The Killing Man

by Andrew Wareham

  Lieutenant Wakerley was forced to accept the word of the local rector or pastor or squire if there was such, and then to share the food they offered, free and gratis as a sign of their goodwill. There was little enough to spare towards the end of winter, but most of the villages were able to come up with a few loaves or a cauldron of hot porridge, which was not unwelcome. Few of them had barns large enough to shelter the troop overnight, but mostly they offered the shelter of church or chapel for the men – the floors cold and hard but more welcoming than the muddy ground outside.

  The main army progressed from town to town along the east coast, a steady fifteen miles a day with little interruption, the Jacobites having made speed into their Highlands, supposedly heading towards the far north, a place called Inverness.

  Lieutenant Wakerley knew nothing of the aims of the generals, or of their expectations for the campaign. His troop was one of several such, how many he did not know, whose orders were to clear the countryside and ensure that no force of Jacobites might circle round behind the army to cut up the baggage train or even escape into undefended parts of the land to the south. He was aware that there was a fear that the Jacobites might make towards the west coast and then take ship into Ireland, where there was far more popular support for their cause and there was a possibility that they might split the Catholic island away from the rule of England. The least sign of a rebel force heading westwards was to be reported instantly – although it would take half a day at least of hard riding to take a message to the army.

  The troop rode, ate what was to hand and tried to keep their horses in condition to ride even further. They left the hills, crossed a wide valley, heavily populated with rich farms and small towns and then pushed north again, the lie of the land forcing them closer to the east coast.

  “Bloody mountains, Sam. Can’t ride them, not to make any sense. If they rebels went up there, it was on foot, slowly, and only in small packets. Platoons, not even companies, up those slopes – they couldn’t hold men together in that country. If they are there, then they ain’t keeping no rebellion going.”

  Sergeant Wright eased himself in the saddle, told himself he was getting too old for this game.

  Lieutenant Wakerley led them through the poorer hill farming areas of the lower slopes, seeking evidence that the Jacobites had passed, trying to discover their actual route, rather than the path the generals supposed they might have taken. There was no sign of them.

  Sergeant Wright was sure they would discover nothing.

  “Seen retreats before in me time, sir. The core of the army sticks together and the hangers-on, like you might say, disappears into the night. Like we saw down south a bit, that Howlaw place – the ones who joined last of all when it seemed like they was winning, they deserted when they saw they was losing. They wanted to go back home again, you can bet, sir. Any time they comes close to home, sir, so men run – no point sticking with a losing army. Away they go; if they had a uniform, steal something else and wear that in its place. As soon as they reckons its safe, chuck away musket and powder and ball and bayonet or sword or whatever, and then they ain’t no more than harmless farm workers on the road for being burned out by the armies, if they get stopped. Mostly they hide up and make their way home, and then they all says they never left. The ones staying with their army, sir, they sticks with it acos of they’re a long way too far from home to get there any other way. They ain’t going to be found just round here, sir.”

  Lieutenant Wakerley was inclined to agree.

  “Saw it in the Germanies, Sergeant. Same thing there. With these Jacobites, from all they say, it’s a bit different for having four sorts of men in their army. There’s a couple of battalions of French soldiers, who have no place to run in Britain; they really can’t desert. There’s the English who joined when they broke the border and came south – a mixture of Catholics and chancers, probably. Some of the religious sort might have stayed with the army, but most will have changed shirt again and they will have run before the rest got back to Scotland – we won’t find more of them, or very few, in these parts. There’s some come across from Ireland, and they’ve no place to go, so they remain with their army. That leaves what they call the clans, from the mountains here and further north. They say that they have to follow their chieftain – they can’t run off home for being killed as deserters when they get there. So, unless they’re sick or wounded, they must stay at the chief’s side. The clans must make up the most of what’s left to the rebels by now, and they ought to be heading back north as fast as they can.”

  “How many, sir? Have they said?”

