“He's away safe. They're taking him to Ruthven. Are ye sure ye want to ride out in this, lass? It might be better ye stay here. There are rooms below the stairs that the soldiers would never find in a hundred years—ye could hide there until it was safer to go out.”
Anne shook her head. “I feel much better now. I can almost think clearly. The men will go to Moy Hall, and I must know how they fared. With John and Gillies gone … they will not know what to do.”
Her voice trailed away and the dowager clutched the crucifix she wore around her throat. “Gillies is gone too?”
Anne nodded and had to press her lips very tightly together for a moment. “I did not see Eneas or the twins, so perhaps they escaped. Lord George was commanding the rear guard, protecting the retreat, but there were so many who scattered into the woods and across the fields; it will take several days to know who survived and who did not.”
Lady Drummuir rose slowly and walked to the window.
“Did ye see Fearchar?”
“Not for but a moment this morning. I told him to stay away from the moor, but—”
“Aye, he takes to orders as well as you do,” the dowager said on a soft sigh. “If ye're that set on ridin' to Moy today, ye'd best go now, then, while the way is still clear. Follow the river road out to the east bridge and make a wide turn south. I'll send a couple of the lads with ye, well armed, just in case.”
“What about you? What will you do?”
“Me? Och, dinna worry about me, lass. I've had one prince under ma roof an' I survived it. I'll likely have another strutting through the rooms before the day is out, an' I'll survive that as well. In truth, it should be the wee toady himself who should worry about me. I'm no' above poisoning his soup if he galls me.”
“You'll look after MacGillivray?” Anne asked quietly.
“They willna find him. He'll have a proper Christian burial ere I draw ma last breath.”
“I would like to see him before I leave.”
The dowager touched her cheek. “Get yerself dressed, lass. I'll wait below. An' no trews an' plaids for you either,” she warned. “Wear yer best ridin' suit. The more lace at yer throat, the less likely the soldiers are to think ye've just come from a battlefield.”
Anne descended the stairs ten minutes later, an elegantly clad young woman in a blue velvet riding habit with founts of lace at the throat and cuffs.
The dowager nodded her approval and led the way down into the wine cellar. There, after manipulating a hidden catch behind one of the tall wooden racks, the entire section of shelving swung open and, holding a glass lamp over her head, she took Anne through, cautioning her to watch her step as they went down a flight of shallow stone stairs.
Anne had heard rumors of smuggling ventures in the dowager's family history, but she had never been in the “vault” below the house on Church Street before. It proved to be a huge, cavernous room excavated beneath the house and, and despite the shortages brought on by the blockade, was surprisingly well stocked with black-market goods. The walls were stone block, the ceilings supported with massive beams. The smell of earth and worms was tinged with the faint hint of distillation from the row upon row of casks and barrels that lined the walls.
“Some of these bottles,” the dowager said, pointing to a dusty wine rack, “date back to Angus's great-great-grandfather, and some of these casks of uisque are older still. Knowing him, Big John would have appreciated his surroundings.”
A trestle table had been propped between two barrels, lighted by a halo of candles stuck into bottles, the wax dripping down the sides in yellowish globs. The dowager tipped her head at the two women who had been working over MacGillivray, and they moved discreetly back into the shadows.
His face and hair had been cleaned; the latter was still wet and fell back from his temples in dark brassy streaks. A linen sheet covered the hideous wounds on his body, and he almost looked as though he were just sleeping; Anne half expected him to open his eyes and give her one of his big, careless grins, telling her it had all been a mistake.
She reached out and combed her fingers lightly through the damp locks of his hair, then leaned over and pressed her lips to his brow. “I haven't much time, John,” she whispered, “but I wanted to thank you for always being there when I needed you. I wanted to thank you for being my friend. For loving me. And I wanted to tell you,” she added, faltering as her lips brushed one last time over his, “that part of me will always love you, John MacGillivray, and that my life will be that much richer for having known you. And no, there is nothing to forgive, nor will I ever forget you.”
She straightened with an effort and looked over at the dowager. “If you could send word to Dunmaglass. Elizabeth is there. They were wed in Clunas not long ago, and she will be frantic.”
