Midnight Honor

by Marsha Canham

  Cumberland smiled. It was an evil, sly kind of smile that began with a thoughtful pursing of the too-red lips and spread across his porcine face like a bloody slash.

  “As it happens, my dear, your husband is quite close by. Within a hundred paces, I should think.” He turned to consult one of the officers. “The hospital is a hundred paces away, would you not say?”

  Anne stiffened. “Hospital?”

  “Well, not in actual fact a hospital,” Cumberland said, swiveling on his heel to look back at her. “But we could not very well put our wounded officers in with the common rabble.”

  It took two attempts for the rasp in Anne's throat to form audible words. “Angus was wounded?”

  “He was struck down on the battlefield—he took a saber in the belly, I believe. The doctors will, of course, do all they can, but…” He shrugged as if the devil cared more than he. “Belly wounds, in my experience, are usually quick to turn morbid.”

  Anne felt the floorboards shift beneath her feet. The room took a sickening turn as well, and the faces of the officers behind the trestle table blurred and became nothing more than flesh-colored blobs over splashes of crimson.

  A saber wound in the belly…?

  For the last three days, each time she closed her eyes, she relived nightmarish reenactments of the battle. In most of them, MacGillivray was lying in her arms, dying, and a soldier came running up behind her. She would leap to her feet and engage his sword, and at some point, she felt the blade strike and punch through living flesh. In her dreams the face had been distorted, but now, even as the faces of the tribunal faded away into the shadows, the face of the soldier came clearly into focus. It was Angus.

  “Dear God,” she whispered.

  “Indeed, it is in God's hands,” Cumberland said. “Or so the surgeons tell me.”

  “May I see him?”

  “Of course you may, my dear.” The smile spread insidiously across his face again. “Just as soon as you tell us what we want to know.”

  She frowned, her thoughts tumbling too fast to follow his words. “Tell you—?”

  “Names, my dear. We want the names of all the chiefs and lairds who wore the white cockade. You say you went on this grand adventure to Falkirk merely to keep company with good men … we want to know who those good men were. Lord Lovat, for instance. We suspect he was an active participant, but we have no proof. We need sworn, signed statements, for it is not so easy to win a guilty verdict against members of the peerage as it is against common cotters. They must be taken to London and tried before the House….” He spread his hands as if soliciting her acknowledgment that it was, indeed, a great hardship.

  “And you expect me to give you these names? To bear witness against these brave men?” Her voice had turned soft and low. It trembled around the edge of each word and anyone who knew her would have instinctively stepped back a pace or two. “In exchange you will permit me to visit my husband, who may or may not be dying of a morbid wound?”

  “You have the gist of it, my dear. Cooperate, and all charges against yourself will be set aside as well. We will even release your esteemed mother-in-law, the Lady Drummuir, much to the relief of the guards who have been forced to listen to her incessant pontificating day in and day out.”

  Anne squeezed her fists tighter—tight enough she could feel the tips of her nails cutting into the flesh of her palms. The room, thankfully, had stopped slipping and sliding. The faces of the gallant gentlemen officers were beginning to clear as well, and she looked down the line, impaling each with her contempt, resting at the last on John Campbell, earl of Loudoun.

  “You claimed friendship with my husband, sir. Have you nothing to say against this travesty?”

  Loudoun harrumphed into his hand. “You have the conditions before you, Lady Anne. I suggest you accept them.”

  Anne hardened her stare. He bore the full brunt of her loathing for nearly a full minute before his hand crept up to his collar. He thrust a finger between his skin and the linen neckcloth to ease the pressure, and when that failed, his jowls began to quiver, his chin to sag, and he began to wheeze like an overweight bulldog. In the end, his choking became so severe, the officers on either side helped him to his feet and led him, stumbling, out the rear door, where he could be heard coughing, spluttering, and wailing about “cursed devil eyes” for some time after.

