Rebellion

By Mark Ellott

It is May 1745 and the British army is licking its wounds following defeat at the hands of the French at Fontenay. Meanwhile, there is a stirring in the north as the restless clans are gathering to the standard of the House of Stuart where Prince Charles Edward Stuart, the Young Pretender, is forming an army ready to invade England and reclaim the thrones of England and Scotland for his father, James III.
Captain Ewan McLeod of the Royal Scots waits by the roadside in Northern France for a carriage. A carriage that carries the man who will send him on his next mission. Perhaps the most dangerous mission he has undertaken, for he is to be sent home to the highlands of his youth and to his estranged family in the service of the crown.
As the Jacobites march south, so too do Ewan McLeod and his comrade Fiona Ross as the Hanoverian government struggles to respond to the threat they had underestimated. And who is betraying Ewan and Fiona? Not only must they keep their spymasters informed of developments, they also seek to discover the identity of the traitor in their midst before one or both of them dies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leg Iron Books
• Release date: May 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370440221

Mark Ellott

Mark Ellott is a freelance trainer and assessor working primarily in the rail industry, delivering track safety training and assessment as well as providing consultancy services in competence management.He is also a part time motorcycle instructor, delivering training for students who require compulsory basic training and direct access courses.He writes fiction in his spare time. Mostly, his fiction consists of short stories crossing a range of genres. Ransom is his first novel.Mark has had short stories published previously in ‘The Underdog Anthology’, and has more in the forthcoming anthology ‘Tales the Hollow Bunnies Tell’.He also has a volume of his own short stories coming soon, entitled ‘Blackjack’.

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Disclaimer and Copyright Notice

Smashwords Edition

© 2018 Mark Ellott. All Rights Reserved.

First published in 2018 by Leg Iron Books

While the story is based on actual historical events, the principal characters are the product of the author’s imagination and bear no relation to any real person who may have existed at that time.

The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior permission in writing from the publisher, other than brief quotes for review purposes.

Front cover image © 2018 Chris Carter.

Rear image © 2018 Chris Carter/Mark Ellott.

Maps were hand drawn by the author.

Contents

Back cover

Copyright notice

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

Glossary

Dramatis Personae

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Leg Iron Books

Foreword

It is May 1745 and the British army is licking its wounds following defeat at the hands of the French at Fontenay. Meanwhile, there is a stirring in the north as the restless clans are gathering to the standard of the House of Stuart and Prince Charles Edward Stuart, the Young Pretender, is forming an army ready to invade England and reclaim the thrones of England and Scotland for his father, James III.

I first recall hearing about Bonnie Prince Charlie when I was introduced to the Skye Boat Song in primary school. I was fascinated by the boy born to be king and wondered who he was and what was his story. As a teenager, I devoured D K Broster’s Jacobite Trilogy. There was something deeply appealing about this failed attempt to regain the throne and the subsequent persecutions struck me as profoundly tragic. For me, the ’45 typified the great British heroic failure—and they came so close to success. I always felt that I wanted to tell a story about this period in British history and to explore the decision to turn back at Derby.

As time went on, Ewan McLeod developed in my mind. For a long time he was just a shadowy figure waiting in the rain for a coach to arrive. Waiting for what, exactly? And who was in that carriage and what was it they wanted him to do?

Eventually, he developed into a fully-fledged character with a mission—his most dangerous mission yet. My story when I started to write was to be told from a different perspective, that of the defenders who fought back against the uprising, for contrary to popular legend, this was not a Scots versus English war, but a muddled affair with Highland regiments on both sides of the conflict and it is the divided loyalties that run through a civil war that underlies my story. Consequently, this tale is about the agents of the crown who did their best to undermine the rebellion and those who would frustrate them and inevitable betrayal.

While I was writing this, my wife Frankie was growing ever more ill as her cancer developed and I was regaling her with the developments and plot twists as I went along, so that she would at least be able to follow it even if she would never live to read the finished article and I recall furiously pouring words onto the page over that Christmas in my desperate race against time. I had hoped that I would finish this story in time for her to proofread it before it was too late, as her analytical skills when reading text was invaluable for me as she would pick up on inconsistencies, faults in grammar and punctuation and my tendency to repeat myself. Unfortunately, I was unable to do so and this book is dedicated to her memory.

Prologue

1st July 1690, The River Boyne near Drogheda

Battle was about to commence and Seamus O’Connor steadied his bay horse as he waited for the approaching enemy troops, watching as they splashed into the river from the far bank.

He wore the uniform of the Jacobite Horse: grey cavalry coat trimmed with blue on the cuffs, grey gloves, cream waistcoat and britches, over which he wore thigh-length black riding boots. On his head, he wore the black wide-brimmed hat favoured by cavalry regiments. Across his chest was a sword belt, with the sword in its scabbard hanging at his left side.