“Aye. I'll let her know he is here.”
Anne nodded. “That's it, then. I'll be on my way.”
“You be damned careful, lass. If ye dinna think it safe, keep riding right past Moy Hall and take yerself up into the hills. A velvet suit might fool a common soldier, but never think that Cumberland will not know exactly who ye are. Off ye go, now. I think I'll sit here a wee while with Big John.”
Anne exchanged a quick hug with her mother-in-law before hastening back through the vault and up the stairs to the rear door of Drummuir House. The Bruce was there, his gray coat restored and dry, though he was not saddled. Two armed groomsmen waited for her to run her hands over The Bruce's flanks and withers to make sure the gelding was not injured in any way. When she was satisfied, the three of them mounted and rode down the crushed-stone drive, leading The Bruce behind. At the wrought-iron gates, they heard the popping of distant gunfire and looked toward St. John's Chapel. A dead Highlander lay sprawled on the steps, and even as they turned west and headed toward the bridge, they could hear hoofbeats and shouting behind them as a company of dragoons galloped onto the main street of Inverness.
The dowager's warning proved to be unnecessary. It was evident at once that the soldiers had not yet come as far as Moy Hall, for the slopes around the loch were littered with weary, wounded clansmen. The road had been clogged with Highlanders as well. Upward of a thousand men limped, staggered, and fell to their knees beside the cold, sweet waters of the loch, there to cleanse their wounds and quench their thirst, and try to understand what had happened on the field that day. When Anne arrived, she ordered cattle slaughtered for meat. Every vessel that could hold water was set to boil over enormous fires, with chickens barely wrung and plucked before they were tossed in whole to make broth. The cupboards were emptied of linens, which were torn into strips for bandages. The grand dining hall was turned into a surgery where Dr. Archibald Cameron worked furiously to save shattered limbs and stitch impossible wounds. His own brother, Lochiel, had been carried from Culloden on a tartan sling and lay unmoving on the floor, ghastly pale, both ankles shredded by grapeshot. Alexander Cameron had been dragged from the field unconscious, his arm slashed to the bone from wrist to elbow. There was no sign of Aluinn MacKail or the giant Struan MacSorley, and though Anne asked everyone who might know, no one had seen her cousins or her grandfather.
Lord George Murray sat with his head between his bandaged hands, obviously fighting and refighting the battle in his mind. There had been so many errors, so many grievous errors that day, most of them wrought by the man they had forsaken everything to follow.
The prince had stopped at Moy but was gone before Anne arrived, so she did not hear his impassioned speech to the clansmen vowing they would rally to fight another day. The only rallying she witnessed was when wagons arrived from some of the neighboring farms bearing baskets of bread, extra blankets, and sheets for making bandages.
She had not troubled herself to change out of her velvets, though she had torn away the various tiers of lace to make bandages along the way. Thus, when another two-wheeled cart rolled to a halt outside the front of the Hall, she stood like a splash of azure blue in the doorway and watched as t
he Highlanders crowded around to help carry the goods away and distribute them. The sky was darkening, it being past five o'clock, and a runner had just come from Inverness with the news that Cumberland had entered the city like a grand conqueror, the citizens greeting him with ringing bells. His first stop had been the Tolbooth, the combined courthouse and gaol at the bottom of Bridge Street, where he immediately released all the prisoners the Jacobites had under lock and key. Word had also arrived that the duke, who had a fondness for sleeping in the same beds his cousin had slept in, had made his way to Drummuir House and demanded the dowager's hospitality.
All these things were spinning through Anne's mind, so she did not realize at first that the burden the Highlanders were unloading from the wagon was a man. An old, frail, broken shell of a man.
“Granda',” she whispered.
Fearchar Farquharson shrugged off the assistance of the two Highlanders who lifted him out of the cart. He took one stiff step after another, shuffling his way slowly to the bottom step before he stopped and looked up at her with tear-filled eyes. “I can say now that I've lived tae see mair than I ever wanted tae see. All those brave lads,” he whispered. “All those brave lads.”
Anne did not think her heart could break any more, but she was wrong.
