The Blood of Roses (7 page)

“Battles have been fought on plains before.” The Irishman sighed. “I fail to see the dilemma now.”

“The dilemma, sir, is that we are neither trained nor equipped to meet a disciplined army on their terms. Indeed, battles have been fought on open plains before—battles between evenly matched forces who respect and adhere to the standard codes of warfare. They fire their cannon at each other, then, after their cavalries have made their gallant and impressive contributions, march their infantry out in precision lines, five ranks deep. Have you ever encountered a solid wall of musketfire? A wall that moves slowly, incessantly forward, with the front rank discharging their weapons, falling back to reload at a relatively leisurely pace, while the other four ranks advance and fire in turn? Our army has no cannon, no cavalry to speak of, and pitifully few men who even know how to fire a musket, let alone possess one to carry into battle. Our ranks are comprised of shepherds and tacksmen, many of whom will take to the field armed with only a knife or scythe, or a rusted
clai’ mór
that has lain buried in the ground for the past thirty years. Any weapons they do come by will be taken from their own dead—the chiefs, lairds, and officers of the clans who, by right of honor and tradition, occupy the front ranks and who, by that same code of honor and tradition, prefer to test their courage and mettle by the blade of a broadsword rather than the more modern efficiency of a pistol. But in order to test that courage and mettle, gentlemen, those same chiefs, lairds, and officers will have to charge across an open field facing cannonfire and sharpshooters, across a distance that they cannot possibly hope to survive, should God grant them wings! And once the chiefs and leaders of the clans have fallen, I have no doubt the shepherds and tacksmen will continue the charge bravely and courageously—but to what end? Even supposing they survive the wall of unrelenting fire, without leaders what will they be fighting for?”

A round of grimly supportive ayes came from the chiefs, none of whom would consider altering the composition of the ranks, but all of whom could recognize the logic of Lord George’s observations.

“Our strength has always been our ability tae strike hard an’ fast,” said the crusty old MacDonald of Keppoch, “tae fall doon out O’ the hills an’ glens an’ raid our enemies afore they raid us. We’re nae match f’ae cannon an’ fancy
Sassenach
musketry, but I’ve yet tae see a neat, straight line O’ English sojers hold their water against a Heeland charge when it comes at them out O’ thin air. We need hills. We need cover. We need room tae wield our swords an’ cut them tae mince afore they ken we’re on them.”

“I must agree,” Lochiel said worriedly. “Put our men on an open field, wi’ nae cover an’ nae chance tae fight the way God intended men tae fight, an’ aye, we’d see a slaughter.”

The prince endured the tense silence that followed the chiefs’ remarks, knowing they were speaking through experience, knowing he could only lose more credibility in arguing openly with his general. He ignored a whining whisper from O’Sullivan and laid the problem squarely in Lord George’s lap. “Well then, General, how do you suggest we go about ridding ourselves of General Cope’s presence? Is there something we are not seeing, perhaps? Some way to use the moorland to our advantage?”

Lord George, relieved to have been presented with an opportunity to salve his prince’s damaged pride, quickly agreed. “My thought exactly, Highness. As I recall, this afternoon you suggested scouting the moor more closely with an eye to finding some way to utilize what is, in all probability, a blind spot.”

“Why yes … yes, I did,” the prince said, not recalling having done so at all.

“Donald?” Lord George turned his angular face toward the chief of Clan Cameron. “I believe your men undertook the task. Is there any possibility of moving an army through that morass?”

Lochiel resisted the urge to glance first at Prince Charles before lifting his cornflower-blue eyes to Lord George. The Camerons, under Lochiel’s able leadership, had played a major role in every skirmish and victory of the rebellion so far. They had been first into Perth, first into Stirling; they had been wholly responsible for driving the government dragoons away from Colt’s Bridge the week before, and it had been a regiment of Camerons that had duped the guards on the gates of the city and entered Edinburgh without firing a single shot.