  “Shall we assume you require some time to think about your answer?” Cumberland asked, lazily scraping a speck of dirt out from under a fingernail.

  You cannot show him you care. You cannot show him you care too much, or both you and Angus are lost.

  “You may assume, sir, that there is not enough time left for either you or me on this earth wherein I would bow to such uncivil demands.”

  “Bravely said, my dear, but perhaps a few days in a gaol cell with rats as big as sheepdogs will temper your imprudence somewhat.”

  He nodded to Colonel Cockayne, who came forward with the greatest reluctance. “Escort Colonel Anne to her new quarters, if you please. I would also caution you to search her well before you turn the key; if the dowager could smuggle in a knife large enough to put out the eye of one of the guards, I'm sure this one could do the same. One last chance to reconsider, madam?”

  Anne gave him her answer, having collected just enough spittle under her tongue for it to reach the duke's highly polished boot.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Inverness, May 1746

  The fear was like a blanket, smothering her. The slimy stone walls of her cell seemed to be shrinking around her, closer each day; the air was so thin and sour she had to pant to ease the pressure in her lungs. The sounds from the other cells were as bone-chilling and piercing as the screams that haunted her dreams day and night.

  Cumberland had come to the prison three times over the past six weeks, offering to free her in exchange for giving evidence against the Jacobite leaders. All three times she had sent him away spluttering German oaths under his breath.

  Her hair was dull, matted with filth. Her skin was gray. Deep purple smudges ringed her eyes. Her hands were stained black, her nails cracked and torn from repeatedly pulling herself up to the narrow window cut high on the cell wall.

  She did not know what she hoped to see, other than a glimpse of the fading light to indicate another day had drifted into night. Both were endless, the one filled with the nightmares of the living, the other with nightmares of the dead. There were times she almost thought it would be a blessing if she simply did not waken one morning. Cumberland said Angus was still alive, but she had no reason to believe it. If he had lived through the fever and putrefaction of a belly wound, if he were still alive, surely he would have found some way to get word to her. Not all of the guards had been chosen for their cruelty. There were some who didn't leer and rub themselves when they walked by her cell, some who smuggled in an extra cup of water or, once, a half-gnawed chicken leg in exchange for a rosette button off her bodice.

  The buttons were gone, the silk of her bodice was more gray than pink, and the only thing of value she had left—the one thing she would never part with unless it was removed from her dead body—was the silver-and-cairngorm brooch Angus had given her the night before Culloden. She kept it against her breast, tucked beneath her corset, and when she felt herself growing weak, when the despair threatened to overwhelm her and the sounds of the dying men nearly deafened her, she pressed against the metal until it cut into her skin.

  She would not give Cumberland the easy way out. If he wanted her dead, he would have to give the order to hang her, and because she was the wife of a prominent chief, that could not be done without taking her first to London to stand trial.

  Common soldiers and deserters were not so lucky. Thirty men who had been found amongst the ranks of the Jacobite prisoners but who were recognized as having once signed on to serve the king were summarily tried and hanged, the courts-martial taking place on the stroke of one hour while their bodies hung naked and dead the
next. One such man was led past Anne's cell, called out to the courtyard by the drums, and when he paused a moment outside her door, she nearly did not recognize young Douglas Forbes through the blood and filth. He managed a parting smile, however, and she was told later that he walked to the gallows with his head high and refused the blindfold, preferring to stare at the vastness of the sky overhead before the trap was sprung beneath him.

  More prisoners were brought in every day, and when the Tolbooth filled beyond its capacity, they were taken to the churches, then onto ships that were subsequently converted to prison hulks.

