Kings Pinnacle

By Robert Gourley

Alex Mackenzie was a Scottish lad born in 1754 in the Scottish lowlands on the border between Scotland and England. Alex, his father, and his two older brothers were members of the last band of Reivers (outlaws) that operated along the border. A few years before the start of the American Revolutionary War, Alex ran afoul of the British authorities; they were on his trail and wanted him dead. His only alternative was to leave Scotland for Ireland and then from there to sail to America. The colonies in America were supposed to be a place where people could get a new start in life and explore new opportunities. America was supposed to be a place where people could put down stakes and put old feuds behind them, or was it?

“Och, that tears it; it’s all gang agley” said Alex’s father. “Ye are going to hae to set aff from Scotland for a wee bit, Alex, laddie.”
“Where should I go?”
“Ireland,” said John. “Ye can find wark at the Plantation of Ulster and get back on yer feet there. Ye might hae t’ stay in Ireland quite a spell until this all blows oer.”
“How am I going to get there?”
“Weel,” Hugh chimed in, “the distance from Scotland to Ireland is less than fourteen miles at the closest point, we can probably swim o’er there, just like swimming across a loch,” said Hugh with a grin and a gleam in his eye.
“We,” said Alex. “Who invited you along?”
“Ye don’t think Robber and I would let ye go o’er the Sheuch alane, do ye, laddie?” replied Hugh.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Gourley
• Release date: Jul 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301213238

Robert Gourley

'Kings Pinnacle' is Robert's first work of fiction in The March Hare Novels and is loosely based on the life of his great, great, great grandfather, Captain Thomas Gourley who fought several battles in the north and in the south during the Revolutionary War, including the Battle of Kings Mountain. The second book in The March Hare Novels is titled 'The Last Reiver'. It continues the story of the Mackenzie brothers that was begun in Kings Pinnacle. The third installment of The March Hare Novels is titled 'Fire Moon' and was first published in 2017. Robert lives with his wife of over 35 years, Nancy, in Frisco, Texas.

Book preview

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Kings Pinnacle

A March Hare Novel: Book 1

By Robert Gourley

Copyright 2013 by Robert Gourley

Smashwords Edition

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Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied, or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

Kings Pinnacle is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Certain real life characters and real life events are described in the book, but they are also used fictitiously. Any other resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

Cover photograph by Robyn Michelle Photography.

www.robynphotography.com/

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Kings Pinnacle Part 1

Kings Pinnacle Part 2

Kings Pinnacle Part 3

Kings Pinnacle Part 4

Kings Pinnacle Part 5

Kings Pinnacle Part 6

Epilogue

Author’s End Note

About The Author

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Acknowledgements

I would like to thank editors Nancy Gourley and Deloris Glenn, and I would like to dedicate this book to my wife Nancy.

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Kings Pinnacle Part 1

Alex

In times of eld, it was believed that the human spirit shared a bond with all things divine. This sacred hand-fasting ceremony between this lassie, Elizabeth Murray and yon lad, Alexander Mackenzie is a tradition that dates back o’er the ages to symbolize that they will nae longer be twa, but will be ane, ye ken, said the old Scottish Presbyterian minister with a wink at the bride.

Alex smiled at the wink even though he had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach as he glanced over at his bride-to-be standing beside him. Pushing down the worry and chalking it up to butterflies, he returned his gaze to the minister who had just begun the hand-fasting ceremony.

The old minister was reciting the ceremony from memory, while he leaned heavily on his dusty, decrepit lectern. As the rite dictated, the reverend stopped and picked up a ceremonial rope, which he wrapped around the joined hands of the young couple standing in front of him. Just as he began tying a knot in the rope to signify the bond, the front door of the toll house crashed against the front wall. A highly polished black boot had kicked it all the way open, interrupting the ceremony.

A few people who lived nearby and some other folks that had happened to be in the vicinity had been rounded up to witness the ceremony. This small group of people was standing just behind the couple, partially blocking the reverend’s view of the door. The old minister paused in tying the knot, stepped out from behind his lectern to stand beside it, and rose up on his tip-toes, trying to look over the tops of the heads of the congregation. The happy couple and all the witnesses also turned toward the door to see what all the commotion was about.

