As Jessie left the room, Aeneas found his tongue.
‘You’re going out?’
There was a moment as Anne set her shoulders, lifted her head, looked him straight in the eye.
‘I’m going to bring the clan out,’ she said.
His answer was quick, too quick.
‘I said no!’
‘And I’m no English wife to be owned and ordered,’ she corrected him. ‘You spoke for yourself. I speak for me.’ She put on the bonnet, dressed, in the absence of roses, with a white ribbon cockade, and turned to MacGillivray. ‘What do you say, Alexander, will you follow my lead?’
It took less than a blink for MacGillivray’s face to break into a wide grin.
‘I will, Colonel,’ he said, automatically crediting her with the rank that Aeneas would have held with the clans in wartime. ‘And so will our warriors, to the ends of the earth if you ask it.’
‘It might be to the end of your lives,’ Aeneas snapped.
Anne whipped round to him again.
‘Our lives,’ she said. ‘And our choice how they will be lived or lost.’ With that, she turned for the door and left, MacGillivray following her.
Aeneas did not move, nor did he speak. The Dowager watched him but she, too, kept silent. They heard the horses’ hooves clop outside the front door as they were mounted, then the clatter as they were ridden away. As the sound faded, the silence grew into an unbearable emptiness.
‘It will be all right,’ the Dowager whispered. ‘If we’re represented on both sides, we surely cannot lose.’
Aeneas drew his sword and, with a bellowing roar, like a bull caught in the slaughtering trap, cleared food, wine, dishes, glassware from the table in one wild, ranging sweep, sending them all crashing and clattering to the floor as his rage broke.
Anne and MacGillivray rode east first, collecting volunteers from that side of the estate before swinging north and west. The request for one adult male from each family was easily met. Wives and older children, when possible, joined the march. They were as valuable to Highland troops as the men.
‘You’ll want a blacksmith,’ Donald Fraser said, folding his leather apron.
‘So will Moy while we’re gone,’ Anne reminded him. The estate must continue to run for their return.
‘Then my son can be fetched back from the Black Watch,’ Donald said, and went in to douse the fire in his forge.
On the edge of Drumossie moor, the elderly couple Anne had given extra grazing to waited outside their cott.
‘Go on then, if you must,’ the old woman said to her husband, handing him an ancient sword recently sharpened. ‘I will only slow you down.’
MacBean took the sword. He was seventy, a big man with a good swing still.
‘I’ll write to you,’ he said.
‘And have me running in and out of Inverness to check?’
‘You can ask the post-boy when he passes.’
Anne leant forward on her horse.
‘You’re not obliged,’ she told him. ‘Not when you’re needed here.’
‘I am obliged to myself,’ MacBean said, drawing himself upright. ‘Death should come with honour.’
‘He’s only under my feet anyhow,’ his wife assured Anne, then busied herself tucking MacBean’s plaid better around him. ‘You be sure and keep your chest warm.’
‘Don’t fash, woman.’ The old man stopped her. ‘I’ll be back to your botherations before you know it.’
By the time they reached the north-west cotts, it was early evening and word was ahead of them. The cottars stood around the freshly dug grave which would hold the wrapped bodies of mother and son that lay waiting on the grass beside it. Ewan stepped forward to speak first, a V-shaped scar on his forehead from the musket butt red and puckered in the lessening light.
‘I’ve a wife and child to put in the ground, then I’m yours,’ he said to Anne.
She shook her head.
‘I won’t ask you, Ewan. Your father and other children need you here.’
‘Cath will see to them,’ he said. Beside him, Cath clutched her baby to her side.
‘As my own,’ she said.
Old Meg stepped forward and spat.
‘I should’ve let daylight into that Sasannaich’s innards first time,’ she said, raising her pitchfork. ‘He’s overdue it now. I’ll fight.’
The lands of Moy delivered a warrior force of almost three hundred, with half as many women and children in support. Anne’s bag of coin was lighter by the shillings paid to the families who stayed behind. Now they would head for Dunmaglas, to add the MacGillivrays, before criss-crossing the countryside to collect those who would fight from the other Chattan tribes. Anne halted Pibroch on the ridge that bounded Drumossie moor as her troops marched past, a great long line of men, women and children, carrying only a little food, weapons and extra clothing. Far below, Moy Hall was lit by the setting sun, shining gold as the waters of the loch beside it turned brilliant orange.
