Cinaed had never intended for Isabella to find out he was taking none of Searc’s men. Every available body, every trained fighter, was needed at the gathering in Inverness. He glanced at the riders with him, hoping he’d guessed right and he had enough.
Each man with him was a Mackintosh of Dalmigavie. Over this past week, he’d come to know many of them better. He remembered at least half from his youth. These were tough, committed men, and he had faith in their courage and ability. If the commanders at Fort George decided to send more soldiers, however, the odds would shift. But Cinaed and these men would fight to their very last breath.
His thoughts returned to Isabella, as they had over and over since leaving Inverness. He had no fears for himself. He’d chosen Delnies Wood because it was halfway between Fort George and Nairn. If it came down to a pitched battle to free John Gordon, so be it. At least there would be no reinforcements coming. But Isabella had put herself at the very center of a potentially deadly situation. Cinaed knew how high feelings were running. Highlanders were a hotheaded people to begin with. But for seventy years, the shackles of English rule had been chafing at them. If they saw a way to fight their way free, he worried that Inverness could ignite the powder keg. No matter what precautions Searc and the weavers were taking, if a confrontation arose, no one could predict the outcome.
Blast, he cursed silently. He never should have let her be part of that. She could be hurt. He could lose her. Forever.
Dread soaked him in sweat. He took a deep breath. He couldn’t stop her, and he’d be a fool if he tried. Isabella was smart and strong. He knew that. But knowing it did nothing to lessen his worry.
A puff of smoke rose above a low rise far to the west. The signal.
They were coming.
* * *
In this larger room of the warehouse, a dozen mats on the clean-swept floors sat ready for patients. At one end, two higher tables had been positioned in case surgery was needed. Isabella walked between the empty beds, remembering the chaos of another time, another day of strikes, and the lives that were lost.
The martial sound of bagpipes playing in the distance, the shouts of “equality, liberty, and fraternity” drifting in through the windows, only served to sharpen the memories.
Thankfully, there were no patients yet. No guns had been fired. No bugle calls. No clash of sabers. No signs of trouble … that she was aware of.
Jean sat on a bench, her token in hand, her eyes closed, her lips moving. Isabella shared her old friend’s worry. At this very moment, Cinaed could be fighting to free John Gordon. She wanted to sit beside her, hold her hand, and tell her that all would be well. But her fears wouldn’t allow her to sit still. She touched the ring on her finger and joined Carmichael at the window.
The crackling energy of a summer storm just to the north hung in the air, and Isabella breathed it in. Many speakers were scheduled for today. She hoped the rain would hold off.
“Those Six Acts passed by Parliament last year make public gatherings of this type illegal,” the surgeon said. “But so far, the local magistrates and the mounted soldiers from Fort George are behaving admirably.”
She knew about the laws. The deaths at Peterloo and Paisley and Glasgow and Edinburgh were fresh in her mind. But she’d also come to respect the power Searc wielded in Inverness. Looking out the window, she recognized some of his men’s faces, intent and serious, mixed with those folks marching to their destinations.
Far ahead, a banner was raised—in itself, an illegal act that could provoke the authorities into responding—but it was quickly pulled down by some of Searc’s men. Isabella imagined them thinking deals had to be made, they were in control, but they were not invincible.
A knock on the door in the other room took Mr. Carmichael away. Isabella thought of Cinaed again. He’d promised to come directly here once John Gordon was freed.
Isabella looked over her shoulder at Jean and hoped her friend could handle whatever condition her nephew was in. She’d tended to many who’d undergone the torture the British called “questioning.” Their injuries were too often horrifying.
Carmichael was coming back into the room with another man at his heels. Isabella turned around as the voices approached. Her gaze fixed on the man accompanying the surgeon, and he saw her as well.
“Mrs. Mackintosh, may I present one of our distinguished speakers, come from far away.” Carmichael turned to the visitor. “Mr. Adams, the head of the Safety Committee of the Association of Operative Weavers in Edinburgh.”
Isabella met the small, wiry man’s grey eyes and recalled all the times that William Adams had sat at her dinner table and huddled with Archibald afterwards. She remembered how, as one of the leaders of the radical reformers, he knew of all the occasions when she’d cared for those poor souls who’d recently been freed from prison. She thought he understood that she had both discretion and courage.
Isabella had never expected William Adams to be the one who’d put a bounty on her head and call for her death, thinking she had betrayed them or fearing she would.
“Mr. Adams and I have met,” she said coldly.
* * *
Fourteen sets of eyes were fixed on the red-coated soldiers and the wagon moving steadily along the coach road. Cinaed raised his hand in the air, waiting for the right moment.
At the front of the procession, an officer rode beside a sergeant who was pointing in the direction of Nairn, some four miles distant. A driver and a soldier armed with a musket sat on the heavy transport wagon. A red canvas bonnet enclosed the wagon bed, and an iron band secured the doors in the rear. John Gordon had to be in there. Behind the wagon, six more soldiers rode along, less interested in the possibility of an ambush than a story one of them was telling.