  “The generals thought there was five thousand at most liable to stick in the Jacobite army. Kill them, or their leaders at least, and they are finished. Leave them alone and they’ll build their strength and be back in five or ten years – because of these bloody clans which keep them together, even when they was led to defeat last time, in my father’s day, thirty years ago.”

  The troop listened to the conversation – nothing could be private among so few. Sam raised his voice.

  “Did many come across the water from Ireland, sir?”

  “A few hundred, probably, Corporal Heythorne. They might be the ones to be found hereabouts, trying to find a way to get back home.”

  “Thought so, sir. Still need to keep an eye out, then.”

  They looked hard, but discovered no Irish, and no clansmen they could identify, nor any sort of English, standing out for having the wrong accent. There were no French either. Those who were going to desert had done so in the Lowlands, it seemed, and that was wise enough.

  The troop pushed more and more to the east, avoiding climbing up into the Highlands, and ended up on the flank of the army. Lieutenant Wakerley reported in and was sent back to lead the troop out in advance, along the coastal plains.

  There was evidence of the passing of the Jacobite army here – mostly shown as hunger, the retreating rebels having stolen the remaining winter food stocks. But almost none of the towns and fishing villages had been burned or totally sacked – indicating that they had shown as sympathisers to the rebel cause. Every young man was questioned, hard, to discover if he might be a deserter from the Jacobites. Almost all demonstrated their loyalty and were then conscripted into the ranks of the king’s forces, making up their small numbers.

  Sergeant Wright was much in favour.

  “Keep them in the front rank if lines are formed, young Sam. Then they can’t turn their muskets on the king’s men, they must fight. Once they have pulled a trigger, they are committed, for if the Jacobites recognise them, they are traitors. No quarter for them, Sam – they will know that and fight their hardest to avoid capture.”

  Sam laughed – it seemed clever, to him – a hard sort of cleverness, maybe, but one that worked. He was learning, fast, that only the hard men won in this life.

  They put up for the night on the outskirts of a small fishing village, frying herrings in slush, the greasy residue that formed in the casks of salt beef that supplied their normal rations. The fisherfolk had shown very willing to hand over a pair of herrings apiece, and some lumps of smoked fish, which they said were tasty. They made a change from beef and biscuit, at least.

  Lieutenant Wakerley called them together, spoke briefly.

  “There’s too few horse soldiers with the army to do all the scouting that’s necessary. So we must do some of it, despite being no more than Yeomanry, who the regulars don’t like and won’t use in battle… unless they need us. The important thing is to discover what is happening at Inverness, which is only a few miles along the track from here. They might have taken ship and gone off to France; they could be holed up in the town, waiting on a siege and hoping something might happen; they might have marched out to the north and west, onto the moors there. If we’re lucky, they have marched – for then we can force them to battle and kill them off.”

  Sam listened and was puzzled.

  “Beg pardon, sir. What sort of t
hing might happen if they wait out a siege?”

  “Not much in sober truth, Corporal Heythorne. But the word is that the Prince is no more than a drunk – so he might not know what’s happening. Perhaps they hope for more clans to join them under one of the big Highland lords – but we know that all who stayed behind have come in and sworn their loyalty to the king. Possibly, they think that there might be an English army, despite everything, delayed perhaps, but loyal to the Stuarts. It is not impossible that there could be an army out of Ireland – though I think if it has not come yet, it will not. The best chance, I think, is that they have received word from the King of France that there is a fleet on the water, bringing powder and ball, horse, foot and guns. If that be so, then we rely upon the navy to stop them. We move out in the morning, early.”

  They rode to Inverness and found the town open to them; the Jacobites had come and gone. The local officials said that they were taking position up on the moors, having found a place where one flank could rest on a morass and the other was protected by high hillsides and streams. There, they could stand and wait until the distance between the armies closed, and then make one of their wild charges, swords swinging through the redcoat ranks.