“The bairns are gone,” he said. “All three o' them. I looked f'ae Big John an' Gillies, but I couldna find them.” His eyes held a hopeful gleam for the moment it took for Anne to shake her head. “Ahh, weel, better they died in battle, rather than see … what I saw.”
“Come inside, Granda'. There's hot broth and blankets—”
“What need dae I have o' hot broth an' blankets when there are a thousan' men lyin' on Culloden field, stripped naked, left in the cold, beggin' f'ae even a small sip o' water. What's wrong wi' the rest o' these men,” he said loudly, turning and waving his walking stick in the direction of the park. “Why are they no' goin' back tae help their kin! Why are they sittin' here wrapped in blankets an' drinkin' hot broth when their faithers an' brithers lie dyin' f'ae lack o' a sip o' water!”
“Do you think we just left without trying?” Lord George asked, coming quietly up behind them. “Each time I sent men back, they were slaughtered for their efforts. I could have kept sending men until we were all dead, I suppose, but what would that have gained? Believe me, I would gladly give my life if I thought we had the smallest chance of bringing even one man out alive. Cumberland has refused an appeal to parley. He demands nothing less than the prince's formal surrender in exchange for the right to treat our wounded and bury our dead. Loathe me if you will, blame me if you will, but do not disparage the honor of these brave men. Know that they would return to Culloden on the instant if I asked it of them, but that, in all good conscience, I will not do. Lady Anne, may I have a word in private?”
She nodded and entrusted her grandfather into the care of two clansmen. When she and the general were alone, she inquired if she might change his bloody bandages while they spoke, but he shook her concerns away.
“You know, of course, the army will come to Loch Moy.”
“I would be surprised if they did not.”
“It is to be hoped that when the heat of blood lust passes, as it surely must, logic and reason will prevail. I strongly doubt the Duke of Cumberland will want to be seen as a conqueror who makes war against women and children; even so, it might be prudent to remove yourself from Moy Hall.”
Anne shook her head. “Angus told me to wait for him here, and so I shall until I hear otherwise.”
“You saw your husband?”
“Briefly. He helped me move John MacGillivray's body.”
Lord George pursed his lips, and she could tell he was searching for some delicate way to say what needed to be said. “That may not have been the wisest thing for him to do. If he was seen, or if his efforts on our behalf have been exposed …”
“If he has been arrested, or if he needs my help, how would I know this if I were in Ruthven or hiding in a cave up in the hills? No, my lord, I know you are only thinking of my welfare, but I have done so many things to disappoint him throughout our marriage, been so stubborn, behaved so foolishly at times.” She spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “He would not even be facing a possible threat of hanging if not for me, if not for my challenging him, after Falkirk, to take more risks. At the very least I owe him my loyalty now.”
Lord George bowed his head a moment, then looked up. “You give yourself too much credit for the risks he has taken, my dear. Angus was taking risks for us long before Falkirk.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean … there were other occasions on which your husband helped us when he could have as easily, and far more safely, helped himself. We had spoken, you see, just after Loudoun and Forbes began calling upon the lairds and blackmailing them with threats of arrests and forfeiture if they joined the rebellion. I can tell you that Angus, for one, was quite incensed by the Lord President's arrogance. Moreover, the veiled threats levied against Lady Drummuir, yourself, and the other clan lairds had the exact opposite of the desired effect, and might have put him in the front ranks at Glenfinnan had I not suggested he might be helpful to us in other ways.”
Anne stared at him, wondering if perhaps he had taken a blow to the head. “You asked him to spy for you?”
“He was in the perfect position, after all. He had been away on the Continent long enough for his lack of political zeal to be convincing. He was an important enough man to win a position of favor and trust with both Forbes and the Earl of Loudoun. Despite giving me a very firm and clear no at the time—I believe he made reference to leaping out of the pot and dancing in the fire—I began to receive intriguing and interestingly worded letters. They pertained to mutual business interests, for the most part, but the odd one contained a phrase or two that made no sense at first, not until one began to realize the ‘shipment of grain’ he was alluding to coincided with the arrival of troop ships. Or that the ‘meat shortage’ they were experiencing in Perth and Stirling meant that there were far fewer troops garrisoned in either city than the government boasted. I doubt we would even have attempted to go up against General Cope at Prestonpans had we not known beforehand that the ‘apples in the orchards were still very green and quite inedible.’ By this method he told us General Cope had little more than raw recruits to send to the field that day. On at least two other crucial occasions, he was able to warn us away from potential traps.”