Cinaed had already told Blair and his men what needed to happen after the attack. Gordon needed to be taken to Dalmigavie Castle. Cinaed hoped tomorrow he could bring Isabella and Jean there as well.
Before leaving Inverness, Cinaed told Searc that he was attacking a British prisoner transfer today. He felt it was in everyone’s best interest to be aware that retribution might follow. Deals had been made, magistrates and a few key British officers had been paid to head off any attack on the protestors. Cinaed feared his actions now would jeopardize the older man’s invulnerability, but Searc had shrugged off his concerns.
The procession reached them and Cinaed signaled to attack.
Storming out from the line of trees, the Highlanders thundered across the narrow space separating them from the road. Their battle cries pierced the air, and the officer at the front drew his pistol from the saddle holster. But before he could discharge his weapon, Cinaed fired, knocking him from his horse. In an instant, the riders had the escort surrounded, pistols pointed. The soldiers raised their hands, choosing to surrender with grace rather than fight. Only the guard on the wagon stood and raised his musket, but he immediately laid it down.
The soldiers never knew what hit them. The battle was over as quickly as it started.
While Blair relieved the sergeant of his weapons, Cinaed dismounted beside the officer, who was squirming in pain on the road. The ball had struck the man in the wrist.
“You’ll live,” Cinaed told him, picking up the pistol. “Who has the key to the wagon?”
“Bugger off, Scotch scum,” he said through gritted teeth.
The officer howled when Blair stepped on his hand.
“Not the most gentlemanly of responses,” Cinaed remarked. “Care to try again?”
The man motioned to the sergeant, who pulled the keys from his belt.
As Cinaed reached the back of the wagon, he found the mounted soldiers and the driver sitting in the road with two of Blair’s men watching them. The horses were being strung together for the journey into the mountains.
Prepared for any unexpected company, he unlocked the door. He needn’t have been concerned. The guard riding with the prisoners was kneeling with his musket on the wagon bed and his hand
s in the air.
Two other men were in the wagon, and neither were in very good condition. Cinaed climbed in, quickly released them from their shackles, and handed them out into the Highlanders’ waiting arms.
“Which of you is John Gordon?” he asked when they were both on the ground.
One of the prisoners—the one in worse shape—nodded. His curly brown hair was mottled with blood from gashes in his scalp, his torn shirt was bloodied, and one side of his face was swollen badly. Only one eye was open. His arm had been broken, and a splint had been half-heartedly applied.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Cinaed crouched in front of him, speaking only to him. “Isabella sent me.”
* * *
“Mrs. Mackintosh.” Adams bowed. “I believe you must be mistaken. I have an excellent memory, and your lovely face is not one easily forgotten.”
Isabella was never fond of games, and this kind of charming deceit repelled her the most. She could imagine what he was thinking. He was a Lowlander traveling among strangers. Everyone here seemed to have accepted her as one of their own. The surgeon, the men Searc positioned across the street to watch the building, even the old woman sitting nearby—all of them would take her part, regardless of any accusation he made, for to them she was Cinaed Mackintosh’s wife. But that was only true for this morning. What would happen at the end of the day, or tomorrow? How long would it take for this man to spread the word that she was in Inverness? How long before the wolves came after her?
One of the town magistrates at the door drew Mr. Carmichael out of the room. She looked at Jean. The pouch had been tucked away, and she was watching the newcomer like a hawk.
In that moment, Isabella realized it was anger and not fear that she was feeling. And before Carmichael returned, she would speak her mind.
“I know you, Mr. Adams. Just as I know your wife, since she’s been a patient of mine for the past five years. I have treated all four of your children whenever they’ve fallen ill. You’ve been to my home, and I’ve been to yours. So let’s be honest with each other.”
He bowed, but deeper this time. “Dr. Drummond, my apologies. My intention was to save you from any awkward situation that the truth might place you in.”
“Save me?” she asked in a tone sharp enough to draw Jean’s attention. But she thought nothing of it. Her friend knew everything there was to know about her past. “Explain to me exactly how you define ‘saving’?”
“I … I understand this is an awkward situation.”
“For you. Not for me. But what an interesting choice of words, coming from you. Do you consider my life these past months just awkward? Is running for my life awkward?” She stepped close to him and snapped her words into his face. “I helped your friends and colleagues. When you brought them to my house, I stitched them and set broken bones. I healed them and saved more than one life, if you recall. When one of your friends was too badly injured to be carried anywhere, how many times did I refuse to go?”
Adams’s face had colored the deepest scarlet. He stared at the tips of his shoes.
“How many times?” she demanded.
“Never.”
“Even if I’d done none of that, I was still the wife of your friend.” Her voice cracked, but she cleared it, holding her anger in place. “How could you treat me with such cold callousness? As if I were someone completely unknown to you? How could you justify putting a bounty on my head?”
“You disappeared after the day of the strikes. We didn’t know what happened to you.”
“So you ordered to have me killed?”
“We never called to have you killed. We simply wanted you returned to us. You knew … you know everything about us. We wanted you found, that’s all.”