The year was 1770, and the ceremony was being conducted in the toll house on the Scottish side of the Coldstream Bridge, which spanned the River Tweed between the Village of Coldstream, Scotland and the English village of Cornhill-on-Tweed. Coldstream was one of those small, sleepy communities on the southeastern border of Scotland that was convenient for elopers from England who wanted to marry under Scottish laws and without publicity. The reverend was also the toll collector for people and freight passing over the bridge, but most of his income came from performing marriage ceremonies and hand-fastings rather than from collecting tolls.

The locals who lived on both sides of the boundary between England and Scotland still referred to it as The Border even though that term had been forbidden by King James I in the early 1600s. The toll house at the Coldstream end of the bridge was famous throughout England and Scotland for hosting weddings and hand-fastings for couples that came across from England, because the Lord Hardwicke’s Marriage Act did not have jurisdiction in Scotland. In Scotland, it was legal for males to marry at age fourteen and females at age twelve. Gretna Green, in the southwest of Scotland, was a much more popular marriage destination just over the border, because it was the first village in Scotland on the main carriage route from London to Edinburgh.

The border between Scotland and England had been created by the Treaty of Union in 1707, which united England and Scotland to form the Kingdom of Great Britain. The official border ran along the River Tweed in the east to the Solway Firth in the west. This border formed a boundary of two distinct legal jurisdictions, since the Treaty of Union guaranteed the continued separation of English law and Scottish law.

What in the name of all that’s holy is going on here? asked the reverend in a raised voice.

Now that’s exactly what I want to know, replied the intruder who had just kicked open the toll house front door.

And just who are you, sir and what do you want? asked the minister.

Patrick! shouted Elizabeth Murray, interrupting the reverend, as she recognized her cousin Patrick, who was leading the band of young men that had just entered the toll house.

What is the meaning of this? asked Elizabeth.

The group of young men had walked through the toll house door and continued to the far end of the room where the ceremony was taking place. Elizabeth’s cousin Patrick was leading the way.

Ye can’t marry him, Betsy, said Patrick, pointing a finger at the bridegroom, Alexander Mackenzie.

And just why can’t I? replied Elizabeth with a pout.

For one thing, you’re too young.

I’m sixteen and so is Alex.

Yes, you are, but the age of legal capacity is twenty-one, Cousin, said Patrick with a smirk.

It is in England, but we happen to be standing in Scotland, where the age of legal capacity is fourteen, Cousin, Elizabeth replied sarcastically.

That may be true, but you still can’t marry without your father’s consent until you are twenty-one, Cousin, Patrick replied with equal sarcasm.

I can if I am in Scotland.

In 1753, the English Parliament had passed the Lord Hardwicke’s Marriage Act, which codified that if either party to a marriage was not at least twenty-one years old, then both sets of parents had to consent to the marriage.

We’ll see about that, lassie. Besides you’re English and he’s a Scot. There are laws against international marriages, and you’re not going to marry a Reiver anyway, said Patrick with an evil smile.

Patrick was correct; there were laws against international marriages, but these laws were widely ignored by the church and the authorities. The bridegroom, Alex Mackenzie, was in fact one of the last Reivers in existence. By the middle of the 1600s, the authorities had largely wiped out the border outlaws, called Reivers. But even in the late 1700s, the border was still thinly populated, and there were often conflicts that sprang up. The lives of the people who lived along the border were frequently disrupted by these clashes and altercations. The border was often a lawless place where tensions ran high and feuds erupted between rival clans over the slightest incident or insult. At one time, it had been generally sanctioned by the authorities for the so-called Reivers to conduct raids on both sides of the border, as long as the people who were being raided did not have powerful allies or kin among the raiders, but that was no longer the case. All of the Reivers had been hunted down long ago, or so everyone thought.

Who says I’m a weaver? interjected Alexander Mackenzie, smiling his disarming smile and stepping up beside Elizabeth.

Alex had quietly untied and removed the ceremonial rope from his and Elizabeth’s hands in case he needed to move quickly.

I don’t even own a loom, he said with a grin.

I said you’re a Reiver, laddie, said Patrick, I didn’t say you were a weaver, and furthermore, I’m here to arrest you. You’re not going to marry Elizabeth, of that ye can be sure.