MacGillivray rode up beside her.
‘He’ll join us,’ he said, ‘when he sees what his people want.’
‘While he disregards me?’ It was inconceivable that a husband would act on such a matter without consulting his wife. Yet Aeneas had done so. ‘Come,’ she said, turning Pibroch. ‘We want to make Dunmaglas before it’s pitch dark.’ She rode off towards the front of her forces to lead the way. As the swollen, vermilion sun tipped the horizon, the sky above the moor turned blood-red.
At Moy Hall, Aeneas was packed up, ready to leave. Will, the stableboy, held his horse ready at the front door. The Dowager saw him to it.
‘Must you go now? Anne might leave the troops with Alexander at Dunmaglas. She could be back tomorrow. You should talk this out.’
‘I tried. She wouldn’t listen.’ He put his foot in the stirrup and pulled himself up into the saddle. ‘Louden will be back in the fort. He’ll have heard my clan is marching. If I don’t show face tonight, he’ll think my word is broken before it’s kept.’ He took the reins, thanked Will and was about to ride off.
‘You won’t be among friends, Aeneas,’ his aunt said. ‘Be careful of your anger.’
‘I will,’ he said. Enmity was all he expected of an enemy. From a wife, he had expected support. He slapped the reins and rode off, skirting the loch, taking the shortest route across Moy to Inverness and Fort George. As he rode, an empty space rode beside him. MacGillivray was like a second self, always there when adventure called, closer than a brother. Yet he had not struggled with divided loyalty. Anne only had to ask, and he was at her side. Aeneas couldn’t have said which betrayal cut deepest, Anne’s or MacGillivray’s. He would not contemplate the one that might yet come. They would be together for two weeks, maybe more, gathering volunteers, taking them to Glenfinnan.
Once she had delivered them, Anne’s honour would be satisfied. Married women marched only with their husbands in Highland armies. Lacking hers, she would not stay. She would pass command to MacGillivray and return to Moy. Two weeks. In two weeks, he would settle this with her. By the time he clattered into the cobbled yard of the fort, his control was restored. He would need his wits about him here.
Lord Louden did not trouble to hide his relief. The McIntosh company was hostage to their chief’s return. He had not relished ordering out a firing squad if Aeneas failed to show.
‘Good to know you’re with us, McIntosh,’ he said. ‘Though I suspect General Cope thought your commission secured your tribe too.’
‘I’ve delivered what I promised,’ Aeneas said.
‘More than you think,’ Louden agreed. ‘MacDonald of Skye and MacLeod have followed your lead. We have companies from both.’ Tactfully, he didn’t add that, like Aeneas, other chiefs who declared for the government had clansmen and kinfolk who did not follow suit. ‘Your orders.’ He handed Aeneas the papers. ‘Your billet is in the south block officers’ quarters. Your men are drilling in the square.
‘A punishment?’ It was late, near dark.
‘I thought them better occupied.’ He opened the door. ‘You can relieve them now, Captain.’
Cope was on his way in as Aeneas went out. He paused on the step to let the Highlander pass, greeting him with a nod that was returned. Cope let the lack of salute pass. He was learning a little about Highland ways.
‘Every inch a chief,’ he said to Louden, watching Aeneas stride away. ‘Fine-looking, well-made and no manners.’
‘Different manners,’ Louden corrected. ‘I can’t decide if he’s a brave man or a coward but I wouldn’t want his marriage bed, not now.’
‘Would you have wanted it before?’ Cope asked.
‘Oh, aye,’ Louden laughed. ‘Anne Farquharson could rouse most men between the sheets. And out of them, as we’re hearing. Have you come for a nightcap?’
‘With news,’ Cope said. ‘But it will slip down easier with a drop of port behind it.’ Louden ushered him inside, followed and shut the door.
The company engaged in musket drill in the square recognized Aeneas as soon as he turned the corner towards them. Relief wrote itself on all their young faces. They had not been issued shot and they knew why. They might have defended themselves if their chief had failed them. Now he was here there was no need for fear. They were safe. Lieutenant Ray stopped barking orders and turned to salute Aeneas.
