Tides of Fortune

by Julia Brannan

  Mark Hutchinson absorbed this information in silence for a minute. His first emotion on hearing what the sergeant had seen, to his own shame, was relief, because now he knew that whether Cunningham was a traitor or not, his career in the army was over. Rape was one thing; as much as the colonel hated it, he was a pragmatist and knew that when a man was roused to kill all his other base emotions came to the fore as well. But this, if it was true, was beyond the pale.

  However, first he had to find out what had happened to Richard Cunningham. He could not just write back to the Duke of Newcastle and say the man had disappeared; he would have to do better than that.

  “Is that what all the men think? Is this the first time he’s done something like this?”

  “Being honest, sir, the men don’t really care what’s happened to him. They’re just glad he’s gone. I don’t know if it’s the first time he’s done that, but he’s very…er…a very hard disciplinarian and very enthusiastic in his duties.”

  “Very diplomatically put, Stephen. How far away is this settlement?”

  “About three hours, sir.”

  “Right. I want to see it for myself. Tell the men to be ready in half an hour.”

  Thankfully it was now dry, and as they picked their way carefully down the steep hillside above the village the sun actually broke through the clouds. Sergeant Baker pointed down to the forlorn little cluster of burnt-out hovels below.

  “There it is, sir,” he said, indicating the one hut that remained intact.

  “And you said the woman had been buried, Baker?” Hutchinson said.

  “Well, there’s a grave outside the hut, sir, with a little cross made out of sticks. I assumed that maybe one of the men had done the decent thing.”

  “You think that Cunningham would have waited about while one of his men buried her?” the colonel said. “It’s more likely that after he’d finished he’d have burnt the hut to destroy the evidence and finish the job, don’t you think?”

  The poor sergeant blushed again.

  “Yes, sir, now you say it, that does seem the most likely thing.”

  While they were talking they’d arrived in the clearing. Although only a week had passed, the village had an abandoned air about it. He knew that most Highlanders returned to their settlements once they’d been pillaged. But there was no sign of recent attempts to rebuild, or that anyone had come back.

  The colonel posted guards around the village, with orders to particularly watch the hillside above for any movement whatsoever, then he and Sergeant Baker walked over to the hut, stopping at the grave. There was a tiny sprig of heather lying on it.

  “Was that there when you came here last week?” Hutchinson asked, pointing to it.

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “Observation, Sergeant. It can mean the difference between living and dying.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Right, let’s go inside and see if there’s anything else you might not have noticed.”

  Colonel Hutchinson drew his sword, just to be safe, and stepped through the low doorway.

  “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed, instinctively stepping backwards onto Sergeant Baker’s foot. The two men stopped.

  “Was that there when you came here last week?” Hutchinson asked drily.

  “No sir,” the white-faced sergeant said, staring in horror at the scene before him.

  The soldier’s corpse, still in its full uniform, even down to the boots and sword, had been tied by its hands to the roof beams. The colonel, now over his initial shock, went over to it and, waving away the cloud of flies which completely obscured the head, discovered why.

  The man’s face had been beaten quite literally to pulp, the nose flattened, cheekbones crushed, eyes pulped. Whoever had done this had been enraged; the woman’s husband perhaps? Hutchinson raised his sword to cut the ropes binding the corpse’s hands, then paused.

  “Sergeant, when you came into the hut and saw Cunningham with the woman, is this the way she was tied? Think carefully.”

  Baker moved forward into the hut, so as to see better.

  “Yes, sir. Her arms were spread, like that. That’s how I could see the…the skin.” He took a deep breath, then clearly wished he hadn’t; the hut smelt distinctly of rotting meat.

  Hutchinson cut the ropes and lowered the body carefully to the ground.

  “It’s Captain Cunningham, sir,” the sergeant said, looking down at the remains of the soldier.

  “How can you tell? Apart from the uniform, that is?”

  “The captain has bowed legs, sir. It was something he was very sensitive about. He once had a man flogged half to death for mentioning it. Er…so it became common knowledge, sir.”

  “That he had bow legs.”

  “Yes, sir, and not to mention it in his hearing.”

  But I’m damn sure you mentioned it out of his hearing. No doubt his nickname reflects that, the colonel thought.

  Well, it didn’t matter any more. The poor bastard was dead. Next.

  “You did bring the shovels, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Go and get two. We need to dig the body up, make sure it is the woman, and not one of our men. Just you and me, Baker. Tell the men to keep a very close eye on the hillside. Do not tell them what you have just seen. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” The sergeant looked puzzled, but went off to do as he was told. He was clearly confused as to what the colonel intended to do.

  As in fact was the colonel. He needed to think this through, and in the meantime did not want any more information to be released about the whole incident than already had been.

  Thankfully the body had not been buried very deeply, indicating that whoever had done it had been in a bit of a rush. And it was definitely the woman.

  Well, at least I know Baker was telling the truth, Hutchinson thought, looking at the partly flayed corpse they had just exposed.