Everyone knows that there haven’t been any Reivers in Scotland or in England for over a hundred years.

Well, I guess I will just have to call you an outlaw instead of a Reiver then.

Alex had noticed that the young man named Patrick was dressed the latest British fashions made popular in London; he was obviously a wealthy young dandy. The men standing behind Patrick had spread out in a line all the way across the little toll house, ready to cut off any attempt to bolt past them toward the main door.

Alex knew he was in trouble; he was unarmed except for a knife in his boot, and his brothers were nowhere in sight. They didn’t even know where he was or that he was formally hand-fasting Elizabeth Murray. When cornered, Alex’s usual initial instinct was always to fight, but his intellect often overrode his instinct and determined that he should flee. In this case the odds were ten to one against him. Fighting didn’t seem to be much of an option.

Do you want to come peacefully, or do you want to do it the hard way, laddie? asked Patrick.

There’s no need for violence, sir; you’ve got my hand on it, said the smiling Alex as he stuck out his hand as if to shake hands with Patrick and give him assurance that he would not try to escape. At the same time, he raked his long blond hair back out of his eyes with his left hand.

At first, Patrick was puzzled by the offer to shake hands. But after he considered it for a few moments, he finally decided to accept the offer. When he reached out to clasp hands, Alex reached past Patrick’s hand, grabbing his wrist instead. He then took a small side-step and pulled Patrick’s arm as hard as he could, spinning him around in a half circle right into the old reverend, who was still standing beside his lectern. The minister was completely caught off guard by the unexpected collision, as was Patrick. So the reverend instinctively wrapped both of his arms around Patrick just as the young man barreled into him. Their feet tangled together as they stumbled backward. Both men lost their footing and went down to the floor in a tangled heap. Patrick quickly tried to get from on top of the old reverend and regain his feet.

As soon as the collision occurred, Alex turned and ran like a hare, past the old reverend’s lectern, toward the back of the toll house and away from the men blocking the front door. He knew that there was another door on the side of the toll house that led out into a small garden tended by the reverend and his wife.

He threw open the side door and dashed outside. Shouting, Sorry, Reverend, over his shoulder, he raced past the small vegetable garden and around the toll house to the rail where his horse Hack was tied. Alex had already untied Hack at the hitching post and was running alongside him away from the toll house by the time Elizabeth, Patrick, and the other young men spilled out the toll house front door into the road.

Hack was a spotted bay pony, and he was born to run. Hack instantly knew that something was up when he saw Alex dash up and untie him. Alex had grabbed the reins on the fly and continued sprinting alongside Hack for a short distance. Then he grasped the saddle horn and leaped into the saddle of the running horse in a single bound, yelling, Yeah, Hack!

Border horses were unmatched in speed and stamina, and Alex had owned Hack since he was a colt. In addition to his speed, Hack could also pick his way across boggy moss lands where Alex couldn’t see the trail. Hack and Alex were like brothers, rather than horse and master. Alex had always had a way with horses. No one really understood why; they just accepted it as a fact.

Never trust the hand of a Reiver, Alex shouted over his shoulder as he flew out of sight around the bend in the road before Patrick and his companions could even mount their horses. Patrick knew he couldn’t catch Alex, so he stopped in his tracks and threw his reins to the ground with a dejected look.

It was almost spring weather, near the end of March, and it had been unseasonably warm for northern England or southern Scotland. The leaves were just beginning to bud on some the trees that grew along the road. The grass was just showing a hint of green in a few places as the dust that was thrown up from Hack’s hooves settled back down on the road.

The border area was also very thin on law enforcement with the king located so far away in London. It was ripe for plunder and robbery. Most of the land was not really arable but it could be used for grazing. Outlaws often rustled cattle and sometimes kidnapped people for ransom. The Reivers had been all but stamped out long ago, but one small band still existed on the border--the one that Alex belonged to.

* * * *

Patrick

You’ve done me a great service, Pattie, and I’ll not forget it, said retired British Army General Sir James Murray, as he took another puff on his long-stemmed pipe.

