by L. L. Muir
“Forgive me, sir, but the lass lies! She’s been making cow eyes at me ever since—”
“It means…not only do we not have time for a proper trial, sir, but also…that I do not require one.” Campbell stepped smartly back, heels barely missing the edge of the platform where the hole had been made for the barrels. He tilted his head and addressed the doorway. “Send for the minister.” He pulled out a pocket watch, frowned, then replaced it in his uniform. “Hang him at the top of the hour.”
He showed no emotion while the guards forced the distraught Couper out the door, then smiled politely and allowed a woman through with a cloak draped across her arms. He faced the rear wall while the lass was helped from the water. After she was led outside, he faced Morey.
“Fraser?”
“Aye, Master General?”
“I hope ye’re as fine as Lovat claims. Come three o’clock, ye’ll be my only bugler.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Morey witnessed the execution, though he took no pleasure in it. Rather, he hoped that watching his reflection hang would serve as a measure of penance for his own sins. Though he’d never assaulted a young woman, let alone tried to kill one, he’d taken more liberties than he ought to have done. And the sheep he’d been counting above the towers of Beaufort Castle weren’t the sheep he should have been protecting.
Two guards escorted Couper across the yard. Their grip on his arms meant they didn’t trust him to cooperate, but he seemed defeated. His nostrils pulsed as he tried to keep his emotions in check. Morey was certain he could taste fear in the air and wondered if it might be coming from himself.
The steps to the scaffold were wide to accommodate Couper and both escorts. Obviously, he wasn’t the first to fight against his death sentence. The torches burned silently. Curious soldiers watched the prisoner’s progression and Morey suddenly understood what they were hearing. With each step the bugler took, water squelched in his boots.
At the bottom of the steps, the guards gave him a few seconds to screw up his courage, then forced him to climb. To anyone not watching closely, they might have missed his resistance, but the hands gripping his shoulders kept the struggle to a minimum, and Morey wondered just how many men the guards had escorted to their deaths.
Squeak.
Squeak.
Squeak…
Nine steps Couper climbed to meet his executioner. Nine steps that Morey felt slide beneath his own boots as if climbed them too. But the other bugler’s fate would not be his. The memory of Couper’s shiny boots twitching in the torchlight would serve as a reminder that Morey was a changed man.
One day, Morey Fraser would return to Beaufort and beg forgiveness from every lass in the village—to be certain he didn’t miss anyone.
~
For the ten days following their departure from Inveraray, Morey refused to speak of the incident in the bath house or the hanging that followed. But his reluctance was misinterpreted as gentlemanly conduct, and he ultimately enjoyed a measure of respect he’d never truly earned. But he was in no hurry to disabuse anyone.
The other musicians and officers treated him as an equal although, at nineteen years, he was the youngest among them. And as time went along, the sound of the Campbell name became familiar to his ears, and he no longer thought of the massacre at Glencoe when he heard it. At least not every time. And since his own name was said with an air of veneration, he was hopeful he would come to earn that respect in truth and bring honor to his own clan once the Rising ended.
That was…until the Battle of Gladsmuir, at Prestonpans.
Cope’s forces, they said, fled in the face of the raw fury of the Highland Charge. But it was the influence of the Highland pipers that caught Morey’s attention. With every recounting of the battle, he heard how the skirl of the pipes splitting the morning mist struck fear into every heart and sent officers fleeing ahead of their men.
Of course the latter details were never repeated within the generals’ hearing, but repeated nevertheless. And it wasn’t the first time in Morey Fraser’s life he wished his grandsire had been a piper and not a trumpeter.
No laird would have given away a piper.
The defeat of the Hanoverian forces at Prestonpans affected everyone, including Morey. But the real blow came when he heard that Simon the Fox, Lord Lovat himself, had been so impressed with the Jacobites’ performance, he’d openly declared his support for Prince Charles Stuart. The man who placed bets only when he couldn’t lose, had bet on James Stuart regaining his crown. And if that didn’t convince the British Army they were doomed, he didn’t know what would.
Thus, in one resounding victory, the Highlanders had brought about the worst possible scenario for a lone Fraser among the Royal Fusiliers.
A Fraser on the wrong side of the war. A Fraser that wouldn’t be welcomed home again, no matter the state of his soul. A Fraser that, God forfend, might well find himself staring across a battlefield at his own kin.
“Dinna fash,” Mars told him when he learned what ailed his favorite bugler. “‘Tis unlikely ye’ll be required to strike down one of yer own kin. Two large armies? What are the chances?” He smiled and slapped Morey’s chest as he passed the chair—the chair in which Morey had been moaning in his buttermilk since he’d heard the news at breakfast. “Save yer worry for the day ye pull yer horn away and find yer lips are still attached to it.”
~
As an integral part of the military machine, Morey trod an easy path. He ate with the officers and was given a dry billet off the damp ground. The only thing required of him was to spend the day within sight and hearing of the Master General and keep his fingers and lips from freezing in the chill wind. It had become a habit to glance at his mouthpiece each and every time he pulled it away, half expecting to see some bit of skin clinging to the metal.
Damn Mars anyway.