  Lieutenant Wakerley turned the troop and they brought the news to the Duke of Cumberland, leading his army in person.

  The young duke was a fleshy gentleman in his mid-twenties, hard-eyed and said to be ruthless. He had made himself unpopular with his colonels for insisting upon a regime of training and discipline which included his officers; it was rumoured that the private soldiers had an affection for him, for the same reason. Lieutenant Wakerley dressed his best before he faced him. He returned to the troop red-cheeked and sweating despite it being a chilly spring day.

  “That is a fierce man, Sergeant Wright. He gave me his thanks for the information and complimented the troop for its hard work. He had read a report of the hangings at Howlaw – it seems that the pastor there made a complaint to the authorities which was passed on – and commended me for my sense of duty. ‘No mercy for rebels’ is to be the watchword, Sergeant Wright. I have been named in his despatches to London, it seems. If he is so hard to those he favours, then I shall never cross him, that is for sure!”

  “Beg pardon, sir, but he is third son of the King and a wealthy duke, now. If the Jacobites won, he would be a penniless little German nobleman with no lands and nowhere to go. He has much to lose, sir.”

  Lieutenant Wakerley was struck by the simple common sense of the comment. Like most people in the country, it mattered little to him who sat on the throne or strutted in Whitehall and Westminster; for the King’s family, it mattered a great deal.

  “French soldiers are to be treated as legitimate prisoners if we come upon them – they are the enemy but entitled to protection under the Laws of War. All other Jacobites are traitors and will go to trial – if they are lucky. Men who voluntarily surrender themselves will be taken prisoner. Any other discovered under arms, wounded or hale, are to be killed on the spot. Pass the word, Sergeant Wright.”

  The army marched up the hills towards the Jacobite position, found them still there at a place called Culloden, determined to give battle. The troop was sent out to the flank, having no business in the line of battle. They sat their horses on the side of a hill, quietly watching as the army found its positions.

  Lieutenant Wakerley called a commentary.

  “One regiment of our regular cavalry, placed on the drier ground below us, on the army’s right. They will be called on to charge and roll up the flank when the time comes. We stay still until the Jacobites break, then we are to take part in the harrying. Keep together. I will lead you against any formed companies or smaller groups. Musketry and pistols, only go at hand to hand if they break and run. We do not wish to come up against those damned five-foot swords of theirs!”

  The slow process of organising the field of battle continued for two hours until the redcoats were where the Duke of Cumberland wanted them, a good two hundred yards distant from the Jacobites.

  “Watch now, lads. Too far for musketry.”

  The Duke’s artillery, batteries of field guns and coehorn mortars, had emplaced itself on the higher ground behind the field and opened fire, unopposed. The Jacobites had almost no guns, most of their few pieces having been left behind in their retreat, for moving too slow. The redcoats watched as the roundshot carved holes in the Jacobite ranks and the small mortar shells exploded and sent their fragments of cast-iron spraying through the lines. A few minutes and it became obvious that the rebels could not simply stand; they had the choice of running, of accepting the end of their dreams, or of attacking in one final screaming charge, either to cut up the redcoats and win the country, or to die, as they saw it, gloriously.

  “They are shifting, they are coming forward. Look over on their right.”

  Perhaps a quarter of the clansmen had been placed too close to the edge of the bog there and had to push across to remain on ground firm enough to run on. As they moved they came into contact with the front of their own people, bringing confusion and slowing perhaps a third of the whole force. Instead of all hitting the redcoats at the same moment in organised lines, they were spread out into a mob of individuals.

  There was a sudden crash of musketry.

  “Good discipline there, Sergeant Wright!”

  The redcoats had waited, silently, until the Scots were forty yards distant and had then commenced volley fire, three lines each in their turn, the first line presenting their bayonets exactly as if facing cavalry while the second and third lines reloaded.