  In the latter days of April, Cumberland posted orders that all known and suspected Jacobites were to be reported to the Crown officers. Ministers were told to make lists of those in their kirks who had been absent during the months of the rebellion; warrants were issued for all chiefs and noblemen, with rewards offered for their capture and arrest. A price of thirty thousand pounds was put on the head of Charles Stuart, with lesser, but still substantial, sums allocated for those names that had sounded most often on the battlefield: Murray, Cameron, Glengarry, Clanranald, Ardshiel. Regiments of infantry and dragoons were sent out to hunt down the fleeing Jacobite contingents. Lochiel's stronghold at Achnacarry was demolished, the castle reduced to rubble, while the chief and his kinsmen were forced to hide in caves in the hills. Gray clouds of smoke hung over the glens as clachans were burned, the sheep and cattle driven back to Inverness. Cumberland had been given the authority to do whatever he deemed necessary to suppress the rebellious nature of the Highlands, and in his determination to be thorough, he gave little thought to the innocence or guilt of the general population. With so many prisoners to deal with, a lottery was organized wherein every twentieth man was marked to stand trial. The rest, if they could afford to buy their freedom, were released on the condition they leave Scotland and never return; those who had no money were loaded on transport ships and sent to the colonies as indentured servants.

  Four members of the peerage were arrested and slated for execution by the ax. One of them was the Earl of Kilmarnock, whose wife had entertained General Hawley the evening before Falkirk. It was rumored, in the whispers that circulated around the Tolbooth at night, that it was Murray of Broughton, the prince's former quartermaster, who turned king's evidence on the earl in exchange for a pardon. It was also whispered that Lady Kilmarnock escaped the patrol that had been sent to bring her to Inverness by infusing their wine with enough opium to render them senseless.

  Anne would have liked a little of that wine now. She was hungry and cold; she knew Cumberland would come again soon, offering her food, a clean bed, a hot bath. She was not sure how much longer she would be able to refuse, or how much longer he would tolerate her insolence, but there were indications the stalemate had to end soon. The king had given him a free hand to deal with the rebels in any way he saw fit, but after six weeks of unchecked slaughter and bloodshed, the atrocities were beginning to have the opposite effect, turning fear to anger, creating fierce zealots out of men who might have gone quietly home and nursed their wounds. Stories in the London papers had began to openly refer to the duke as “Butcher Billy,” and there were protests in Parliament from lords demanding a more civilized means of resolving the Scottish problem.

  Cumberland's free hand would soon be reined in. Lady Drummuir had already been released to more comfortable quarters, though she was still under house arrest. Sixteen other ladies—wives of suspected Jacobites—who were held for a time in churches or inns had been sent back to their families after the wives of several parliamentarians had interceded on their behalf. Anne knew she had not been forgotten in her fetid little cell; she had only to survive another day, she told herself, and perhaps one more after that.…

  They came when she was asleep. The rusted hinges on her cell door screamed in protest despite the stealth with which the door was opened, giving entry to two shadowy figures who hauled Anne to her feet before she came fully awake. It took several moments for the fuzz to clear from her mind. By then, her hands had been jerked forward and bound with a leather thong, a filthy length of canvas stuffed in her mouth, and a burlap sack pulled over her head.

  She made a sound in her throat and tried to kick out at her assailants, but something hard, blunt, and decisive struck her across the temple, causing her to lose all but the frailest thread of consciousness.

  She was dimly aware of being picked up and tossed over a broad shoulder, then of being carried out into the hallway and through a door cut so low her assailant had to duck to clear the lintel. She felt cold air on her legs and heard the snuffling sound of several horses. A cloak or blanket of some sort was wrapped around her shoulders, then she was manhandled up onto a saddle and her hands bound to the pommel.

  “Hold on.” Dazed, she felt the sharp bite of leather slap across her fingers. “I said hold on to the saddle, bitch, or we'll tie you across it like a sack of offal.”

  “Smells like offal already,” said another voice, sniffing loudly. “How far do we have to take her? It's a bloody cold night an' the fog's already drippin' down my neck.”

  “We have our orders. We follow them. Grab hold of that lead and look smart. We'd all look like ruddy fools if she managed to get away now.”

  “I say we just take her to the river. Can't see, other than the time it will save us, that it matters whether we kill her down by the bridge or out in the woods.”