He looked back across his own lines and at the rear, watching the events unfolding, he saw King James II, upright and aloof as he always had been. There was something distant about him as he surveyed his army, as it was about to commence battle with the Protestant army commanded by his nephew and son-in law, William of Orange, who was now King of England and Scotland.

Indeed, it was James’ aloof nature and intransigence on the matter of the divine right of kings—now out of favour in England—that had led to his brother, Charles, remarking that he would lose the throne within four years of ascending it. Following the birth of his only son, James III this prophesy came to be. Also James’ unrepentant Catholicism with the prospect of a Catholic Stuart dynasty had led to William’s invasion in 1688 being unopposed, welcomed even, by the English parliament.

Since that Glorious Revolution when William and Mary, James’ daughter seized the throne, James had been seeking to take it back, planning from his exile in France with his allies in Ireland. Now, here in Ireland, he finally met William in battle.

Seamus had joined the French trained and supported Jacobite army and was now a lieutenant in James’ cavalry. Today, he was waiting for the Williamite army to cross the Boyne and engage in battle.

Some of William’s army had sought to cross at Roughgrange, some two and a half miles to the west and James had sent a party to meet them. What neither commander had known was that there was an impassable boggy ravine, meaning that both groups were unable to take part in the ensuing battle.

Meanwhile, the Williamites decided to make a push across the river at the Oldbridge ford. Seamus waited with his troop as the infantry went forward to engage the Dutch Blue Guards at the ford. His horse snickered with impatience, as if wanting to be part of the action and he absently patted him on the neck. It wasn’t going well, he observed, the infantry were being pushed back.

Forward, men! Captain Reilly gave the order and they rode on into the thick of the fighting to push the Dutch back and allow the Jacobite infantry to retreat with minimal casualties.

The Dutch held Oldbridge despite the Jacobite cavalry advances, returning musket fire and inflicting casualties, but the Jacobite cavalry were able to pin them down with waves of attacks, allowing the foot soldiers to get away during the stalemate.

Eventually, some of William’s infantry broke away and Seamus, along with the rest of the cavalry, chased them down into the river, hacking at them with their swords, cutting them down as they ran. The Blue Guards, however, were more disciplined and held firm.

Cavalry! Seamus shouted, gesturing across the bank to the advancing red-coated riders.

I see them, Captain Reilly responded. Engage them, drive them back.

Seamus spurred his horse, galloping through the water and up onto other far bank, sword held up slashing at the oncoming riders as musket shot whizzed past him. One after another he sliced at the enemy soldiers, spraying himself with blood and bone as the dead fell from their saddles under his blade. Despite the Williamite cavalry’s determination, the discipline of the Jacobites held them back and, repeatedly, each charge was rebutted.

As the fighting moved back and forth and he slashed and stabbed at each rider that bore down upon him, Seamus felt a pain deep in his side as a musket shot found its mark. Then a numbness in the right side of his body. He swung round in the saddle, swaying unsteadily as the pain and faintness affected his balance as the horse continued to move. He tried to grip the reins to keep himself in the saddle. He dropped his sword, unable to maintain his grip, and looked down at the blood—deep, dark, syrupy blood—as it stained his uniform and dribbled his life away. He leaned forwards against the pommel, his head resting on the horse’s neck, unable to stay upright.

He was unable to defend himself and another blow came, this time from a sword to the side of his head that knocked him senseless and dismounted him. He fell heavily into the mud, winded and barely conscious.

God, I am done for. Beatrice, I hope Beatrice is safe. I will never see the child. I do not even know if I have a son or daughter. Now I will never—

Then, among the forest of feet of both men and horses a horse’s hoof crashed against his skull and his world went black.

Father Patrick Ryan carried a heavy burden. He made his way to the cottage, the weight of his news heavy on his heart, for he had known Seamus since childhood. He knocked on the door and Beatrice answered.

May I come in, child?

She opened the door and beckoned him in, leading the way through the small dwelling to the room where she sat. Ryan sat down next to Beatrice. He looked at her sitting in the chair, expectantly—in more than one sense—her fair curls falling about a heart shaped face with blue eyes, waiting for him to impart his news.

It will not be long before your confinement, he said, sadly, using small talk to delay the inevitable.

Father, you have news?

The battle was lost. The King has returned to France.

And Seamus?

The man said nothing, not knowing quite what to say. He was relatively new to the priesthood and had not yet developed mastery of that awkward combination of compassion and distance required for his line of work. His silence and the pained expression in his dark eyes told her everything she needed to know and tears ran down her face.

No! Her howl of pain and anguish filled the room.

She sat there for what seemed an age, reaching out to cling to the priest’s hand as she wept—aware of the new life kicking in her belly.

