips one more time before easing her to arm's length.

“I shall avoid him like the plague, my love,” he vowed, “and be back in your arms before you know it.”

But she knew it already. She felt the loss before he had even left the tent.

Angus Moy returned to Nairn along the same route the Jacobite army would be taking, following the river east and circling up behind the encampment. A sentry saw him approaching along the road and stepped away from the guard tent to challenge him, but Angus knew the password and said it so sharply the lad lowered his musket and moved aside.

The wind had died down and the mist cloaked everything in a murky haze. Lanthorns hanging on tent posts took on the look of yellow eyes as he passed the battalion streets. Like everything in the English army, those streets were laid out in neat, straight rows of peaked canvas, stretching off into the distant darkness. There were so many. Twelve battalions of Foot, three regiments of cavalry, and an artillery train all grouped in their orderly squares around the central headquarters of Balblair House, where Cumberland and his most senior generals were billeted. There were also eight companies of Scots militia, most of them sent by Argyle, men who would have no reservations about fighting their kilted kinsmen.

Bullocks had been slaughtered earlier in the day to provide meat in honor of the duke's birthday, and the mist still smelled of the sweet roastings. Angus had not eaten anything since early morning. Having seen the condition of the Jacobite camp, knowing Anne would have stubbornly refused to take more than the same biscuit her men had been rationed, he had no appetite. Here and there sporadic bursts of laughter cut through the air, a sound that had been noticeably absent in the Stuart camp, and although he guessed it must be past midnight, a few of the campfires had solemn circles of men around them.

Balblair House was ablaze with lights. It sat atop a hill like a crown jewel, sparkling through the dark mist. Cumberland was likely playing at cards with a pretty woman by his side, a favorite pastime for someone who had banned gambling and women from the company tents. Angus had been told the duke had taken to smiling a great deal at Adrienne de Boule, which did not sit well with Major Worsham. But William was the king's son, portly and disagreeable though he might be, and royal scions were notorious for simply taking what they wanted if it pleased them.

Turning into his own row of tents, Angus dismounted and handed the reins off to a private. It had taken him nearly two hours to traverse the distance between the two camps, and his horse was muddied to the base of his neck for his troubles. The ground was so soft and spongy in places, he'd had to circle well out of his way, and he could only wonder how men on foot would manage. They must have departed Culloden by now. Even adding for the extra time it might take to circumvent the worst of the boggy terrain, Angus guessed they would not arrive before three or four o'clock in the morning. He had been cautioned that when the fighting erupted, he should stay in his tent if that was at all possible, or if not, to pin the white cockade prominently on his plaid to avoid being run through by another eager Highlander.

Smiling grimly to himself, he touched the cut on the side of his neck. His fingers came away dotted with blood, and he realized he would have to bandage it before the constant rubbing of his collar managed to do what the knife had not.

He lifted the flap on the tent and stepped inside, freezing just the other side of the pole. His cot was in disarray, his kit opened and the contents strewn about the blankets. A lamp was lit, but the wick was turned so low he had not noticed the glow against the canvas outside. It was barely bright enough to illuminate the figure seated in the corner, or the long, thin nose and pointed chin that identified Major Roger Worsham.

“Captain MacKintosh. I was beginning to think you were never coming back.”

Angus glanced pointedly at his upturned kit. “So you thought you would ransack my personal possessions?”

“No. I merely did not trouble myself to replace them this time.”

If he was expecting an indignant protest, he was disappointed. More than once Angus had opened his kit to find things slightly out of place, as if the contents of the trunk had been searched and carefully put back in order. He had been assigned a new subaltern, Ewen MacCardle, to act as his personal aide, but even though the man was no Robert Hardy, he was not so sloppy as to forget from one day to the next that Angus preferred his shirts laid top to bottom, not side to side.

In truth, he did not give a hang how his shirts were packed, but after the first incident when he suspected his belongings had been thoroughly searched, he had expressed the preference to MacCardle, who had been obliging ever since.

Angus stripped off his gloves. “Find anything that interested you? Dirty laundry? Unpolished buttons? A commendation from Charles Stuart, perhaps, applauding me for my loyalty to his father?”

Worsham's eyes narrowed. “You make light of these things, MacKintosh, but I get the distinct feeling there is more truth behind your words than brevity. Where were you tonight, for instance?”

“My personal time is my own, sir. I do not have to answer to you.”

“Would you prefer to answer to the duke?”

“I would prefer it if you removed yourself from my tent so I could get some sleep.” He turned away from the major and shrugged his plaid off his shoulders. “It has been a long day and the muster is for four-thirty, if I'm not mistaken.”

Worsham tipped his head to the side. “You seem to have cut yourself, Captain.”