  Anne blinked and tried to focus her eyes, but aside from the odd twinkle of lamplight that managed to pass through the weave of the sacking, she was as good as blind.

  So. It was happening. The stalemate was ending. Cumberland had finally run out of patience—or time—and instead of a trial had issued the order to take her out and have her quietly murdered, buried in a bog or a forest where no one would ever find her or know what happened. She remembered finding a skeleton once when she was younger. Jamie and Robbie had been digging a hole for a new well and the skull had flipped up on a turn of the spade. The jaw had been open, the eyes great gaping holes, and part of the bone had been crushed inward, suggesting that whoever it was had been killed by a hard blow with a rock or cudgel. Ten years or a hundred and ten years from now, someone might be digging in the woods and turn up another skull. It would be hers, but no one would know it; no one would have mourned her passing, either.

  She choked back the taste of panic that rose up her throat and tightened her hands on the pommel as the horses moved forward. The bindings on her wrist were cutting off the flow of blood, and her fingers were half numb. She had traded her shoes away weeks ago and her feet were bare, hanging inches below any protection the hem of her tattered skirt might have afforded. The saddle was cracked, and the uneven edges gouged her thigh with every jostling motion, but at least the pain helped clear her senses. She knew when they turned off Kirk Street and rode down Bridge Street and, when they crossed over timber planking, that they were across the river and heading out of Inverness. She also guessed, by the sound of saddles creaking and hooves beating, that there were at least a dozen riders in the group—far too many to try to break away from, tied and hooded as she was. On the other hand, if they were taking her into the woods to kill her, what did she have to lose?

  “Don't even think about it, dearie,” came a low growl from beside her. “Half these men were at Falkirk and would just love an excuse to fire their muskets into the back of your pretty rump. Me? I've a mind to put something else up your backside, and might do it yet if you give us any grief.”

  Anne turned her head slightly. Her hearing was distorted by the woolen hood, but the voice had sounded familiar enough to freeze her marrow and bring forth an instant image of a scarred, milky eye.

  They rode in silence for a mile or more, though it was difficult to judge distance or time. By sound, once again, she knew when they left the firmness of the road for the swishing thickness of long deer grass. She could smell spring in the dampness of the mist. The sweetness of saplings and green growth was mix
ed with the rich compost of rotted leaves and pine needles. There were no sounds of rushing water, so they had not followed the river. Just south of Inverness proper, however, was a dense band of forest about five miles wide that could absolutely suit their purpose this night, and she wondered if they would at least remove her hood in the final moments so she could take one last look at the sky and the trees overhead.

  One of the men swore as a branch snagged his tunic. “How much farther, dammit?”

  “The clearing should be just up ahead.”

  Branches brushed across the top of Anne's head for another hundred paces or so, then her horse was led off to one side and halted. More protesting leather indicated her escort was dismounting and again there were hands reaching for her, untying her from the pommel, dragging her down out of the saddle. The grass was wet and cold beneath her feet, the earth spongy between her toes; despite her resolve, she began to tremble.

  A tug at the back of her neck brought the hood off her head, and she blinked again. They were in a clearing surrounded by heavy-limbed fir trees. The mist was waist deep, lit from above by a crescent-shaped moon and from the two pitch-soaked torches that had been stuck into the ground nearby. Flanking her were eight redcoated soldiers with muskets cradled in their arms; across the clearing, six more looked as though they had been waiting impatiently for their arrival.

  The six were escorts for another familiar figure, short and squat, dressed in a dark coat with frogged gold braid down the front, his face shadowed by the brim of a tricorne.

  The Duke of Cumberland stared at Anne for a long moment before signaling one of her guards to remove the filthy gag from her mouth. When it was gone, she used her tongue to scrape bits of thread and dirt from her lips, but there was no spittle to call upon this time. She tasted blood from a tear in the corner of her mouth, and she took quick, shallow breaths to glean what moisture she could from the mist.