Morey was awakened early to play Reveille. Some days, he felt as if he kissed his mouthpiece from sun up to sun down. Other days he spent slumped in a chair, nodding off to sleep while he waited for Master General Campbell to be done with his strategy meetings.
After supper, his time was his to do with what he wished—as long as he was on hand to play Call to Quarters, Tattoo, and Taps. Occasionally, he was ordered to call the men to arms at odd hours to keep them on their toes, but he was usually given an early warning. And at the end of most every day, he was allowed to join the civilized majority and sleep while the sun was down.
Yes, the life of a bugler was fine indeed. And for the first time—well, ever—he was grateful for the sparsity of women about. He found his new skin to be comfortable, and he was in no hurry to test its fiber.
As for the war itself, they saw no fighting through the autumn, though they were acutely aware of the Jacobite army moving south and gathering new recruits along the way like so many eager chicks following after their mother hen. After Prestonpans, none dared stand in their way. But they were shadowed. And those shadows started wondering if perhaps God had invested James Stuart with divine right after all.
By Christmas, it looked as if there would be a new king sitting on the throne in London.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On December 6th, Morey settled around a table with three other officers to take their minds off the cold by playing cards. He had just begun to win back his losses when a messenger arrived for the Master General. A mere minute later, Morey was ordered to call Assembly, and by the time the troops were lined up properly, John Campbell was ready to share the news.
“I was fully expecting a messenger,” he said. “We believed the Jacobite army would reach London today. However…” A smile bloomed across his face. “They have turned back.”
Argyll’s army erupted, and having lost control of the celebrating men, Campbell turned and began shaking hands with the generals and officers. Morey watched closely for a signal to play again, but the man seemed in no hurry to end the festivity. Instead, he continued down a line of metal-laden chests until he ca
me to his bugler.
“Cheer up, Fraser. The war isn’t over yet. In fact, it is just beginning. We’re not quaking in our boots any longer, aye?”
Morey opened his mouth to deny that the day’s news had been a disappointment. But Campbell gave him a look that said there was no need to lie.
“When it is over,” he continued, “I’ll ease your way back to yer clan, if that is what ye wish. But there is something that can be said for staying where ye are appreciated.” He slapped Morey’s shoulder and returned to the center of the platform and lifted his arms. The assembly eventually quieted and the men went back to attention. “Listen well! If the Jacobites are returning north, we shall be here to greet them. Make ready!”
~
It took two days of rushing about before the army seemed ready to face the enemy. It took an additional ten for the enemy to arrive. In the interim, most of Cumberland’s army had joined with Argyll’s and met the Jacobites on Clifton Moor, in Penrith.
On December 18th, 1745, the victory belonged to the Jacobites, but not if the decision was based on where the dead were allowed to be buried. The Englishmen were buried in the Clifton kirkyard while the Scots were buried beneath an oak tree.
In January, the Jacobites tried to capture Stirling Castle, but failed. Their momentum was interrupted, but only until they defeated General Henry Hawley’s army at the Battle of Falkirk Muir. By February, they had captured Inverness and settled in for the rest of the winter.
And while they settled in, the Duke of Cumberland trained his army—which included the Campbells—in the ways to defeat the Highlanders. And while they trained…
Morey Fraser watched.
CHAPTER NINE
April 15, 1746
There was something about the spring that drove a man to do many things—something elemental that made it impossible for him to sit idly by and wait for life to come to him. Instead, he was driven to seek it out, bend the earth to his will, bend others to his will.
Morey expected it was the same with the Duke and the Prince, for they both seemed determined to prove they had divine rights of their own.
No matter how hard Morey Fraser prayed against it, the entire armies of the Duke of Cumberland and the Jacobites were lining up for a momentous battle. But the Prince was unaware of how well the Duke had prepared his men. He didn’t know that his enemy could fire three shots—if not more—to every one of the Jacobites’. He didn’t know that the government forces had been training to fight the Highland Charge with a bayonet move that could not fail.
No. Prince Charles Stuart didn’t know. But Morey did. And that knowledge had been eating him alive for months.
That vision had returned. In his mind, he saw that long row of lasses looking out the gates of Beaufort Castle. But they didn’t mourn the loss of a certain shepherd. Neither did they spit in his wake. Rather, the same row of young ladies wept and collapsed in heartbreak over the loss of their Fraser men—the men Morey might have saved if he found the courage to turn coats and warn his kinsmen, and their prince, what Cumberland’s army had in store for them.
Morey knew the Highland way as well as any of them. Move fast, strike fast, get away alive. Then do it all again.
If their leaders kenned that style of fighting would now work against them, they would surely disband, regroup, and retrain their men. If their leaders kenned…
But no one would ken unless Morey turned coat.
In spite of the wind coming off the North Sea, he sat on a boulder at the edge of camp, at Nairn, looking southwest toward Inverness. The Jacobites had already moved and awaited just over ten miles away. He could reach them before midnight. They could disburse before dawn. Cumberland and his men would march onto an empty field, all their training wasted.