  “Very pretty, Sergeant Wright! The front lines are facing half-right. Instead of spiking the man to their front, they are taking the swordsman to the right, under his exposed sword arm!”

  The second and third lines continued their volley fire, distant no more than twenty feet from the charge and battering the clansmen down, the heavy three-quarter inch soft lead balls smashing through flesh and bone. The artillery fire continued unabated, targeting the French regulars as they began to march forward behind the charge. The French lines wavered.

  “French are pulling back. Under command still, they have ordered a retreat. They will not be back!”

  Five more minutes of maddened bloodshed, the clansmen staying in the fight even when it was obviously lost, when more than half of their number had gone down.

  “They are breaking, the first are running.”

  The remnants of one clan pulled back, clustered around their chieftain, still holding together. Others followed, the realisation striking them almost simultaneously.

  A cavalry trumpet shrilled, the short blasts of the charge; the regiment moved, sweeping in from the flank.

  “Wait for it. Not yet!”

  Sergeant Wright drew his sword, holding it out horizontally to the side as if to fence the troop in.

  The redcoats began to press forward, bayonets dipping as they finished the wounded in front of them.

  “Keep together! Follow me. Form line abreast.”

  The troop trotted onto the field, taking a line directly towards the original position of the Jacobites. The regulars could butcher the four or five hundred wounded remaining on the field, undoubtedly would do so. One small troop would make no difference there.

  The Jacobites had scattered across the moorland, mostly heading north or directly west towards the high hills and mountains. A few kept to the track, possibly with pack animals carrying loot or rations; the troop headed towards the nearest, perhaps thirty strong.

  “Surrender! Lay down your arms.”

  A pistol cracked feebly; men waved claymores and broadswords in threat.

  “Carbines.”

  A full discharge, seventeen shots into the group from twenty yards distant. A dozen men dropped, screaming and yelling.

  “Pistols. Charge!”

  Right and left, the long-barrelled dragoon pistols doing as much damage as the carbines at close quarters and then in, thrusting w
ith the straight swords, all of them with their points sharpened over winter.

  More screams and howls through the cloud of powder smoke.

  Sam jumped from the saddle.

  “Simon! Take the reins, lead the horses back.”

  Sam’s section followed him, running into the confused, muddled fight. Most of the Jacobites were down and a pack pony was threshing and screaming in the middle, hit by a stray round. Sam spotted a man on one knee, trying to present a sword; he spiked him in the throat and turned to the next. A minute and the business was over.

  Sergeant Wright had reloaded, leaned forwards and shot the wounded pack animal. The noise stopped, apart from a few groaning and wailing men on the ground.

  Sam saw a man next to him, shot through the belly, hands clasped to his middle, blood spurting. He rammed hard down with his sword, moved to another writhing figure. He sniffed as he bent over the bodies, picking up the fumes of alcohol.

  “Whisky, Sam. They distil it up in their mountains. Supposed to be the reason they charge so fiercely.”

  Sergeant Wright showed a clay bottle he had picked up, let Sam sniff at the neck.

  Ten quick minutes saw the bodies searched, the pack ponies checked. They found only a few swords, most of them having been picked up by poorer clansmen as they ran. They mounted and moved off, richer by the loads of two of the ponies trotting behind them on long leads.

  “Reload carbines and pistols. We got more to do yet.”

  They overtook Highlanders running in ones and twos, once a little squad of six carrying a richly dressed and sorely wounded clan chieftain; they killed all of them, shooting from outside the sweep of their swords or pikes.

  “They’ve fired off their powder, Sam. Never had a lot to start with.”

  Simon shook his head but was very little concerned.

  An hour before dusk and Lieutenant Wakerley turned them back towards the army. There was no gain to continuing a hot pursuit into the hours of darkness. The business would restart in the morning, scouring the countryside, rummaging every croft and barn, burning out every household so much as suspected of giving aid to the rebels as they ran; it would take months, but at its end there would be a broken, pacified land.