The general and Patrick were standing in the library of the Murray’s manor house on his estate near Rothbury, north of Newcastle. They were both looking out the window in front of the fireplace at the horses being worked out on the race track beside the house. Patrick had been in the house many times since he was a youngster. Sir James Murray was his mother’s younger brother and a family favorite. He threw lavish parties at his manor house and was a well-respected lord in northeast England. However, those who knew him well also knew that he was ruthless and greedy. He prided himself on his thoroughbred horses but couldn’t quite achieve the success at horse breeding and racing that he thought he deserved.

Uncle Jamie, if you don’t mind my saying so, you are going to have to do something about my cousin Betsy, and do it fairly quickly I’m afraid, Patrick said in an exasperated tone.

You’re right Pattie, I know it. I should have married my daughter off at least a year ago, but she can be very strong-willed. She told me that this border ceremony was just a hand-fasting and not a full blown wedding, but I intend to do something about her as soon as I can arrange it. Sir George Hastings has a country estate over near Alnwick, and he lost his wife recently in child bearing. I am of a mind to marry Elizabeth to him, replied Sir James.

How did the Mackenzie runt get involved with Elizabeth anyway?

It was actually partially my own fault. I hired the lad as a hostler and horse trainer last year. He and that horse of his, which is nothing more than a cur, can outrun the fastest of my thoroughbreds, and I thought he could help me improve the performance of my stock. The lad appears to have a way with horses, you know, replied Sir James.

But recently, for some reason, Mackenzie was gone more than he was here, Sir James continued. My head groomsman caught him and Elizabeth in a compromising situation behind the stables and the lad lit out like his shirt was on fire. I thought that was the end of it, but I was wrong.

You know what they say, ‘An outlaw by the grace of blood’, and I intend to see if he bleeds, said Patrick. A commoner, like the Mackenzie runt, has no place in English society, and I intend to make an example of him, so that everyone who knows him will learn what happens to commoners who try to marry into the nobility.

Patrick firmly believed in the divine right of kings and nobles whose duty it was to rule the lesser peoples of the earth. He thought that you were either born to rule or else you were common folk. It was unthinkable for a common person to try to improve his station in life. Patrick had been born in Edinburgh. He was Lord Pitfour’s second son and was raised among a number of major figures in the Scottish Enlightenment, including the philosopher and historian David Hume and the dramatist John Home. He had a large number of cousins through his English mother's family including Sir William Pulteney, 5th Baronet Commodore George Johnstone, and, of course, retired General Sir James Murray.

Since Patrick was his second son, Lord Pitfour and his wife encouraged Patrick toward a career in the military at an early age. He was educated at the London Military Academy and served briefly in Germany with the Royal North British Dragoons (Scots Greys) as a captain during the Seven Years’ War. He left the Greys, under what some considered mysterious circumstances, to return to England.

Even though his fate had allotted him the role of the second son, Patrick felt that he was meant to be a solider and was satisfied with his lot in life. He had a military mind, but he was not well adapted to leading men. He had no empathy at all for the men that served under him, and he gave them very little thought and consideration. His military interest lay in firearms, swords, artillery, fortifications and other such military subjects.

As he gazed into the fire in the fireplace, Patrick kept thinking about that phrase written by his Scots Greys commanding officer on his performance report that was filed with the Greys’ adjutant.

"…possesses a fine military bearing and mien, although he is not well-favored by the men under his command."

Patrick didn’t care if the men under his command favored him or not. He was a Lord’s son, and he expected the men under his command to follow his orders, and follow them to the letter, without question. He had expressed that sentiment to his Greys’ commanding officer, who was also a Lord’s son, just prior to his discharge. The fact that he had brought up several of his men in front of a court martial for failure to follow orders never entered into his thinking about why he might have been discharged from the Greys. He was actually still quite puzzled about his discharge. He suspected that it was most likely a personality conflict with his commanding officer.

Thank you, Pattie. As a reward for your service to me and for a small favor I shall ask of you, I intend to purchase you a commission to command a company in Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Johnstone’s Highland Light Infantry, the Seventieth Foot, said Sir James.

Uncle Jamie, I can’t thank you enough. You really are much too generous, said Patrick, even though it was exactly what he had been angling for. In fact, he had done everything in his power to deliver that suggestion indirectly to his uncle.

