The Fate of the Jacobite Grenadiers: The Third of Three Books Telling the Story of Captain Patrick Lindesay and the Jacobite Grenadiers

By Gavin Wood

February 1746. The rebel army of Prince Charles Edward Stuart has retreated to the north-east of Scotland. Here they are surrounded by three enemy armies loyal to King George. Lacking money, equipment and food, only a decisive victory on the battlefield can turn the tide of the war. Lord Kilmarnock's Horse Grenadiers have earned a reputation for loyalty, sculduggery and fortitude. Now Prince Charles rewards the regiment by promoting them to become his elite guards. It is a dangerous honour. As the war reaches its climax the Grenadiers must fight their deadliest battle yet. If the regiment does not stand fast, the Jacobite army will be destroyed and the rebellion will be over.

. . .'You behave as a filching freebooter Captain Lindesay ... one caught in the very act of brigancy!'
'Brigancy!'
'Your Highness,' The Irish nobleman turned to address the Prince. 'We cannot have our officers behave in such an ungentlemanly fashion, and in your own regiment of guards to boot! Such unworthy behaviour will be the ruin of our reputation. I must counsel that you dismiss Mr Lindesay from his post.'
Before the Prince could answer, Patrick stepped closer to the Quartermaster-General. His face was thunderous. The two officers stood toe-to-toe, eye-to-eye. Patrick curled his lip, bared his teeth, fingered his pistol. The conceited inanity of the fellow was insufferable.
For a moment the Irishman was certain the Captain of the Grenadiers would offer a challenge, propose a duel.
Then, to the astonishment of all the bystanders, Patrick smiled. Just the smallest upturn of the lips, but a veritable and carefree smile nonetheless.
O'Sullivan frowned in confusion, unsure why the Grenadier's anger had turned cold.
Patrick's smile broadened; the canniest of ploys had just entered his conscious . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781467882583

Gavin Wood

Gavin Wood was born into a military family. He studied at Edinburgh University and currently lives in the Scottish Highlands. His interests include social, industrial, and military history.

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© 2014 by Gavin Wood. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/22/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4678-8257-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-8258-3 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Foreword

Historical Note

Prologue

List of Principal Characters

Kilmarnock’s Horse Grenadiers

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Part Two

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Part Three

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Part Four

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Historical Note

Epilogue

Footnotes to other Characters in my Story

Foreword

I n 2008 I was researching the history of my family home in Fife. During the nineteenth century it was owned by a family known as the Lindesays of Leith. I was untangling the convoluted genealogy of this family when I chanced upon a man with a captivating name—Patrick Lindesay the Jacobite. After further research I uncovered several pieces of information about the life of this local hero, or rogue, depending on your standpoint. In 1745 Patrick Lindesay was granted a captain’s commission by Bonnie Prince Charlie and given the title of Master of the Royal Wardrobe. He was sent from the Prince’s court in Edinburgh to raise a company of cavalry in his native Fife. Whilst recruiting he raised the standard of rebellion in the marketplace in St. Andrews and proclaimed James Stuart as king.

At the beginning of 2009 I sat down to write his story and produced the book The Jacobite Grenadier. I soon realised that the regiment that Patrick Lindesay helped to raise had a wonderful history all of its own. This spawned a second book called Tales of the Jacobite Grenadiers. Having uncovered the story of this bizarre little regiment, I delved deeper into the fate of Patrick Lindesay’s companions and what became of them in the aftermath of the rebellion. I was left with no choice. A third book was required to complete the saga.

For my own protection, be it noted that what follows is a novel of total fiction and all characters whose actions I chronicle are purely imaginary… This is far from being the truth but necessity knows no laws! The reader can be assured that all the characters in this book were real people and their adventures factually based. I have tried to tell the tale as faithfully as possible based on the historical accounts available. Where-ever they are known the activities and the whereabouts of Patrick Lindesay and the Horse Grenadiers are written into the plot. I have also woven a great many minor details into the story. For example: Punch the tailless dog, Major Glasgow’s tartan waistcoat, Lord Kilmarnock’s clavichord playing, the shoes at Elgin, the snuff taking, even Patrick Lindesay’s gout are based on surviving records. Where I found gaps in the tale, I have placed the Grenadiers in situations that were also true to life.

