“The winter snows will be less severe near the coast,” Tullibardglass began. “If you lead the King’s army northeast from its present encampment in Edinburgh toward Aberdeen, you can, if needed, billet the troops there. Let the fierce winter ravage the Highland army. Then, when the time is right, you can advance northwest through Elgin, engage the rebels, and put an end to this folly.”
“Well spoken, Tullibardglass,” replied the duke, “and possibly a shrewd plan. If what I have seen thus far is any indication, I would certainly approve of anything that will lessen winter’s bite on my men. This is a dreadful place, this Scotland of yours. One wonders why we fight for it. Are the fires warm in Aberdeen?”
“Yes, my lord,” smiled Tullibardglass. “There will be plenty of dry peat in the northern city, I assure you.”
“Then Aberdeen shall be our objective.”
“What you suggest could result in a battle between Inverness and Elgin,” now put in Forbes. “That is boggy and treacherous ground. I would be loath to see—”
“Are you worried about your own estate, Duncan?” interjected the duke of Argyll with hint of a smile.
The pointed comment rankled Forbes.
“And if I am?” he challenged.
“The cause is greater than one man’s fortunes.”
“That is easy for you to say, Argyll, when your own assets and property lie safely to the south.”
“Tut, tut, gentlemen,” interposed Cumberland. “I had heard that you Scots were a fractious lot. But such disputes settle nothing. I like the plan. We will meet the Highlanders when and where fate determines.”
Forbes remained silent, inwardly irritated at both Argyll and Tullibardglass.
“Meanwhile,” the duke went on, “reinforcements from the ranks of your Campbells are on their way to Edinburgh even now, are they not, Argyll?”
Campbell nodded.
“Upon their arrival, then, we shall set out for Aberdeen. We will billet the troops and wait for the fool of a Stuart. His army is shrinking by the day, they say. I have no doubt the rebels will overplay their hand—if the winter doesn’t kill them first.”
Four days later, never realizing how close they had come to the duke of Cumberland’s private enclave, the Highland army marched through the Pass of Drumochter. Their northward journey would take them through the valley of the River Spey as far as Aviemore, then northwest to Inverness.
Feeling rested and much better than when they arrived at Cliffrose, at last Kendrick and Sandy Gordon prepared to rejoin their companions.
“Please don’t go,” insisted Aileana one last time, with tears in her eyes.
“We must, Aileana.”
“Oh, Kendrick . . . what difference will two men make?”
“Father is one of Prince Charles’s commanders, Mother,” said Sandy, coming alongside them. “Lord Murray needs his help. The prince has several Irish counselors whom he favors, but often their advice is disastrous. Father and Murray are the only two of his leaders with any sense, I think.”
“And the prince has a stubborn streak,” added the earl with almost a sad smile. “His knowledge of Highland methods of battle is not the best. He needs wise counsel if the rebellion is to succeed.”
“Then you stay, Sandy.”
“How can I, Mother? It is a matter of honor.”
“Honor, honor!” she said, weeping bitterly. “What honor does a man’s death bring his wife!”
Father and son looked at one another disconsolately. How could they make her understand what was in a man’s heart?
Gently Sandy placed his hands on her shoulders. “Mother,” he said, “we love you. But we must fight for Scotland’s honor, even if every one of us dies in the effort.”
“Don’t say such a thing!” she cried. “Oh, Sandy . . . Kendrick—you must know how foolish such words sound!”
She turned away weeping. Kendrick took her in his arms. She turned and laid her head on his chest. He stroked her hair, then bent down and kissed her gently one last time.
Aileana said no more. Father and son left the house for their waiting horses and soon were gone.
About midnight, as she slept, Aileana’s nightmare from so many years ago returned, this time with even more graphic horror.
Twenty-Seven
EARLY MARCH 1746
Culodina Sorley had scarcely seen her father in months.