Patrick had seen this rescue as a way to curry favor with his uncle and as possible stepping-stone to further his military career and ambitions.

What is the favor you ask of me, Uncle Jamie?

I want to see the Mackenzie lad hanged, said Sir James, steely eyed as he watched his horses train on the track beside the house and blew smoke toward the window.

It would be my pleasure, replied Patrick. Since he had already planned on killing Alexander Mackenzie anyway, it would be no problem to see that done.

* * * *

Alex

Alex, lad, yer gang to hae to lie low for a spell, or maybe even leave Scotland for a while and lat be the lass, said John Mackenzie, Alex’s father, as he and Alex huddled together at the edge of a stream in a secluded area off the main road.

Alex had been talking to his father about the incident at Coldstream as he watered Hack at one of the outlaws’ meeting places. The band of Reivers to which the Mackenzies belonged had a number of secret meeting places that were hidden in the Scottish lowlands, away for the prying eyes of the authorities. There were a few other raiders milling about in a small group and some of them had ridden right out into the stream to water their horses.

He’s is a baud one, and he’ll nae forget the fasherie, continued John, referring to the confrontation with Patrick and Alex’s escape.

Weel now, if it isn’t Lord March Hare mingling amongst the plain and common folk, said a young Scot who walked up to John and Alex.

The interruption had come from one of Alex’s older brothers, Hugh, who had arrived unnoticed while Alex and his father were engaged in the conversation. The raiders were typically badly behaved in camp, and respect was seldom given and hard to earn. Hugh liked to inject a lot of Weels into his conversation with anyone, and especially with his comrades, as if he were an elderly Scot, even though he was only eighteen years old, two years older than Alex. Hugh was one of the fiercest raiders, or riders, as they called themselves, and commanded high respect among all the members of the outlaw band. Physically, Hugh was a giant who stood about three inches less than seven feet tall and was stronger than any man in the band or any man in the lowlands as far as he knew. He and Alex had been close as young lads and were still very close.

What in the devil is a March Hare and what are you talking about? asked Alex with a perplexed expression.

It’s in every newspaper and written on posted bills nailed to every tree in the shire.

Alex still had a puzzled look as Hugh went on, Every soldier, reef, and constable in the territory is looking for ye Alex, lad.

What in blazes for? What did I do?

Ye have a knack for finding trouble, don’t ye ken, lad? You’re an outlaw, Alexander Mackenzie; a wanted man, or boy in yer case. The posted bills say ye are a horse thief and ye took a horse from Sir James Murray where ye worked. He has sworn out a warrant for yer arrest after ye lit out from his manor. The posted bills also say that yer a skinny wee runt who rides through the Marches as fast as a bonny hare, added Hugh with a grin.

The arrest warrants didn’t really say anything about a hare; Hugh was making it up as he went along. And even the term Marches that Hugh was using to describe the area in the lowlands where they lived had been largely discouraged and replaced with Shire. The Marches and March Wardens had been abolished by King James I of Scotland and England in the 1600s, but Hugh liked to use the old terms for things. He was a kind of throwback who should have been born a hundred years earlier.

Hugh was just giving his younger brother a hard time, as he usually did. Also it was high time that Hugh pinned a nickname on Alex, and the March Hare was fairly suited to him. They all knew that Alex wasn’t a horse thief, but there was little they could do about it. The law was firmly on the side of the nobility, and the common folk had little recourse, and even less justice, in the lowlands, unless they took it into their own hands.

The nickname that Hugh had given Alex was a bit too appropriate and it had a double meaning. The saying as wild as a March Hare was centuries old. It had originated in Europe and described the behavior of male hares during their courtship rituals that usually occurred during mating season in the month of March each year. Male hares darted around, leaped into the air and generally cavorted around in order to attract the attention of female hares. The females attempted to fight them off before actually mating with them. Hares are normally shy and reclusive animals, so this unusual behavior led people to believe that hares went mad or wild in the month of March; hence the saying became mad (or wild) as a March hare. The other meaning, of course, was that hares in the March or Shire of Scotland were considered to be very fast and very wily creatures that were hard to catch.

Alex was all of that; he was madly in love with Elizabeth Murray, and he was very wily and very fast on foot and on horseback. So, as it turned out, the nickname stuck, and it wasn’t long before everyone was calling him the March Hare.

