White Rose Rebel (11 page)

‘I’ll see she comes,’ Ewan said. ‘Thank you for your kindness.’

From outside, a horse whinnied. There were shouts of alarm, raised voices and squeals of fear. Ewan turned for the door. Anne planked the bowl into the hands of the bigger child.

‘Feed this to your grandfather,’ she said, and followed Ewan out.

Outside, the sudden brightness blinded her, but then she saw. Around Meg’s cott was a group of the Black Watch. Two of them had a grip of a young boy, Ewan’s oldest son, the volunteer. They dragged him towards the cattle-tethering stake where Meg bled her beast. The milking cow was freed and shooed away while other soldiers held Meg and the boy’s mother, both of them struggling, the mother shrieking her son’s name.

‘Calum! Calum! Ewan, they have Calum!’

Ewan was well ahead of Anne, racing to save his son. The officer on horseback wheeled round, his horse neighing at the cruel jerk of the bit in its mouth.

‘Stop that man,’ he shouted, an English voice scything through the Gaelic cries.

Ewan launched himself through the circle of soldiers but was brought crashing to the ground by a blow to his head from a musket butt. Anne ran through the gap he’d made, leaping over his prostrate body. She reached the terrified lad and threw her arms round him, pushing away the soldiers’ hands that held him.

‘What are you doing?’ she shouted. ‘He’s a boy. Leave him be!’

Calum wrapped his arms round her waist, gripping his own hands together so he could not be easily torn away. She was his chief’s wife. While he was with her, he was safe. No one would dare lay hands on her.

‘We ran away,’ he whimpered. ‘They would make us fight the Prince.’

‘No, they won’t.
Cha dèan iad sin
,’ she soothed him, tightening her arms round his trembling shoulders, resting her chin on his head. ‘Only your chief can say what you will do. He wouldn’t ask that of you.’

They were surrounded by soldiers, most facing outwards, guns trained on the cottars appearing from their homes. The lieutenant on horseback guided his horse through into the circle. It was James Ray, the Englishman she had thwarted a few weeks before.

‘Release the deserter,’ he commanded Anne.

She tightened her grip.

‘He’s a frightened boy,’ she said. ‘And you have no authority here.’

Ray dismounted, drew a pistol from his saddle bow and walked towards her.

‘His chief will deal with his disobedience,’ Anne insisted.

Without a hesitation, Ray pushed the pistol against the boy’s forehead and fired, deafeningly loud in Anne’s ears. The back of the boy’s head exploded. Blood and brain spurted over her face, neck and shoulder. His warm body went limp in her arms, the dead weight of him too heavy to hold. Cottars gasped and cried out with horror. The boy’s mother screamed, breaking free of her restrainers. Griefstricken, she lurched across the grass to her dead son, now sliding down from Anne’s grip to the ground.

Ray, back at his horse, drew the second pistol from his saddle bow, aimed and fired. The ball hit the bereaved woman full in the chest. She fell just as she reached her son, her body landing over his. Anne, immobilized with shock, stared open-mouthed at Ray, blood spattered across her cheeks, trickling between her breasts, her dress smeared with red.

‘She would only breed more traitors,’ Ray said, before turning
his horse, calling to his men. ‘Come, we’re finished here. There are more to hunt down before dark.’ He rode off, the soldiers running behind.

The dozen or so cottars who’d been invisible to Anne earlier surged forwards. Some issued low moans of shock and horror, others were in tears. Gently, they disentangled the bodies of mother and son. Carefully, they straightened their limbs and clothes. A man tended Ewan, who was beginning to come round from the blow to his head. Voices asked Anne if she was all right. She could barely make them out. Hands touched her, checking, cleaning away shattered flesh, offering care and concern. But she barely felt them. She had seen death before but not this brutal. Not a mother and child, the most valued, most treasured and protected people in any clan. She could neither speak nor feel nor move.

The arrival of more horses sounded like the distant tremor of drums beating in the air. Then Aeneas was in front of her, touching her hair, her face, her shoulders, her breast.

‘Are you all right? Are you hurt? Anne, will you speak to me?’ His voice was like an echo heard through water.

‘I am fine,’ she heard her own voice answer.

‘You are very far from fine,’ he said. ‘But the blood on you is not yours, thank God.’ Reassured she was alive, he shouted, anger rising out of him. ‘
Gonadh!
Damn them! Damn them to hell!’ Then he was giving orders. To MacGillivray. ‘Take my wife home.’ To the cottars. ‘Help her up.’ To Ewan. ‘Go easy, or we’ll lose you too.’