When she did he was distant, distracted, irritable, in and out with strangers. Soldiers and nobles came and went—some English, some Scots. She kept to herself, and he scarcely took notice of her. During his most recent soirée with the fat Englishman and his Scots officers, she hardly left her room.
Now he was gone again. Tullibardglass Hall had been silent as a tomb ever since, for weeks on end. Even the servants acted as if they hardly dared speak for fear of breaking the silence.
Finally she could stand it no longer. She packed two bags, gave them to Baillidh the groom, and told him to saddle her favorite horse and tie them behind. Then she sought her father’s manservant.
“Swayn,” she said, “I am going to Cliffrose. Whenever my father returns, if he should happen to care or inquire about my whereabouts, you may tell him I am there—or not tell him. I really do not care.”
“Very good, my lady.”
As Culodina rode away, somehow she sensed she would not be back for a long time.
Twenty-Eight
APRIL 14, 1746
In mid-April a letter arrived at Cliffrose. It was dated some three weeks earlier. Aileana tore apart the envelope and opened the single sheet. Culodina read over her shoulder.
Dear Mum,
We are encamped near Elgin. Our force temporarily swelled after our return to Scotland, with new recruits and the arrival of a few French troops. But as we retreated north after leaving you, our beleaguered force melted away again. I doubt we are now six thousand men, perhaps less.
Father is well, but I read anxiety on his face whenever I see him.
The prince is behaving as if this were the London season. Father fears he does not grasp the gravity of our situation. Father does what he can, but often he and Lord Murray are the only two voices of reason. When we arrived, against Father’s counsel, Inverness Castle was captured and destroyed. Then Culloden House several miles south of the town was taken and has since been used for the prince’s quarters and command. I have wondered what poor Samantha thinks of her father’s enemies tramping about in her own house. She is probably in London.
Father is at Culloden House with the prince and other leaders. Occasionally we men are able to spend a night at the Cairngorm Arms in Inverness, but mostly we remain encamped in the park and precincts spreading out across the moor near headquarters, or in Elgin and Inverness.
I hope you will be able to give my love to Culodina when you see her.
Culodina broke into tears at sight of these words and leaned closer to Aileana, whose own heart grew cold as she read. She shivered involuntarily. Then tears filled her own eyes as she continued to read the blurred words in her son’s familiar hand.
Something must happen soon. An end is surely coming, whatever it brings. I sense that spring will not arrive without a decisive change.
The prince sponsors dances and entertains the local ladies, many of whom are smitten with him. Whatever his ability as a commander and leader, he is the most charismatic and engaging personality I have ever met.
Even though we have seen nothing of Cumberland’s army, conditions among the men remain terrible. The winter has taken its toll. Gradually our numbers evaporate as men continue to return home.
Just a day or two ago we heard word that Cumberland’s army in Aberdeen is preparing to march at any time.
It is so cold. But spring is on its way and, as I said, it will all be over soon.
Father sends his love, as do I.
Your son,
Sandy Gordon
They had no more than read the final words before Culodina had turned and was ru
nning upstairs to the room she occupied whenever she was at Cliffrose. Almost without realizing what she was doing, she began stirring frantically among her things, pulling out a small bag. She hurried down the corridor to Sandy’s empty room and opened the door. She had never been inside it before, but she did not stop to think of that now. She ran inside, looked quickly about, then grabbed at some of Sandy’s shirts and trousers. They were far too big for her. But they would have to do. With a warm plaid belted over them, perhaps no one would notice.
When Aileana saw her ten minutes later, bag in hand, dressed in men’s clothes she recognized as Sandy’s, wearing a hat and with a pair of Sandy’s old boots on her feet, she gasped. Immediately she knew what was in Culodina’s mind.
“Don’t try to stop me, Aunt Aileana,” said Culodina. “I have to follow him.”
“Culodina, please—” Aileana began.
“I want to be with him. His letter sounded so forlorn . . . I can’t bear it!”
“But, Culodina, you can’t! It’s winter . . . a woman . . . alone . . .”
