Midnight Honor

by Marsha Canham

  “Promise me,” she pleaded softly, “that you 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 and 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. William was the king's son, after all, 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. Surely they had 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 didn't 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'm surprised your wife did not dress it for you.”

  “She had other things on her mind and was a little preoc-cup—” He stopped. He 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've 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've known about her little games for some time too. I would have had her arrested long before now if she weren't so damned energetic in bed. I vow she can do more with a few little muscles than a man of twice her strength pumping with two fists. Believe me, I speak from experience.”

  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.

  “Hands up, and back away, Captain. Your heroics do not impress me, and I would as soon pull the trigger as not.”r />
  “Then why don't you?”

  “Believe me, it would be my pleasure, but I'm sure 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 doublet.

  “You're a goddamned snuff-taker,” he gasped, his face twisting with the irony of his final few moments. “I've 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.

  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 one of the folded documents, dismayed to see his hands were shaking so badly he could scarcely hold it steady. 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 the 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 identically the company commander rarely had to consult the page before reciting the contents aloud.

  Angus read the document a second time, 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.

  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 r
eflection of charnel horror, 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, then 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 at least it was 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 Stuart army had to be close enough to smell the garbage burning behind the butcher's tents.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  What's that godawful stench?” Robbie Farquharson asked, his nose wrinkled up almost to his eyebrows.

  “The shite o' the forty horses ahead o' us, mixed with the muck an' slime o' every fish what ever died in this bluidy river.” Jamie, calf deep in the mire, struggled to free his left leg so he could sink it in front of the right. He'd lost his brogues a mile back, not clever enough or quick-thinking enough to have tied them on a string around his neck like most of the other men had done, and was barefoot. The wind that had blown earlier in the day was gone, its abrupt departure encouraging a heavy fog to creep up from the riverbank. The farther east they walked, the thicker the fog became, until it was difficult to see the man in front and impossible to know if there was better ground ten feet on either side.

  Lord George Murray had led the first column of men out of camp at eight o'clock. With him were Lochiel's Camerons, his Athollmen, and the MacDonalds from Clanranald, numbering some nineteen hundred in all, guided by John MacGillivray and Gillies MacBean.

  The prince and Lord John Drummond commanded the second column of two thousand, comprising mostly Lowlanders and French volunteers, and by the time they had struggled over the same trackless paths, marshes, and quagmires, the gap between the two columns had widened too much to ever hope to launch the simultaneous attack they had planned. By two o'clock in the morning they had covered only seven miles, and the conditions were worsening.