I have no idea what I will do now…

Father Ryan lifted her hand and looked into her eyes. We will get you to France, child, he said softly. You will be safe there and it will be better for the baby. James may have fled, but the Williamites will seek to fight on and crush whoever is left.

Chapter 1

May, 1745. Northern France.

It had been raining. The pitter-patter of the raindrops falling from the trees above was loud in the silence of the early evening. Then the birdsong started. That strange, melancholy echoing sound punctured the otherwise silent aftermath of the storm and contrasted with the sullen grey atmosphere. Ewan McLeod shivered slightly as the cool, damp air crept into his bones, irritating the old wounds, and the rain dripped from his tricorn hat onto the shoulders of his dark cape. His black mare whinnied softly and he reached forward to pat her gently on her neck, eliciting a soft snicker as she shook her head from side to side, the rainwater flicking from her mane. His body ached now from the exertions and minor injuries sustained in the battle at Fontenoy a few days previously. He fidgeted uncomfortably in the saddle.

That had been a bad day for the Duke of Cumberland and his army and McLeod reflected bitterly on the lost opportunities at Redoute D’Eu, a fatal error that cost the Pragmatic Allies the field, leaving the French victorious. The last he had heard before departing from the encampment was that the Duke of Cumberland, furious with Brigadier Ingoldsby, was considering a court-martial for the Brigadier’s failure to follow orders and take the redoute. McLeod had no desire to be in Ingoldsby’s shoes at this time—although, he reflected, Ingoldsby alone was not responsible for the failure to take the field at Fontenoy, merely one failure that led to an overall defeat. He sighed wearily. Victory, defeat, they are all the same in the end—dead men strewn, broken and bloodied, across a field looted by the scavengers seeking trinkets and trophies, carrion for crows, awaiting ignominious burial in an unmarked mass grave.

And for what? He mused.

Such is war. And this war seemed to him more pointless than most. Indeed, at home, the Tories were increasingly frustrated with the king’s engagement in foreign wars alongside his Hanoverian cousins that had little to do with Britain and everything to do with his erstwhile countrymen. It was a mood with which Ewan felt some empathy, although he had the sense to keep such treasonous thoughts to himself.

Such annoyance and frustration was finding a voice elsewhere—primarily north of the border. Lurking in the shadows, a new voice—but an old voice, too. A voice whispering in the ears of the Tories in England and the Clans in Scotland, opposed to the Act of Union, of English rule—and in England, of Germanic rule. The voice of Jacobinism, the voice of rebellion, treason and the house of Stuart. Somewhere, waiting his chance was Bonnie Prince Charlie, the young pretender.

And that was why, although he did not yet know it, Ewan McLeod waited at the side of a deserted road in the North of France that damp evening in May listening to the melancholy birdsong in the dripping trees, the cold water working its way down his neck.

The light was fading as he shifted in his saddle, waiting in the drizzle of that dreary twilight. Always waiting.

Such is the soldier’s life, endless waiting punctuated by brief bouts of fear and pain, and the threat of death, he thought to himself.

He reached into the depths of his cape and pulled out a clay pipe, shaking the water from his cape as he did so. Filling the pipe’s small bowl with tobacco, he put the stem to his lips and clenched it between his teeth. Using a small tinderbox, he lit the shredded leaves and puffed at the aromatic fumes. He watched as the smoke vanished when he breathed it out and savoured the lingering taste on his tongue. These days, tobacco was expensive, since James I had banned home grown leaf, so this was imported from the Virginia colonies—and didn’t come cheaply.

Anything to raise a tax, he thought sourly, a pox on all of them, the thieving mountebanks. They’ll tax me to die next, see if they don’t.

Then he heard a noise. He pricked his ears, alert now, listening to the distant sound of an approaching carriage. Faint at first, but growing louder. He snuffed out his pipe with his thumb and returned it to the pouch secreted under his cloak. The sound of horses and the rattle and sloshing of wheels caught his ear as they traversed the rough terrain of the unmade road, catching raised stones and dipping precariously into puddles of water and mud left by the downpour. The splashing and sucking of the gloopy ooze as the wheels lifted and fell, grew louder as the carriage approached where Ewan waited. Stiffening in the saddle, he watched as it hove into sight. Four horses drew an ornate four-wheel carriage, with a driver at the front and a coachman at the rear. Nudging the mare forward, Ewan rode out from the trees and into the middle of the road, causing the driver to draw his horses to a halt. The man eyed Ewan with mild suspicion, half expecting a highwayman, but Ewan wore no mask nor did he wield a firearm, so seemed harmless enough. He relaxed slightly as Ewan drew closer and he recognised him in the fading light.