“That’s a lie.”
The man raised his hands in defense. “I swear to you. It’s the truth. The committee decided to offer a reward after the government declared you an enemy of the Crown and advertised a bounty for your arrest. We thought that by making a counter offer, we might have a chance to have you returned to us before the authorities laid their hands on you.”
“Dead. You wanted me dead,” she repeated. “At every inn coming north, I heard those words.”
“The rumors were out of our control. We couldn’t paste up broadsides or pass out handbills. We needed to rely on word of mouth. But what we said took on a different meaning. That was never what we intended.”
“And what good would your intentions have been for me or my family if we’d been identified? We could have suffered violence anywhere along the road.” She scoffed. “There is an expression, Mr. Adams, about good intentions and the road to hell.”
“Dr. Drummond, please believe me.” His voice was low and meek, and his shame was written across his features. “Please believe me when I say our intentions were noble, but we failed.”
“Exactly. You failed,” she repeated, turning away from him, “but at what cost to me and my family?”
The backs of her eyes burned, her chin was quivering, but she was not about to let him see her break down. Isabella recalled the desperation of their days in hiding. Sir Walter Scott—hardly a friend to this cause—was able to find them, and he sent John Gordon after them. These people—William Adams and the others—could have done the same thing.
She rubbed her forehead and remembered the dead. The radical reformers had suffered great losses. She’d heard what was happening. Their committees had been decimated. Many were running for their lives. She looked over her shoulder at his bent back. His hair was grey at the temples where it had been black this past spring. The lines around his eyes were deeper. He’d suffered, but he hadn’t needed to fear for his life due to the actions of his so-called friends.
“We, too, were in hiding—my family and I—for weeks,” he said.
He went on and mentioned other names she knew. Men who were friends of Archibald. Men she held responsible for adding to the dangers facing her. He told her what each person had needed to do to escape the gallows.
This past April, Isabella’s mind could not dwell on anything but her responsibility for Maisie and Morrigan. The struggles of those committee members seemed insignificant compared with her family’s plight. She took a deep breath and listened to the sounds of the people marching by outside. She’d come quite far since then.
“They gutted our cause. They broke our hearts and crushed our spirit,” he said softly. “Until now.”
She turned around to face Adams. She understood. She could almost forgive.
“What do you intend to do about the bounty on my head?” she asked.
“Word is being spread as widely and quickly as possible that it was a mistake. The offer has been rescinded, though I know the danger to you does not go away instantly.”
“It’s gone? It’s over?”
“I was already in Aberdeen en route to Inverness when I received word from this weavers’ committee,” he explained. “I’d suspected I would find you here.”
Isabella shook her head in confusion.
“Mr. Searc Mackintosh. In return for his efforts to protect those gathered today from any attack, he demanded the bounty be removed. He has vouched for your name and for your integrity.”
* * *
The thunderclouds parted. God was watching.
Standing at the edge of the crowd, Cinaed saw the golden glow of heaven break through and shine down on these people. The summer sun was descending in the west, beyond the tall steeples of High Church and the Tolbooth. Here in the fields of Inverness, legions of angels had come to side with their cause. Despite the raised voices of the orators on the platform, despite the clamorous cheers that greeted each pause, despite the wail of the bagpipes, a sense of harmony infused this assembly.
Cinaed waded into the sea of Highlanders. Thousands had turned out. Tradesman and farmers, sailors and wharfies, ministers and magistrates. And families, everywhere. With each step he took, a path opened in front of him, like a parting o
f the sea. Folk on every side stood back, turning their faces toward him and making way. As he looked out over the heads of those around him, he felt a sense of belonging coursing through his veins. Here he was, amongst thousands, one with them.
He could feel nothing but the deepest love and respect for them. It was reflected in every face that looked upon him. They were fearless. With a gang of armed men, he had freed two so-called enemies of the Crown, but these people—born with the same Highland blood that flowed through his body—had come here with nothing but empty hands and raised voices. They’d come to this protest, crying out for reform, for freedom, for justice, armed only with a free, clear conscience … and their courage.
He once thought he’d lost them, but now he knew he’d never lost anything. They were always here.
He moved closer to the front of the crowd, to where two hay wagons had been maneuvered into place to create a hustings for the speakers and guests. The heads of the weavers’ organizing committee were on the platform, several local Whig politicians, the minister from the High Church, two ladies promoting suffrage for women, and some others.
Small groups of cavalrymen sat astride their horses on the outskirts of the gathering, and a few hundred yards off to the east, across the fields towards Longman, the British were making a stronger presence known. A temporary encampment was visible, and he could see red-coated dragoons along with the blue coats of Hudson’s Hussars. They’d even thought to bring a number of field guns. But Cinaed had no eyes for these things as he scanned the energized crowds for Isabella.
He saw her, standing far to the left, at the very front, and her shining eyes turned to him. Like two falcons sailing across the skies, they moved toward each other. When they met, he saw the question in her face.
“It’s done,” he murmured.
As their fingers entwined, they turned together toward the speaker who was exhorting the crowd.
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