Then Anne was in the saddle, MacGillivray wrapped around behind her, his strong arms holding her, taking the reins, trotting the horse away towards Moy. Behind her, she could still hear Aeneas, angry at the harm to his people, instructing the care of their bodies, alternating between swearing and soothing.

Back at Moy, the Dowager took over, helping Anne upstairs to change while Jessie fetched towels, a bowl, a jug of warm water. Stripped to her shift, Anne bent over the bowl. The water was sparkling. She splashed it up on her face. Now the water was red with blood. Again and again she threw the liquid in her face. The red only deepened.

‘Enough now,’ the Dowager said. ‘Will stoked the fire, and the water is hot enough. Jessie has drawn a bath. We’ll get you clean.’

But even as she sank into the deep warmth of the bath, letting her head fall back so it soaked her hair, the clear water round her turned blood-red. She had helped send young Calum to the Watch. She had failed to protect him at the cotts. Aeneas would bring the clan out now but she, she would never feel clean again.

At Fort George, Aeneas dismounted outside the commander’s headquarters. He had a dozen young lads with him, all in Black Watch uniforms, all apprehensive. They had heard about Calum’s execution. Now their chief might be leading them to theirs.

‘All you need do is stay here,’ Aeneas said. ‘Can you do that this time?’

The boys nodded, but their fear and trepidation were obvious.

‘Be strong,’ Aeneas said. ‘I’ll tell you the price we’ll pay when I come back, but it won’t be your lives. That much I promise you.’ It was a big promise. A new British force under English command had recently arrived in the fort. But the regular garrison was Scottish, including their commander, Lord Louden. The Earl of Louden was no fool. He would respect a chieftain’s right to determine justice for his own clan.

Inside, Forbes was already making his case. As Scotland’s supreme judge, peace was his business. He had persuaded several chiefs to stay neutral if the threatened conflict came. Never one to miss an opportunity to compel another, he had possession papers ready in his hand. The other man in the room was not Louden. He was a stranger, a general and English, red-faced, plump, a man who liked his food and port wine. He was also polite, standing to greet Aeneas and shake his hand.

‘General Cope, Chief M
^c
Intosh,’ he introduced himself. ‘John Cope. I’m afraid Lord Louden is out of the fort. Perhaps I can help.’

Hearing the Englishman’s name, Aeneas would have turned around. The commander of a force sent to quell the Jacobites
would have no qualms about ordering the firing squad for Black Watch deserters. But an abrupt departure could mean fighting their way out, and his boys were no match for guards with muskets.

‘Then I won’t trouble you,’ he said, easily as if he were untroubled. ‘We’ll return when Lord Louden is available.’

‘Not at all, not at all,’ Cope said. ‘I’m sure we can settle this between us. You saved us a deal of trouble rounding up these lads.’

‘They’re my clansmen,’ Aeneas said. ‘Their desertion is my dishonour.’

‘Well, very kind of you to take it like that,’ Cope said. ‘Now, the thing is, what to do about it.’

‘I doubt more shootings will help,’ Forbes butted in.

‘Maybe not, maybe not,’ Cope said, seating himself again. ‘We don’t want to push more support to this Pretender Prince. But desertion is a serious matter. Port?’

The question was to Aeneas. He nodded and sat down opposite. The more amenable the negotiation could be kept, the better. He had to buy time, the appearance of neutrality, but not with young blood. While Cope poured, he decided how to play it.

‘Maybe it’s the words rather than the deed which give us a problem,’ he suggested. ‘The death penalty for desertion is just. I have no quarrel with it.’

‘Very glad to hear it.’ Cope pushed a generous glass of rich wine over to him.

‘But these boys were not on the battlefield,’ Aeneas went on. ‘They are not cowards who ran under fire.’

‘That’s true,’ Cope nodded. ‘Absent without leave is a different matter, a different matter entirely. Is that what you claim?’

‘Isn’t that what it is?’ Aeneas asked. ‘They were confused. The country is rife with rumour. They simply went home to find out what they should do.’

‘In the king’s army,’ Cope corrected, ‘we are told what to do by our superiors.’

‘Sir, with your pardon, these are voluntary recruits, and Highland. They’re bound first to their clan and, there, I’m their superior.
Their service in the Black Watch is in lieu of our clan dues. I have the right to rescind it.’