Ewan nodded to the driver and rode alongside, lifting a forefinger to the tip of his hat. Richard.

Richard Matheson responded likewise. Ewan, it’s been a while. Nearly didn’t recognise you there. Thought you might be a highwayman. He nodded back to the carriage. He’s inside. Got someone with him, too. Not seen the fellow before. Strange type if you ask me.

Ewan smiled briefly. I don’t recall as I did ask you. He drew his horse up and slid from the saddle, his boots splashing on what passed for a muddy road as he landed. He opened the door and stepped inside the carriage, taking a seat opposite the two occupants. One was an older man, dressed in fine clothes, a grey topcoat, red waistcoat with silk stockings below his britches and gold buckles on his black shoes. Unlike Ewan who wore his own hair long and tied back in the fashionable queue, Sir Hugh Waldegrave kept what little of his hair was left cropped short and wore over it a powdered wig above which perched an ornate tricorn hat with gold braid on the brim. In his hand he held a walking cane with a silver top. Everything about him spoke of a fine gentleman.

A gentleman, Ewan remarked to himself allowing his glance to drift down to the somewhat rotund midriff, who has not seen hardship any time recently.

Next to Sir Hugh sat another man. He was around the same as Sir Hugh’s fifty odd years and he was likewise finely dressed. On his head a full woolly wig that extended above a central parting before falling in a series of carefully coiffured curls down either side of his face to his shoulders where it rested on a fine brocade coat. His gold embroidered waistcoat, though meticulously tailored, was now stretching a little at the buttons, indicating an equally fine lifestyle. Pale, unreadable eyes stared at Ewan as he took his seat, saying nothing, yet taking in the man who had just joined them. If it was possible, Ewan found himself thinking, for ice and fire to coexist in harmony, then these two pools of nihilism was where he would find them. He almost caught himself shivering under the impenetrable gaze.

Unlike Sir Hugh and his companion, Ewan was dressed in dull off-black, with muddied riding boots. Everything about him spoke of a soldier, world weary and bloodied after the recent battle. He removed his tricorn and shook the water off, smiling at the brief look of displeasure that passed across Sir Hugh’s face. The other man made no indication of having noticed. Damnable rain, Ewan said, placing the hat on the seat next to him.

Ewan, my boy, how are you? Sir Hugh asked. Apart from the damnable rain. His glance again rested with a flicker of displeasure on the offending tricorn now leaving a puddle on the expensively upholstered seat.

As well as can be expected, Ewan responded with a tired sadness in his voice. His gaunt features showing sleep deprivation also hinted at the ennui eating at his body and soul. A battle lost, comrades dead and nothing gained. There were moments when all he wanted was to go home, wherever that might be.

Sir Hugh’s countenance clouded slightly. Yes, Fontenoy. Bad business that. Bad business.

A bad business is one way of putting it, Ewan responded silently.

What is it that you want? He asked—looking across at the stranger and seeing nothing other than that dispassionate stare. That you called me from my regiment? It must have been important for these men to travel across the Channel personally to speak with him and to do so under subterfuge.

Ah, yes, that, he lifted a hand expansively. Sir Erasmus Faulkner... Well, that is all you need to know for the moment, he said by way of an introduction.

Ewan looked Faulkner in the eye and for his efforts was treated to the same blank stare, but accepted that Sir Hugh had his reasons, so let it go, returning his attention to the latter.

Well my boy, moves are afoot, Sir Hugh said. The Jacobites are stirring. We hear that Charles Edward is going to raise an army and invade Scotland. This Fontenoy matter has made them bold, it would seem. The French will support them—anything to make mischief for us. Besides, they would welcome a papist on the English throne.

He paused, tapping his cane restlessly on the floor of the carriage. He was worried, Ewan noted, he always played with the walking cane when he was edgy and Ewan had known the man long enough to be aware of his moods. The thought of popery bothered him, just as it bothered Ewan. The Glorious Revolution of 1688 was supposed to put an end to the papist threat—even if it was merely a thinly disguised foreign invasion by the House of Orange in an attempt to bolster the Dutch in their squabbles with the Sun King. William, like his successors saw the English army as a useful resource in their eternal disputes with the French.

Why is it, he wondered, that the English army is so frequently enmired in other people’s wars? A question the English Tories were also pondering as the storm clouds gathered over Scotland.

Alliances and politics, Ewan mused to himself and always the ordinary soldier pays the bill with his blood and guts.

And since then, the English Army had been fighting the French in various proxy wars in Europe from the war of the Spanish succession in 1701 to the current fracas over the Austrian succession.

And for what? He wondered. Although he was not usually prone to fits of melancholy, the recent defeat played on his mind and he had time this past few days to reflect on the futility of England’s foreign wars that merely appeared to bolster the aims