“Angus did all of that? But why did he not tell me— especially after Falkirk, when he openly agreed to go back to Edinburgh to spy?”
“Perhaps he wasn't entirely sure how you would receive the news. I expect it came as a shock to him that you were able to raise the clan without his approval, and perhaps he regarded his own contributions as being too little, coming too late.”
“Midnight honor,” she whispered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“That was what he called it. Eleventh-hour heroics.”
She looked down at her hands. They had begun to tremble so badly she had to clasp them tightly together. All those months she had railed at him with her contempt! All those times she had fallen less than a hair's breadth short of calling him a coward, questioning his loyalty, his honor! He had said, on his last visit to Moy Hall, that he had one more confession to make to her. Was that what he had been about to tell her: that all the months she had thought him a Judas, he had been secretly working for the prince's cause?
There had been hints, even outright contradictions in his behavior that she should have noticed, if not for her own arrogance and self-righteous pride. The night she had stolen the treaty agreement out of the Lord President's study, for one. He could have simply stepped out from behind the curtain and stopped her, but she had been too wrapped up in her own cockiness at the time to even ask why he had not. Was it because he had gone back to the library intending to steal the dispatches himself? Was it because he knew if she took them, they would
eventually find their way into the right hands anyway?
“Oh, what a dreadful, posturing fool he must think me,” she whispered.
Lord George smiled. “On the contrary. He believes you are the bravest woman he knows, and that both your courage and your loyalty come without compromise—a rarity even in most men.”
“Well,” she said, returning a faint imitation of his smile, “if he thinks so highly of me, how indeed could I disappoint him now by quailing before a few thousand of Cumberland's soldiers?”
“I am sure he would not want you to deliberately place yourself in danger, Anne.”
She thought about it a moment, but shook her head. “No. I cannot run away, either. I must be here when Angus comes home. And he will come home. I know it.”
Lord George sighed and took one of her hands in his, raising it to his lips. “It has been an honor to have you in my army, Colonel. I pray you are right and Angus is soon back by your side, where he belongs.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The soldiers came to Moy Hall three days later. There were upward of two hundred, half of whom had split away to circle the loch to the north, the other half to the south. Their scouts must have waited to hear Lord George had moved the clans out the previous afternoon, for although their approach was cautious—especially along the tree-lined route Colonel Blakeney's brave men had taken six weeks earlier—they strutted into the glen as if they owned it.
Word had preceded them from Inverness that Lady Drummuir's blatant condescension toward her houseguests had earned her a gaol cell at the Tolbooth. Because of Angus's service in the king's regiments, there had been some debate over what must be done about his Jacobite wife, and it was Hawley who suggested that if they were balking at the thought of hanging a woman, he would instruct his executioners to use silk cords.
Cumberland was only slightly more pragmatic. He issued an order for the arrest of “Colonel Anne” and dispatched a company to fetch her to Inverness. Since Anne had been forewarned of this, she dressed with extra special care. Her hair was plied with hot tongs and swept back in a crown of glossy curls. The gown she wore to greet her visitors was rose-colored watered silk, cut low enough to display more flesh than the flimsy gauze tucking piece could modestly shield from view. The small army of servants had cleared every trace of her recent guests out of the house, and Lord George had ordered that every cart, blanket, and scrap of refuse be taken away when the clansmen departed. Thus, at a casual glance, the parks looked relatively unused, and the officer in charge of the detail wondered if perhaps the reports had been exaggerated or wrong altogether. It would not be the first time they had been misinformed of a rebel's whereabouts, or indeed of a rebel's very participation, and he was particularly reminded of an incident less than a month ago when the laird of a manor was hanged from his own gates for being a spy, only to be cleared later of all charges.
Midnight Honor Page 38