“I must go to him!” Aunt Aileana. “Please understand. Don’t you know . . . I love him.”
Aileana turned away, weeping again. A few seconds of silence filled the room.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned. She and Culodina embraced.
“I couldn’t bear to lose you both,” said Aileana, almost in the whimper of a child being bereft of everything she counts precious.
“I love you, Aunt Aileana,” whispered Culodina, holding tight in her arms the only mother she had ever known. “You won’t lose us, I promise. But I have to go . . . I have to try to find him.”
Aileana felt the arms release, but she could not look up. Her mother’s heart was breaking. When she looked up a few moments later, Culodina was gone.
Twenty-Nine
APRIL 15, 1746
After months of waiting, word at last reached the rebel army that the duke of Cumberland was on the march toward them.
On the fourteenth of April, a Monday, the King’s son encamped at Nairn, fourteen miles from Inverness. The Highland troops were hurriedly rounded up from about Inverness to gather on Culloden Moor, four miles out of town. All indications were that Cumberland would attack the next day. The prince gave orders to muster by clans on the moor after dawn.
That night the candles in the parlor of Culloden House burned low. Discussion had been heated and lengthy. The cautions of Lord George Murray were falling on deaf ears. His brilliant generalship had outwitted both Wade and Cumberland in November of the previous year, and his tactics were responsible for the victory at Falkirk in January. But Murray had also been responsible for the retreat from Derby, and that decision, as well as the more recent retreat from Stirling, still irked the prince. His Irish favorites again had his ear—particularly now that Murray was suggesting yet another retreat into the hills.
They had been retreating for months, and the prince had finally had enough. On the advice of his Irish colonel, the notorious John O’Sullivan, Prince Charles Edward Stuart now determined to stand and fight.
“I tell you, my lord,” Murray insisted with urgency, “with all due respect to Colonel O’Sullivan, the moorland is disastrous ground. Cumberland outnumbers us at least two to one.”
“I must voice my agreement with Lord George,” now added Kendrick Gordon. “Our only hope is surprise, with a choice of terrain that favors rapid slashing attack and withdrawal. The wide, boggy moor will prevent the kind of charge that shattered Cope’s army. In the open, our forces will be no match for their superior muskets and artillery.”
“Precisely,” rejoined Murray. “We must have cover from which to launch repeated wild bursts. If I might just suggest—”
“I have brought the army to Drummossie Moor to await Cumberland,” repeated the prince. “And here we shall engage him.”
“But it is a parade ground, my lord,” said Cliffrose, “and a boggy one at that. An orderly advance of troops with bayonets will crush us.”
“Don’t you understand, my lord?” insisted Murray. “This is no field for the clans. It is suicide. I tell you, we must seek the hills and then swoop down on Cumberland where he will be unable to marshal his ranks in order.”
“The army will remain on the moor,” repeated the prince firmly. “We will await Cumberland there.”
In disbelief, and fearing what lay ahead, Gordon and Murray saw that as long as O’Sullivan opposed them there was no hope of convincing the prince to reconsider.
At six o’clock on the morning of the fifteenth, some six thousand Highlanders took up their lines clan by clan, from MacDonald on the far left at the north to the men of Atholl on the far right, and waited for the first glimpse or sound of Cumberland’s red-coated army.
But only silence filled the morning. George Murray and Kendrick Gordon put the hours to use riding together to scout out more favorable battle terrain in the hills and across the River Nairn to the south, still hoping to redeploy the army elsewhere. Another brief meeting was held, at which they argued their case yet again. But despite continued entreaties, neither the prince nor O’Sullivan would change his mind. On the open moor the army remained in ranks all morning . . . and waited.
But Cumberland did not come.
Shortly before noon, the prince dismissed the lines to refresh themselves. Sleep they might, but what they really needed was food, and there was none. In their hasty assembly out of Inverness the previous day, the food carts had been left behind. A few biscuits were to be had, but no more than one apiece.