  “No need to disturb the poor woman any more, Sergeant,” he said gently. “Let’s cover her up again, and then get Captain Cunningham back to barracks. Make sure his head is wrapped up so none of the other men see it. And tell no one anything at this point. Your career depends on it. Is that clear?”

  “Very clear, Colonel,” Baker said hurriedly.

  Back in his room in the company of an extremely large brandy, Colonel Hutchinson pondered the situation, trying to work out what had happened. Before they’d returned to Inversnaid, he had had the men scour the immediate area for any hidden bodies or signs of burial, but nothing had been found. He took a deep draught of brandy and stared into the fire, running through everything Baker had told him and what he’d seen himself, before coming to the only possible conclusion that made any sense.

  The men of the village, who had no doubt stayed in the vicinity, had taken advantage of the sudden disappearance of three-quarters of the redcoats plundering their village, and had attacked. The soldiers had run away, leaving Captain Cunningham, who was no doubt still enjoying his sick pleasure with the woman, to the Highlanders’ tender mercies. If she’d been screaming continuously as Baker had said, then Cunningham might well have been unaware of the presence of the enemy until they were upon him.

  That would explain the tender burial of the woman, the makeshift cross and heather, and also the state of the captain’s face, which had clearly borne the brunt of someone’s extreme rage and distress. It would also explain why the rest of the men had not returned. Leaving your commanding officer, no matter how much you hated him, to face certain death while you saved your own skin was a serious offence.

  Yes, that had to be it. But the next question was, what to do? Colonel Hutchinson knew Sergeant Baker to be an honest man, but even so, until he’d seen the woman’s corpse for himself he had been unable to believe anyone would commit such an atrocious act. If it became public knowledge that redcoat officers were torturing women in such horrific ways for pleasure, it would be very damaging for the British Army, whose reput
ation was not exactly glowing at the moment. There was ever-growing condemnation for the brutal way in which the Highlands of Scotland were being pacified as it was, but if something like this came out, there would be hell to pay. In the wrong hands this information could be catastrophic. The Duke of Cumberland’s reputation was suffering as it was; he was far more often referred to as the butcher than the hero of Culloden now.

  So, damage limitation was the order of the day. And immediate action was needed.

  “Bernard!” the colonel called. The servant appeared within moments. “Get me Sergeant Baker, will you? Straight away.”

  He finished off his brandy and poured another for himself and his expected guest. When Baker appeared, somewhat breathless from running across the barrack grounds, Hutchinson motioned him to a chair.

  “Have a brandy, Stephen. This is an informal interview and will remain between the two of us. I believe you are a man of discretion, but if I’m wrong and I find out, I’ll string you up by your balls. Is that clear?”

  “Very, sir,” replied the sergeant, clearly terrified. The colonel was not one to make idle threats, so when he did threaten you, you took him very seriously indeed.

  “Good. Now I don’t think I need to tell you that this is a tricky situation. The army’s reputation is not of the highest, especially where North Britain is concerned, and if it becomes known that evil bastards like Cunningham are abusing their position to satisfy their perverted pleasures, it will reflect badly on all of us. I also don’t think I need to tell you that leaving your commanding officer vulnerable to attack without permission, is desertion of duty, and a very serious offence. Especially when the officer in question is subsequently brutally murdered.”

  The poor sergeant was white as a sheet. His brandy stood untouched on the table.

  “Now I believe that after you and the other men left, the remaining soldiers were attacked, presumably by the men of the village. As the only body we’ve found is Cunningham’s, I have to assume the other men buggered off with alacrity, and left the captain to his fate. Does this seem likely to you, Stephen, in view of Cunningham’s standing with his men?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant in a very small voice.

  “When you came out of the hut last Friday, did you tell the men exactly what Cunningham was doing to the woman? Think carefully before you answer.”

  “No, sir. I just said that he was torturing her, and I’d had enough of him and his ways.”

  “Have you talked about it since, including today?”

  “No, sir. I’ve been having nightmares. I just wanted to try to forget it. And then today you told me not to tell anyone anything, so I haven’t.”

  Thank God for that.

  “Excellent!” Hutchinson said. “For God’s sake, Stephen, relax. Providing you do as I say, I see no reason why we can’t just forget all about this unfortunate situation after tonight. Drink your brandy.”

  Stephen Baker complied somewhat hurriedly, coughing as the strong liquor went the wrong way.

  “Now, I think it highly unlikely that the twelve men who deserted are going to talk about what happened. And indeed it seems the only people who know exactly what went on are you, me, and the Highlander who killed Cunningham. So here is what occurred: Captain Cunningham was on an exercise in an area known to have had little rebel activity for some time. When you went into the hut to advise him of the lateness of the hour, he ordered you to go back to barracks, and told you that he would follow on shortly with the remaining men. It was a foolhardy thing for the captain to have done, but as we all know, he was very confident of his ability. Over-confident, we must now sadly surmise. It would seem that once you were clear of the area the men were ambushed and ran away, but Captain Cunningham recklessly refused to retreat and was unfortunately killed in the line of duty. It’s a sad business, Sergeant.”

  The sergeant sat for a moment, silently processing this new state of affairs.