‘Captain,’ he clicked his heels.
‘Lieutenant,’ Aeneas sighed. ‘Maybe we could forgo the formalities till I’m in uniform?’
‘Sorry, Captain,’ Ray saluted again. ‘They say troop ships are coming with more reinforcements. Do you think we’ll see action soon?’
‘Let’s hope not.’
‘I ask because I’m eager, not because I’m afraid,’ Ray said indignantly.
‘Then you’re a fool,’ Aeneas told him. ‘Men will die in this, Ray. And every one will be someone I know. Men I’ve fought. Men I’ve hunted with. Men whose cattle I’ve stolen and whose wives or daughters I’ve bedded. But I don’t relish the death of a single one. So let’s hope, instead, that a show of strength is all it takes and this insurrection melts away without a shot fired. Killing is a duty, but men should get their pleasure from women.’
A loud round of applause and cheers rose from the company. Ray spun round and they leapt back to attention.
‘Will you stand the men down?’ Aeneas smiled.
‘Captain.’ Ray snapped out a salute, missing Aeneas’s wince as he turned to the company again and called out, ‘Stand easy!’
Aeneas walked away to his quarters, grinning now he had his back to the over-eager Englishman. When he found his room, it was adequate. A bunk, table, chairs and a decanter of whisky courtesy of King George. Troop ships. It was early days. If the reinforcements were generous, the Jacobite chiefs would withdraw. Life was hard won in the clans and not spent where it would profit none. A few days could see the end of this. He was pouring a second glassful when the last post sounded and his door was knocked. It was Ray who came in.
‘All settled, sir,’ he said.
Aeneas raised a finger, forestalling the salute.
‘Fine,’ he said, lifting an empty glass. ‘Uisge beatha?’
‘Oh, whisky. Yes, thank you.’ He watched Aeneas pour a generous measure. ‘You know, I met a madwoman on my way up to Inverness. She was with a tribe of savages. Forced me off my horse and put my wife on it. She spoke the Irish too.’
Aeneas recognized the story. Meg and Cath would be pleased to have grown to a tribe. He handed Ray his drink and went over to the window. Outside, the night was lit by a bright waxing moon.
‘A madwoman, indeed,’ he said.
ELEVEN
Charles Edward Stuart stood outside his tent at the Glenfinnan encampment. Like his cousin, the Duke of Cumberland, he was twenty-four years old, the son of a king. There the resemblance ended. Charles might have stepped straight from a child’s fairy story, elegant, tall and handsome, his face fine-boned, his body lean. Dressed now in red-tartan philabeg and plaid topped with a scarlet jacket, he wore a white powdered wig, a blue sash slung over his shoulder. Before Scotland united its parliament with England, when the Scots king sat on both thrones and ruled Ireland, his grandfather was deposed by the English, who put a Dutchman in his place. When that line died without heir, his father waited to be called, but again the English chose a foreigner, a German from Hanover, whose son, George, now ruled. Prince Charles had come to win back his father’s throne.
‘La victoire est certaine, O’sullivan,’ he said to the Irish adjutantgeneral beside him. There were a million Scots. More than half lived in the Highlands. ‘There are six hundred thousand people in these hills, at least fifty thousand trained warriors.’
‘They won’t all come out, sir.’ It was Lord George Murray who answered. ‘And Cope’s troop ships arrive at Aberdeen. As soon as those reinforcements join him in Inverness, he’ll want to engage us.’
‘With a paltry few thousand?’ The Prince was scathing. Born and raised in Italy, he spoke French to his Scottish commanders, a language they shared. ‘Cumberland must think we are easily frightened. We will have deux armées, Lord George. Five, ten armies!’
Cheering from the east side of the camp interrupted the boast. All three men turned towards the interruption. A woman, dressed in blue and riding a white horse, rode down the slope towards them. It was Anne Farquharson, the Lady McIntosh. MacGillivray rode beside her. Behind them marched several hundred troops, cheering as they came in sight of the already assembled clans, those with pistols firing in the air.
‘You see?’ The Prince smiled at Lord George.
As the Clan Chattan troops veered off to spare ground, Anne and MacGillivray rode on towards the standard to present themselves. Lord George was beside Anne as she dismounted. He had brought her mother’s clan, the Murrays.