In the afternoon, word came that Cumberland’s army, still encamped at Nairn, was celebrating the duke’s twenty-fifth birthday with brandy, cheese, ale, and what was left of their meat. Again, Lord George and the earl of Cliffrose sought the prince.
“My lord,” began Murray, “we have been discussing our plight and have a new recommendation—a night attack, this very night. Let us march to Nairn and launch a surprise attack while the enemy sleeps, drunk from the birthday brandy.”
Prince Charles reflected, then sought his Irish advisors. After a brief discussion, he returned, nodding and enthusiastic. The plan was authorized. By eight o’clock that evening, the hungry ranks were again assembled and the march begun.
Thirty
APRIL 16, 1746
Sandy Gordon had not spoken with his father in two days, though he had seen him in the distance on his horse, riding with Lord George. Now he could not see him at all. It was past midnight, and the night was pitch black, misty, and cold. Rain threatened, though his nose told him that, if it came before morning, it could well be snow that fell on them.
They had been marching, if such it could be called, for more than four hours.
How many struggled along in the frigid night, he didn’t know. He had seen dozens drifting out of rank and back toward Inverness throughout the previous afternoon after receiving the single-biscuit ration for the day. They could be shot for desertion, they said, but they were not going to fight without meat in their bellies. Sandy had no doubt that a thousand or more had eventually broken ranks.
Sandy had remained on the moor, his plaid wrapped tightly around him, and with only the biscuit to sustain him. His stomach was gnawing at him even now. But it had been so long since it had been full of anything that the growl of hunger was no different than the shivering of his legs and chest—they were with him every moment except perhaps for the three or four hours in every twenty four when sleep might briefly take them away.
As he trudged along, scarcely able to make out the form of the man in front of him, visions of Culodina filled his brain. Would he see her again? Would he ever have the chance to tell her how he felt? Or would shot from an English musket or some screaming cannonball rip his body in two and leave him dead on the moor, face down in his own blood?
All night he plodded resolutely forward, unaware of the bitter arguments taking place ahead of him between his father and Murray and the Irishman O’Sullivan. Nor
could he know that behind him, led by the prince, half their force was lagging badly behind and already rendering the entire night’s march useless. They had hoped to attack by two in the morning. But they would be nowhere near their objective by then.
Throughout the wintry night, the exhausted Highlanders peered ahead for signs of the English campfires. With every step their water-soaked boots gurgled to ankle depth in the boggy sod, and with great effort were sludged out, sucking mud and water up in their wake. Then the same exhausting process was repeated ten thousand more times, with packs and swords and shields feeling more like lead weights every hour.
No one spoke. The pipes were silent. Only an occasional sudden pool or quagmire that claimed a leg to the knee might cause yell or curse or squeal from terrified horse to break the night silence.
All the while, progress remained agonizingly slow. The prince’s rear guard fell further and further behind. Gradually a bitter wind whipped up in their faces from the sea ten miles to the north.
By half past two, they were still two, perhaps even three miles from the enemy.
There could be no surprise now. It was too late. Dawn would soon be upon them. Attack was impossible.
“Back to Culloden!” came word of the order through the ranks. The Highlanders sought the road, and once again—fell to retreat.
Slowly came first hints of dawn, a faint line of gray at the horizon beneath the covering of black clouds overhead. On came the thin light from the east until forms and figures of their clansmen could be seen all about them.
All at once, faintly in the distance behind them, sounded the roll of Cumberland’s drummers, calling his army to wakefulness.
In the increasing dawn and with solid ground under their feet, they made quick return work of the six miles they had come. As they went, many fell by the wayside from lack of sleep. Some collapsed alongside the road; others stumbled into open fields and dropped; still others crept into wet ditches or beside stone dykes in utter exhaustion. Eventually most made it back to the moor and slept there.
The hour was somewhere between five and six, the temperature hovering between zero and three degrees Celsius.
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