  “Indeed it is, sir,” he said after a time. “Very sad.”

  “Good. Now, I’ll leave you to arrange the burial of the captain. I have a couple of letters to write before bedtime. Any questions, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir.”

  He put down his empty glass and rose. At the door he turned back.

  “Colonel Hutchinson, sir,” he said.

  Hutchinson looked up.

  “Thank you, sir. I won’t forget this.”

  “I suggest you do, Sergeant, as quickly as possible.”

  After the hugely relieved sergeant had gone on his way, the colonel settled down to write his letters. To the Duke of Newcastle he would write, in the main, the truth, missing out only that Sergeant Baker and thirty of the men had abandoned the captain on their own initiative rather than on his orders. Newcastle would not want the atrocities Richard Cunningham had committed to come to public attention, and would almost certainly be relieved that the colonel had contained the damage. At the same time, Mark Hutchinson very much wanted the duke to know exactly what manner of man Cunningham had been. The bastard was about to be buried with military honours, officially guilty only of a reckless decision to leave himself vulnerable to attack. It was important that someone knew what a brute he was.

  To Anne Cunningham, of course, he would write the standard drivel that went out to all widows – husband bravely killed in the performance of his duty, very brave, died instantly, etc – the usual platitudes. He doubted she would be overly distraught by the news of her husband’s demise.

  It was certain that the men who had suffered under Cunningham’s command for the last few years would be positively ecstatic at the news of his death. No doubt there would be celebrations in the barracks tonight.

  Celebrations which Colonel Hutchinson intended to join them in, although unfortunately he would have to rejoice privately in the comfort of his room.

  He refilled his glass and raised it in a solitary toast, his words unconsciously echoing the sentiments of Graeme Elliot, who had known the deceased for far longer.

  “Good riddance, you bastard. And may you rot in hell for what you did.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Summer Hill, Sussex, June 1747

  “This,” said Caroline, gesturing to an enormous and still-growing pile of soil, “is where the lake will be, and on the other side there’s going to be a winding path, wide enough for two people to ride abreast, that will lead through those trees to a building of some sort – we haven’t designed it yet – where visitors can relax. There’ll be three rooms, including a kitchen so we can have freshly cooked food for dinner parties. Are you tired?” she added.

  Edwin, busy looking at the huge expanse of land that comprised their garden, took a few moments to realise that he’d been asked a question.

  “No,” he replied finally. “Well, yes, but your enthusiasm has woken me up. Once I sit down I’ll probably fall asleep, but I’m awake right now. Why do we have to have a kitchen in the garden? We’ve got one in the house.”

  “I know, but by the time the servants carried the food all the way down here, it would be cold,” Caroline pointed out.

  “Can’t we just have cold food? Meat, bread, cheese, that sort of thing?”

  Caroline looked at her husband.

  “No, Sir Edwin Harlow, we cannot,” she said. “Well, we can, but not if we want to impress the people who can push you up your career ladder. Which we do want to do. Don’t we?”

  Edwin rubbed his eyes.

  “I suppose so,” he said without enthusiasm. “But right now I just want to spend a couple of days with you and Freddie, and breathe some clean air for a change.” He inhaled deeply. “The air smells green here. It’s lovely.”

  Caroline’s brow creased with concern.

  “I’m sorry, Edwin,” she said. “I’m being selfish. I was so surprised to see you I couldn’t resist showing you what we’re doing. Let’s go back to the house, and you can have a nap. I’ll show you the rest later, or tomorrow.”

  Edwin glanced ba
ck at the house, which was a considerable distance away from where they now stood.

  “No,” he said. “We’ve come this far, and I really am awake right now. I’ve just had enough of politics and socialising for a day or two, that’s all. Carry on. A building of some sort. On the top of that slope?” He pointed to a low hill about a quarter of a mile away. In the near distance Freddie was kneeling down, examining something on the path with the total absorption of the very young.

  “Yes. Maybe a Grecian temple, or a gothic building? You can help me decide, if you’ve got time. If we walk there now, I’ll show you the view. It’s wonderful. You can see for miles. When the visitors – which we won’t invite until you’re ready to socialise,” she added, “have rowed across the lake and then walked or ridden up the slope, they’ll be ready for food. And they’ll be able to sit and admire the countryside while they eat. Everyone will be very impressed. And I can’t wait to invite Great-Uncle Percy.”

  Edwin stopped and turned to his wife, who immediately adopted an expression of innocence.

  “You hate Great-Uncle Percy,” he said. “Why would you invite him?”

  “Because since you’ve been knighted he’s realised how much he loves his great-niece. And because I’m also going to invite Prince Fred and then make Percy row us across the lake. He won’t dare refuse if Fred asks him,” she added, the innocent expression spoiled somewhat by the malicious gleam in her hazel eyes.

  “We’re going to have a boat?” Edwin asked.

  “You’re moving up in the world,” Caroline said. “Lord Cobham has a barge like Fred’s, with a dragon carved on the prow. We don’t need anything as big as that though; it would look silly on our small lake.”