Alex was pretty skinny, he had to admit, and he did ride like the wind. He was also very fleet of foot; he had outrun everyone he had ever raced, whether the distance was long or short. He weighed about ten stone and stood slightly less than six feet tall. Alex had green eyes and blond hair with a reddish cast. He wore it combed straight back from his forehead and over his ears, but it mostly fell forward into his eyes when he wasn’t riding. He was constantly brushing his hair back out of his eyes with his left hand.

He carried a seventy-five caliber musket that looked a lot like the Brown Bess carried by the British Army. Alex had named his musket Slayer. The Brown Bess musket had first been issued as the standard rifle of the British Army about ten years earlier. Alex told everyone that he had purchased his musket, but he had really acquired it while he was riding with his outlaw band.

Muskets were normally a smooth bore rifle, but Alex had jammed a musket ball in his original barrel and couldn’t knock it loose. So he finally took his musket to a Scottish gunsmith who had examined the jam and told him that it was impossible to clear, and that the barrel would have to be replaced. Alex still remembered the conversation with the gunsmith about the new barrel.

Can you build me a new barrel? asked Alex.

Aye, I could lad, if I had a strip of gun steel long enough to make you a proper barrel for a rifle like this one, replied the gunsmith.

What have you got right now?

The only steel strips I have in stock right now are too short. Would ye be willing to make do with a shorter barrel?

Alex knew that a shorter barrel meant reduced range, as well as reduced accuracy.

Nae, replied Alex. How long would I have to wait for the longer strips of steel?

It could be several weeks. Good gun barrel steel is in very short supply right now.

Are there any other alternatives?

Not that I ken, replied the gunsmith.

Could you nae weld two short strips together to make one strip long enough for a proper barrel?

I could lad, but the weld would run perpendicular to the length of the barrel creating a weak spot that might not stand up to the muzzle blast when the rifle was fired.

But don’t you have to weld the barrel anyway?

I do lad, but the normal weld runs lengthwise along the barrel, which spreads out the weak spot all along the entire length of the barrel.

What if you took the two strips of steel and welded them together to make one extra-long strip of barrel steel and then forge them in a spiral around the barrel mandrel, just like the red stripes of a barber pole wrap around the tube? That way the weld of the two strips of steel would run nearly lengthwise along the length of the barrel.

I have never been asked to forge a barrel in that manner, but I suppose that it could be done, replied the gunsmith.

Alex had insisted, offering to pay additional for it, and the gunsmith had finally agreed to make it. One unexpected benefit of making a musket barrel in this fashion, which Alex and the gunsmith had not known would happen, was that the weld line inside the barrel formed a spiral groove rather than a straight groove. This spiral groove caused the musket ball to spin as it traveled down the length of the barrel when it was fired. The musket ball continued to spin after it left the barrel on its way to the target.

Most smooth bore muskets were accurate up to a range of about a hundred yards but Alex’s musket was accurate to a range of almost three hundred yards. This was true because of the increased stability of the spinning musket ball that it fired through the longer than normal barrel. Alex had also worked with the gunsmith to add a rear slot sight and a front bead to his rifle, providing him a better aiming mechanism than just sighting along the barrel.

Along with the musket, Alex carried a wicked dirk, and sometimes a sword. The transition from swords to firearms was already well underway and fewer and fewer of the riders were depending on swords these days. But Alex was as deadly with a knife, dirk, and sword as he was with his rifle.

Alex’s father John was a shoemaker by trade and training. He still maintained a small cobbler’s shop in the rear of their small house in Hathkirk, where he made shoes and boots for family and friends when he wasn’t raiding. John had made his sons each a pair of boots with a special knife sheath built into the rear of the upper leather boot shaft where it couldn’t be easily seen under long trousers. But shoemaking was no longer the family’s primary source of income; they prospered by raiding the English side of the lowlands.

Alex’s mother had been named Anne, but she had been killed during a conflict when Alex was a baby. This all happened before John became an outlaw and was the primary reason he turned to raiding. A large group of British raiders had swept into their small Scottish village during the night to loot and pillage. Anne objected to the looting and was shot, and John now limped slightly