‘On payment of your debt,’ Forbes reminded him, waving the papers he held. ‘Your undertaking is in default again, your commitment insecure.’ He changed tack. ‘But perhaps we can settle the matter like gentlemen. The land settlement, I’m sure you’ll see that’s the best solution now.’ He put the papers on Cope’s desk, in front of Aeneas. ‘A signature, and this nasty problem will be resolved.’

Aeneas glanced at the papers.

‘This is twice the land you asked for before.’

‘It buys you twelve lives too, this time.’

‘Do not threaten me, Forbes,’ Aeneas warned.

‘But they would all be released from their service, all fifty of them,’ Forbes blustered. ‘I’m sure you may have other needs for them now.’

Aeneas drew him an icy look. Instinctively, his hand fell to his sword.

‘These are dangerous times to be making inferences.’

Cope had been watching both men closely as he sipped his port. Now he put the glass down and leant forward over the desk.

‘Perhaps none of us should issue threats, Chief M
^c
Intosh,’ he suggested. ‘Or I might assume that weapon at your side wasn’t on the king’s business in pursuit of deserters and have you charged.’

‘I can’t sign away this land,’ Aeneas told him. ‘I’d save a dozen lives now at the cost of dozens more in the future. My clan could not survive without it.’

‘Then put your own offer on the table.’ Cope sat back.

‘I have lost one boy,’ Aeneas said, playing for time. ‘And his mother killed.’

‘That was regrettable,’ Cope said.

‘Most regrettable,’ Forbes agreed.

Aeneas did not doubt the judge meant it. He made money from Highlanders. Deaths meant financial losses. He was also a Scot and, despite his disagreeable government stance, at least understood the clans and their culture.

‘You have my apology,’ Cope added, ‘that an officer would forget himself and shoot a defenceless woman. But, as you said, these are dangerous times. It’s good you have an eye to the future. From what I’m hearing, some of your fellow chiefs are less circumspect. Maybe they’re unaware we have made our peace with the French?’

Aeneas did not let the shock surface in his expression. While he digested the news, he returned Cope’s gaze with apparent calm and revised his first impression of the general. The man may look overindulgent, but he understood diplomacy. The warning was clear. The French might encourage the rebellion to harry England but would be unlikely, now, to send real support. Freed from their overseas engagements, the full force of the British army could soon be unleashed against the budding Jacobite forces.

‘No doubt you recall the outcome of 1715?’ Cope prompted.

Aeneas had been seven years old when the first rising happened. His own father died in it. One battle saw the Jacobites defeated. By the time King James arrived from France, again without that promised army, it was already over. Many chiefs who supported it lost control of their clan lands, with vast tracts ceded to those who’d sided with the government.

‘I guarantee these young men will remain in the Watch, whatever happens,’ he offered.

‘Even if we call it unofficial absence, desertion can’t be seen to go unpunished,’ Cope countered. ‘We need trustworthy troops under loyal leaders.’

‘Then I’ll raise their number to a full company. Captain them as you will.’

Cope smiled, leaning forward to make his point.

‘Absentee commanders only confuse loyalties,’ he said. ‘And a fence very quickly makes an uncomfortable seat.’

He had stated his price: twelve young lives for M
^c
Intosh commitment to the government. Like Forbes, he suspected Aeneas was hedging his bets and might go to the other side. The judge did not betray the Highlander’s Jacobite sympathies to Cope, but he saw the chance to take the game and lifted the papers from the desk.

‘There is more than one way to skin a cat,’ he said, holding them out. The words were carefully chosen to leave Cope in the dark. Clan Chattan was the clan of the cat.

‘There is,’ Aeneas agreed. Forbes was offering the chance to stay on that fence, at a price. The Chattan federation chiefs were bound to him by oath on pain of death. As their chief, he could deliver a guarantee that none would join the rising, or he could sign. Signing the papers removed his obligation to the Black Watch. It also removed the possibility of future prosperity from his clan. He did the only thing left to do – bluff. Get off the fence himself and hope that Forbes would not reveal how much more they could have gained. ‘My lads outside will stay in the Watch,’ he told Cope.

‘Did you not hear?’ Forbes pushed. ‘That won’t serve.’

‘No.’ Aeneas gazed steadily at Cope. ‘I will serve,’ he turned to look up at Forbes, ‘with them, and a full company, as their captain.’