‘You must be saddle-sore,’ he said. ‘But it’s a pleasure to see you. I was in two minds about the wisdom of this. Word of your action decided me.’ He led her over to the Prince. ‘My cousin, sir. Colonel Anne Farquharson, the Lady McIntosh.’
The Prince immediately took her hand and, much to Anne’s amusement, kissed it.
‘La belle rebelle,’ he exclaimed. ‘We hear you have inflamed the countryside. Now I see why.’
‘No, sir, vous êtes trop généreux,’ Anne said, ‘that was yourself.’ She presented MacGillivray as lieutenant-colonel of her troops. He would lead them on the field. Wine was brought as the other chiefs crowded round to congratulate her: Lochiel, Keppoch, Glengary, Ranald, McGregor, Lords Elcho, Tullibardine and the Ogilvies. Anne raised her glass.
‘Prosperity and no Union,’ she toasted. It was a declaration she had not made since her father’s death but one she relished now. The response resounded around the camp, falling like an echo as those further out took it up.
‘Prosperity and no Union!’
O’sullivan waved MacGillivray over to register his force on the roll.
‘Six hundred warriors,’ MacGillivray told him. ‘Two hundred women and children in support.’
Nearby, the Prince spoke into Lord George’s ear.
‘Must they bring so many women?’
‘It’s the other way round, sir,’ Lord George told him. ‘The wives and mothers who bear them, and will bury them, decide when clans will fight. It’s the women who bring the men.’
Margaret Johnstone, the Lady Ogilvie, stole Anne away to meet some of the others.
‘I didn’t expect so many,’ Anne said, looking round as they walked through the camp. Everywhere, groups were settled round fires, cooking. Swords and dirks were sharpened, pistols cleaned and polished.
‘What else can we do? If we don’t end this Union, our way of life will soon be gone.’ She slipped an arm through Anne’s. ‘What do you think of our Prince?’
‘Oh, he’s fine-looking, with his clothes on,’ Anne joked. ‘If he leads as well as he charms, we’ve already won.’
Margaret stopped to introduce her to Margaret
Fergusson, the Lady Broughton, a stunning woman wearing a feather-plumed hat and fur-trimmed outfit, whose equally dapper husband, Sir John Murray of Broughton, was sharpening her sword.
‘Call me Greta,’ she said. ‘I’m dealing with recruitment and supplies.’
‘Sir John is the Prince’s secretary,’ Margaret said.
‘But when we engage,’ Greta boasted, ‘he’ll ride with Lord Elcho’s cavalry.’
‘Do we have enough horses?’ Anne asked.
‘Not yet,’ Greta grinned. ‘But we’ll solve that soon. You can help.’
‘I’d be pleased to,’ Anne said, ‘but I mean to go home.’
‘You’ve been very brave,’ Margaret said. ‘I couldn’t have left David.’ Like Anne, she was twenty, the same age as her young husband, a wealthy lord who could afford early marriage. ‘I had to persuade him, you know,’ she said. ‘Men don’t always understand what we’re losing. If English attitudes finally overwhelm us, men would have rights and power. We’d have none.’ She squeezed Anne’s arm supportively. ‘But you’ll convince Aeneas. You’ve inspired so many.’ She pointed to a trouser-clad woman busy directing the erection of tents. ‘That’s Jenny Cameron. She heard what you were doing, rode out and raised three hundred for the cause. Oh, and Isabel forced Ardshiel out because of you. He’ll arrive soon.’
‘Forced him out?’
‘Yes,’ Margaret laughed. ‘Said she’d raise and command their people herself if he’d stay home and keep house. Handed him an apron!’
Both of them giggled at the thought of burly Ardshiel in an apron, poring over household accounts, supervising the dusting or baking of bread. But Anne’s mood wasn’t lightened by it. Ardshiel had come out. Aeneas had gone to the other side. If he’d done nothing, if he’d waited, as he first said, that might have been bearable. This was not.
As soon as she could escape the energy and excitement of the camp, she wandered off alone to the edge of it. A massive full moon was rising, cut across by thin purple cloud. It was like the wound in her heart, splitting her in two, she in one place, Aeneas in another. Her husband had joined the enemy. There was no greater hurt he could do.
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