Since leaving Glenfinnan, many of the chiefs had shed their country gentleman airs and hardened into their roles as leaders of a rebellion. Donald Cameron was no exception, yet his moods still were governed more by concern than zeal, his passion still tempered by logic and reason, his decisions dictated by common sense rather than politics. He wanted his prince to succeed, yet he loathed the very idea of the blood and violence necessary to accomplish that end.

“Ma brither Alexander scouted the land himself,” Lochiel said slowly. “He found the slime waist deep in places, tangled wi’ weeds an’ water snakes an’ the like. He estimated it would take four, five hours tae cross it, an’ then only by makin’ enough noise tae waken half O’ Edinburgh. Moreover, once we were caught in the muck, it wouldna take more than a handful O’ Cope’s men tae hold us off. We’d have naewhere tae run, forward nor back. We’d be caught like ducks in a pond.”

“If
’we were found out,” the prince replied. “But what of the road that cuts through the bog? Not the main thoroughfare that runs parallel to the plain, but the one that cuts through the middle of the swamp?”

“Aye, there is a road.” Lochiel nodded grudgingly. “An’ they took a good look at that as well. But its condition is barely less deplorable than the moor itself. Nor is it in the middle, but more toward the end O’ the plain, farther away frae Cope.”

“But still a good deal closer than if we simply formed up along the end of the field,” Charles insisted. “And it does provide a degree of cover, does it not?”

“Aye, it runs out O’ the moor an’ onto a cornfield. But the corn’s been harvested, the stalks half torn down.”

“Still, it’s better than nothing at all,” the prince argued impatiently. “And while, as Lord George has so painstakingly explained, Cope may well be able to afford the time to remain entrenched on that plain until it is our grandchildren he faces,
we cannot.
We must have a victory, and we must have it soon. Aside from the reinforcements being mustered in London, we have received reports that the Dutch are preparing to honor their treaty with the English and send troops across the Channel to help defend England’s border. We understand that my cousin William, Duke of Cumberland, has also been advised of his father’s growing concern and is considering withdrawing his troops from Flanders and returning home. Worst of all, however, if we show weakness or indecisiveness now, we could lose all that we have gained thus far, not the least of which is the growing support of those who may have shown reluctance to join us in the past, not only here in Scotland, but throughout England and Wales. I am assured that a victory now against our oppressors will have all of England singing our praises and tens of thousands of loyal Jacobites rushing to join us and carry the victory to the very gates of London!”

The prince’s bright gaze touched upon each man in turn and was met with a mixture of pride and wariness. The chiefs present were undeniably proud to be counted among those who had not shown any hesitation or reluctance to commit themselves and their fortunes to the prince’s cause. Yet they were wary because of the many important men—among them The MacLeod of MacLeod and Sir Alexander MacDonald of Sleat—who not only had broken promises to their sovereign by refusing to lend their support but had looked suspiciously as if they might even offer men and arms to the Hanover government.

It could not be denied that a victory now against General Cope would effectively make Charles Edward Stuart master of Scotland. It would also give them the badly needed time to consolidate their position, reinforce their border, and possibly open negotiations for a peaceful resolution with England. The two countries had existed side by side under different rulers for centuries; they could do so again, as allies, not enemies. The majority of the Scots only wanted what was theirs by right: their country and their king.

“Well, gentlemen?” Lord George took command of the council again, retrieving everyone’s thoughts from the realm of the possible and redirecting them toward the probable. “We have two choices, as I see it: the plain or the moor. Since neither, on its own, offers any guarantee of success, I suggest we plan a strategy that uses both. We can split our forces and put the majority on the road through the moor, with an eye toward being in position before sunrise. To avoid or delay detection as long as possible, a second diversionary force will make their presence known on the field flanking Cope to the east. By the time he realizes it is a diversion, with luck and God’s grace, we will be across that blasted field.”

“An excellent plan, by heaven,” the prince said eagerly, pounding his fist on the table for emphasis. “We agree wholeheartedly and without reservations!”

Lord George did not dismiss the opinions of the chiefs so readily. “Any questions? Further comments? Propositions?”