Angus instinctively touched a finger to his neck. “Yes. It … was an accident. My own carelessness.”

“It looks painful. I am surprised your wife did not dress it for you.”

“She had other things on her mind.” He stopped and clamped his lips together, barely refraining from cursing out loud.

Worsham, of course, was smiling. It had been too, too easy.

“It is a shame, really. You were doing rather well up until now. Even tonight, riding off in the direction of Kingsteps and waiting in the forest for an hour. My tracker, Hugh MacDugal, grew quite impatient and nearly showed himself.”

“I wanted to see my wife. Is that a crime?”

“It is when she is a colonel in the rebel army, and when you spend nearly an hour in the company of Lord George Murray before your wife is even aware of your presence in the camp. It is when you have been passing documents and dispatches through Adrienne de Boule for the past several months, helping her play spy.”

Angus felt a cool, ghostly shiver ripple down his spine.

“Oh, yes, I have known about her little games for some time too. I would have had her arrested long before now if she were not so damned eager to express her loyalties in bed. I vow she can do more with a few little muscles than a man of twice her strength pumping with two fists.”

He uncrossed his legs, then crossed them again as if the memory was a pleasant one.

“Where is Mademoiselle de Boule now?”

“Where she belongs. Flat on her back with her legs spread, entertaining the men of my company. An added fillip, you might say, in honor of the duke's birthday. Actually, I was informed about an hour ago that she bit one man so hard he had to strangle her before she would let go, but up until then she was a genuine little rebel hellcat, spitting and hissing, accommodating two men at a time, if you can imagine—”

“You godless son of a bitch.” Angus started forward, but the sudden appearance of a pistol in Worsham's hand halted him two steps shy of reaching his goal. Worsham pushed to his feet, thrusting the nose of the cocked flintlock into the soft hollow above Angus's collarbone, pressing hard enough to almost crush the windpipe.

“Back away, Captain. Your heroics do not impress me, and I would as soon pull the trigger as not.”

“Then what is stopping you?”

“Believe me, it would be my pleasure, but I have no doubt Cumberland will want to speak with you. And then there is the anticipation of seeing the look on that arrogant fool Garner's face when I reveal your duplicity, for you did indeed have him convinced you were the second coming of Christ. I have been savoring the moment far too long to let it end too quickly, but I promise you I could get over my disappointment if you press me. Now … hands up, if you please. And stand back.”

Angus raised his hands slowly, palms out, fingers stiffly together.

“Very good. Now turn around and—”

Angus had seen it done once in Paris, at a demonstration of Oriental fighting skills, but he had never tried it, did not even know if it would accomplish more than causing Worsham's finger to squeeze the trigger. But he slanted both hands inward and brought them cutting sharply down in a V, chopping into the sides of the major's neck with as much force as he could bring to bear.

Surprise, more than skill of execution, startled Worsham into staggering back a step. The nose of the gun dipped down for a moment, which was all Angus needed to clench his fist and deliver a more conventional blow to Worsham's jaw.

The major's head snapped up and back and he staggered again, but he recovered enough of his senses to duck the next punch, even to swing his pistol up and strike Angus across the temple. The skin over MacKintosh's eye split, and in seconds the left side of his face was awash in blood, yet it did not slow him or hamper his aim in any way as he drew the dirk from the waist of his kilt and stabbed it forward. The tip of the blade skidded off a brass button and sliced through the scarlet wool of Worsham's tunic just below the breastbone. Angus barely thought about it as he drove the blade forward and jerked it up, slicing through skin and muscle and finally through the spongy mass of lung. He jerked the blade again, his rage lifting the major up onto his toes even as his body curled forward around the impact of the blow.

Worsham's hand sprang open, dropping the gun. His mouth gaped and his eyes bulged, and he stared in disbelief as Angus bared his teeth, jerking the blade a third time.

Worsham's hands clawed around Angus's shoulders for support. Blood surged up his throat and ran from between his lips; it bubbled through the scarlet wool and splattered the front of Angus's coat.

You are a goddamned snuff-taker,” he gasped, his face twisting with the agony and the irony. “I have never even seen you draw your sword.”

The strength went out of his arms, out of his legs, and Angus watched impassively as the major slumped to the floor. He reached over at the last and pulled his dirk out of the sodden red tunic, but Worsham's eyes were already glazing, losing their focus. The body continued to shudder a few moments more, but it was over.

Angus staggered back, the realization of what he had just done striking him like a blow to the chest. He backed up until he felt the edge of the cot against his knees, then sat down hard, the knife red and dripping in his hand .

He looked at it, looked at the major, and was grateful he had not had anything to eat all day. Even so, his stomach heaved upward and seemed to lodge at the base of his throat, remaining there until several deep gulps forced it down again.