As had happened a dozen times that afternoon, Morey’s arse launched off the rock and he headed down the hill. Six steps. Eight. Twelve. This time he made it to twelve before his feet stopped. He growled at himself and about-faced, trudged back up the hill, and found a shiny boot resting on his rock. The boot was attached to a leg, attached to a uniform. A uniform to shame all others.
Morey gasped and saluted the Duke of Cumberland. Then he thought better of it and bowed.
“Your name,” the royal demanded.
“Morey Fraser, yer majesty. Bugler for—”
“He’s mine, Yer Grace.”
Morey felt his head flush. The Master General had witnessed his bumbling conversation with one of England’s princes.
“Not for long, Campbell. He means to desert. I am surprised you would trust a Fraser.” To Morey he said, “You should have claimed to be a Campbell.”
“Yer Grace, I must insist you cease teasing the lad.” Campbell came to stand a between them. “Fraser is unfailingly loyal to me. He would never desert.”
The duke snorted. “I have watched him head down the hill twice in less than fifteen minutes. I tell you, he means to desert. I want him arrested before he gives the game away.”
Morey dared not make a sound. He would not struggle and claim his innocence all the way to the hangman. He only regretted he hadn’t had the courage to follow through and warn the Jacobites.
Campbell seemed as calm as the night he’d ordered Couper to hang. “I beg yer pardon, Yer Grace, but the lad is still here, is he not?”
Cumberland’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t appreciate being questioned, clearly. “You would risk your very life by defending him, trusting him?”
“I would wager my life on his loyalty, yes.” The Master General was sober as a monk.
Cumberland inclined his head. “A wager, then. If he deserts, I shall arrest you instead.”
Campbell bowed slightly. “So be it. But when he proves faithful? What will be my boon?”
The duke’s eyes narrowed again. If the other man weren’t careful, he’d swing with Morey before morning! “You’ll both be allowed to live. I assume that is agreeable.”
Campbell hid his irritation, but only just. “You are too generous, Yer Grace.”
Cumberland pouted like an ill-mannered child. “I’ve been generous enough, considering it is my birthday.” And with that, he pulled his boot from the rock and turned for camp, leaving Morey alone with Campbell, who had to know his bugler had tried to betray him.
“Come, Fraser. Let us get ye away from this hill so His Grace can relax.”
Morey’s feet were stuck in place. He couldn’t do it. He shook his head. “Nay, sir. Ye must ken the duke had it a’right.” His heart was beating against his ribs, hard enough to break them. The memory returned of shiny boots twitching in the torchlight…
This was war. There was no need for a trial. He might be hanged immediately. They were talking about treason, plain and simple. And Morey had confessed to it.
Campbell sighed. His mouth pinched. “Tell me, lad. How many times have ye gone down the hill?”
“Today, sir? Dozens.”
The man nodded, considering. “And how many times did ye come back?”
“The same. But still—”
“It is human nature,” Campbell said. “We tend to stay where we are appreciated. Now come.” He turned his back and strode away as if he had complete faith that Morey would follow.
For a long moment, Morey was furious that anyone would presume to know just what he would do. Didn’t the man realize that he was still a Fraser? That somewhere to the southwest there were hundreds of Frasers who would soon die if he didn’t warn them away? How dare he imagine his bugler would put loyalty to him above loyalty to clan!
But another vision crowded into his seething mind. Once again, Morey knelt and placed his head upon a block. But instead of Prince Charles demanding he be executed for treason, it was Cumberland standing with one boot on the seat of his throne, gesturing for the executioner to get on with it. And instead of Lord Lovat coming to his rescue, taking the blame for sending him to aid the enemy, it was Master General John Campbell, offering to take Morey’s place.
A wager, then.
Campbell would be arrested, at the very least, if Morey ran. The man had risked his life already to keep his bugler from being arrested. He the man not found him speaking with Cumberland, Morey might already be hanging from some tree. How lucky he’d been! He already owed John Campbell his life.
His gaze retraced the direction from which the Master General had come. Because of a great gouge in the earth, the size of a large wagon, and a thick copse of trees along one end, there was only one place the man could have come from—a shaded plateau from which Campbell must have been watching. But for how long?
How many times had he witnessed Morey start down the hill, stop, and march back up? It couldn’t have been chance that brought the man to so awkward a place. Either he’d been in hiding, for a bit of peace and quiet, or he’d followed Morey and stayed to spy. Had he watched for an hour, he would know how tortured his bugler was, and how likely he might be to warn the rebels.
And yet, the man had risked everything to trust him.
Damn you, John Campbell. I never wanted to like you! But he did. And God help him, he owed the Master General his life. How could he possibly leave now?
How unequal were the lives of men when set against another life on a scale. On one side, John Campbell and Morey Fraser. On the other, hundreds of men who might be warned away.
Auch, aye. Might. A weighty word, that.
What if none of the rebels chose to believe the warning when it came from the enemy’s bugler? What if both his and Campbell’s lives were forfeited for naught?
Morey stared down the slope and imagined himself running. But his leader was right. He’d only come back again. So, dejected, he followed after the Master General, understanding that, if he were ever able to return to Beaufort Castle, he would have to beg forgiveness from more than just the lasses…