When there were none forthcoming, Lord George directed his gaze to the opposite end of the long table where the prince sat sandwiched between O’Sullivan and the other major thorn in the general’s side, Murray of Broughton. John Murray, no relation to the general, had acted as liaison between the Scottish lairds and King James since 1737 and had been primarily responsible for encouraging the prince to embark on this untimely and hazardous foray to Scotland. Also disappointed at being passed over for a command, he was only slightly mollified with his appointment as Secretary of State. Like O’Sullivan, he allowed his bitterness to shadow his judgment where Lord George’s loyalty was concerned. It had been Murray of Broughton who had first hinted at the general’s ulterior motives, and it was Murray of Broughton who kept the rumors and whispers of betrayal alive despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. If Lord George had wished to betray the prince, he could have done so in a score of different ways by now, not the least of which would have been to allow the prince to follow through with his original plan of a frontal attack.

“If there is no further discussion, Highness, I will excuse myself in order to draft the final details for the attack.”

“Certainly, General,” said Prince Charles, triggering a harsh scraping of twenty other chairs as he rose to his feet. “I shall expect to hear from you within the hour?”

“Within the hour,” Lord George agreed, bowing respectfully and retiring from the cottage, his sheaf of crumpled maps thrust into the crook of his arm. Most of the clan chiefs took advantage of the general’s departure to excuse themselves, as well, and within a few moments word was spreading through the rebel camp like a wild bushfire that they were to attack Cope’s position at dawn.

Alexander Cameron and Aluinn MacKail listened in silence as Lochiel recounted the details of the council meeting. It was obvious to both men that the Cameron chief was not as enthusiastic about the plan of attack as he might have been, but like Lochiel, neither man could offer a viable alternative. The moor road was the only route that did not leave the rebel army completely vulnerable to the destructive power of Cope’s artillery.

Aluinn was dispatched at once to alert the other officers of Clan Cameron. They were to have the men rested and prepared to march out of camp at four
A.M.
Alex set out with a similar purpose in mind but somehow found himself standing on a shallow rise of land, his darkly handsome face and brooding thoughts aimed—as they often were—in a southerly direction.

It came as a constant and disconcerting surprise to him that, in moments of tension and anxiety, Catherine’s image came to him so strongly it was as if he could reach out and touch her. The faintest breeze came laden with the fragrance of her skin and hair. Even the pale, blue-white moon that hung swollen and glistening above the moor brought to mind the luminous quality of her eyes. She came unbidden into his thoughts when he wakened each morning; the delicate oval of her face was the last swimming link with reality before exhaustion drugged him to sleep each night.

There were times, more often than he cared to admit, when the ache to see her or feel her eager body pressed next to his was so powerful he found himself staring at the wagons that formed their own spirited circle of activity beside the rebel camp. They were filled with nameless, faceless women who were more than willing to pretend they were wives, mistresses, lovers to any man with a few coins to spare. And a man facing battle, possibly death on the next sunrise, could hardly be blamed for wanting, needing, a few moments of blind release.

In the past, Alex had never hesitated to take advantage of such opportunities as they presented themselves. He had even, in a moment of inexplicable truthfulness, confessed to Catherine the existence of several mistresses in his former life, women chosen carefully for salving the needs of his body, not his soul. He had never wanted to feel responsible for another human life again, never wanted his emotions held captive by any one single soft body. He had never wanted to see that
look
in a woman’s eye again—the look that was a combination of hope, trust, uncertainty, and yearning. He had seen it in Catherine’s heather-blue eyes almost from the instant they’d met. Worse still, he had felt it in his own, each and every time he saw her in a spill of sunlight, or caught a glimpse of her in the soft shadows of a glowing fire, or lay beside her in the utter, complete blackness of night.

He hadn’t wanted it to happen, hadn’t asked for it to happen, certainly hadn’t expected it to happen, not when he had spent most of his adult life perfecting his image of a cold-hearted, arrogant bastard of few, if any, scruples. Women had always been attracted to him because he remained aloof and unattainable-free, goddammit—unencumbered by sentimentality or responsibility. He had liked it that way, had fully intended to keep it that way … right up until the night at Achnacarry Castle when he had seen that look in Catherine’s eyes and knew he wanted to keep it there always.