Puking would accomplish nothing. He had just killed an officer in the king's army. Not just any officer, either, but the protégé of William, Duke of Cumberland.

“Aye,” he whispered disgustedly. “I shall avoid Damocles like the plague, my love.”

Jesus God, what was he to do now? If the body was discovered …

If the body was discovered, and if the Jacobite army succeeded in its surprise ambush of the camp, it would simply be assumed that Worsham had died in the clash! No one else knew what had happened tonight; their voices had not been raised; no one knew there had been a confrontation.

Except for Hugh MacDugal, the tracker who had followed him to the Stuart camp. But would he have said anything to anyone else? Or would Worsham have insisted on keeping it between the two of them until he had incontrovertible proof and could drag Angus in chains in front of his peers?

Proof.

Worsham was a meticulous note-taker despite his difficulty with the written word. His notes were marked in his own strange code, but if he had kept a record of Angus's movements tonight, and if someone was able to decipher his scratches, it could prove incriminating. He was also a suspicious bastard and would not trust such records into anyone's safekeeping but his own.

Angus pushed himself off the cot and forced himself to roll Worsham over onto his back. The eyes were fixed and staring, the centers dilated so that it looked as if two holes had been bored into his skull. Quickly, Angus opened the top three buttons on the bloody tunic and searched the inside pockets. He found nothing there, but when he lifted the flap of the leather belt pouch, he discovered several documents and a small notebook filled with scratched notations. Flicking briefly through the latter, he was able to read enough to know his suspicions were confirmed. Anne's name was there, as was his.

He opened another document that had been folded carefully and tucked into the belt pouch. It was an official copy of the company' s battle orders, and he almost refolded it and returned it to the pouch, except that when he looked again, he saw it was dated that day, April 15, and signed by Lord George Murray.

It was a copy of the Jacobite battle orders, only there again, something was not quite right. He had seen this same document in Lord George's tent at Culloden just a few hours ago; it had been lying on the table with the maps. Angus had read it casually enough, for he had seen a dozen such battle orders over the past few months of military service. Most were worded almost identically—so identical the company commander rarely had to consult the page before reciting the contents aloud.

Angus read the document a second time, disturbed to see how badly his hands were shaking, then a third before the hairs on his neck started standing on end.

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, and to give no quarter to the Elector's troops on any account whatsoever. This regards the Foot as well as the Horse. The order of battle is to be given to every general officer…

He did not have to read any further. These were not the orders he had seen on Lord George's table, nor did he believe, when he held the document up to the lamp and turned the wick higher, that it had been signed by his wife's cousin. It was a damned good forgery, but Lord George Murray was left-handed and wrote with a distinct slant—a slant that increased drastically for his signature.

There were several other folded papers in the pouch and Angus found what he was looking for in the third attempt. It was a copy of the original orders as he had seen them, noticeably absent the unconscionable phrase: … ' and to give no quarter to the Elector's troops on any account whatsoever.'

The first sheet contained a forged order to take no prisoners, to slaughter without consequence even those who fell wounded on the field. To an English soldier, this would give rise to the vision of a screaming hoard of Highland savages falling on them, hacking them to bits whether they had surrendered or not. If copies of these false orders were given to every officer, and he in turn read them aloud to every man in his company, they would believe the prince had issued a command to show no mercy on the battlefield. It would inspire them to return the favor in kind, without reservation.

Angus withdrew his pocket watch. It was one-fifteen. He returned it to his sporran, along with the documents he had taken from Worsham's pouch, then rolled the body again, moving it to the far side of the tent against the canvas wall. Luckily Worsham had not been above average height and he fit beneath the camp cot with only a minor bending at the knees. When the blanket was draped over the side, it completely covered the fact there was a body beneath. There was blood on the ground, but it too was hidden with a few scuffs of his boots.

It was not brilliant, but it was the best he could think to do on the spur of the moment. Something dripped on the blanket while he was still bent over, and he remembered the cut over his temple. A quick glance in the shaving mirror was met by a worried curse, for his scalp had bled profusely, adding to the stains that were already on his shirt and coat from the neck wound.

He stripped and cleaned himself as best he could, using the widest neckcloth he could find in the scattered contents of his kit, winding it an extra turn around his throat to serve as both stock and bandage. The cut on his head was swelling by the minute, the skin was blue and ugly, but it could be mostly hidden by his hair. He fetched a clean shirt and donned his kilt and tunic. At the last, he remembered the white cockade Lord George had given him, and this, too, he tucked into his sporran after checking his timepiece again.

One-forty.

The Jacobite army had to be close enough to smell the garbage burning behind the butcher's tents.