Whilst the other cavalry regiments of the Jacobite army were composed of gentlemen, the Horse Grenadiers were servants, farmers and tradesmen from Fife, the Lothians and further afield. They served tirelessly for the entirety of the rebellion… right to the very bitter end. The regiment performed with great resolution and ingenuity, and they showed themselves to be superior to their professional opponents. After many months of war, after many miles on the road, they gained a reputation for being stout-hearted, steadfast and loyal fellows. Unlike the French soldiers they served alongside, the Horse Grenadiers were not entitled to honourable treatment in line with the codes of war. Nor could the government dismiss the hard-fighting Lowland horsemen as barbarous Highland brigands.

The Hanoverian government in London feared Lord Kilmarnock and his cavalrymen… and the government sought its revenge.

Historical Note

I n 1702, Queen Anne of the royal House of Stuart ascended to the thrones of Scotland, England and Ireland. Unlike her ancestors she was a protestant. Despite being pregnant eighteen times none of Queen Anne’s children lived to adulthood. She died in 1714 without an heir. Most of Queen Anne’s subjects expected her half-brother James Stuart to be crowned as her successor. He was, after all, first in line to inherit the throne. James though was a catholic and lived in exile. And the lords of the British parliament politically outmanoeuvred the supporters of James Stuart; they swiftly elected to offer the vacant throne to his cousin—George of Hanover. By bloodline, George was only fifty-eighth in line to the throne, but he was a protestant. Unable to believe his good fortune, George accepted the crowns of England, Scotland and Ireland… to the disgruntlement of many honest and right-thinking men. The supporters of King George were known as Hanoverians. The supporters of James Stuart were known as Jacobites.

In 1708, 1715 and 1719, James Stuart made three attempts to win the throne of Scotland. Each expedition ended in failure. In 1745, his son Charles Edward Stuart boldly and rashly made one last attempt to assert his father’s claim. At the head of a small army of loyal men, Prince Charles captured Edinburgh and then attempted to march to London and depose King George. The army of Prince Charles found little support for their cause in England. And pursued by the enemy the Prince and his volunteers were driven north again. The Jacobites retreated all the way back to Glasgow where more bad news awaited them: Prince Henry and the French fleet remained blockaded in the port of Dunkirk. The French were unable to come to their aid.

In January 1746, the regiments of Prince Charles launched a new campaign. They besieged Stirling Castle, drew the enemy into a battle, and attempted to regain control of Scotland. But despite defeating the government army at the Battle of Falkirk Muir, the castle at Stirling held out against the Jacobites and the Forth Valley campaign ended in failure. Short of food, Prince Charles’ army retreated north once again. The Highland regiments headed to the mountains where they attempted to dislodge the Hanoverian garrisons from their strongholds. The Lowland regiments withdrew to the north-east where they rested after the recent campaign and waited for provisions and reinforcements to arrive from France.

Meanwhile, in London, King George and his government assumed the rebellion was over. Prince Charles, they believed, would return back into exile in Rome; his foreign soldiers would surrender; the Highlanders would return to their homes; and the Lowland rebels would flee overseas to avoid retribution. But the government was mistaken. The Jacobites had retreated but they had not been defeated. The rebel army could still muster eleven regiments of Highland clansmen, three regiments of Athollmen, six regiments of Lowland foot and two regiments of French fusiliers. They also had five small but hard riding cavalry regiments.

In February 1746, the Duke of Cumberland the commander of the British Army learned that French transport ships had finally broken through the channel blockade and were en-route to Scotland. The Duke hastened north to meet the new danger… And the war flared up once again.

For Thomas:

For his enduring friendship

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The Theatre of War 1746

Prologue

Have you heard what says tradition,

Speaking not with superstition,

Of the old tree near the river, that runs roaming

through the wood,

Of that old tree call’d the ‘Capon,’

Which, though often tempests—shaken,

Has, like a brawny warrior, for unnumber’d ages stood!

In a language quite mysterious,

And with visage sad and serious,

It relateth deeds of darkness wrought by cruel-hearted men;—

Doing startling and appalling,

That, upon the ear, while falling,

They create within the bosom, pangs of sorrow and pain.

Peter Burns—Poet 1858.

T he sombrely dressed youth sat on the pew but did not listen to the minister’s eulogy. He stared at the coffin in front of the pulpit. His father’s body was nailed inside. John Lindesay fourth of Wormiston and Commissary for the burgh of St. Andrews had died two days previously on the twenty-third day of September 1715. John Lindesay had told his sons he was dying. John Lindesay had told everyone he was dying. But they had not believed him. It was not that his family didn’t care. It was just that they had heard the words many times before. But John Lindesay had been correct all along… and now he was dead and nailed in his coffin.

Patrick his youngest son contemplated the significance of his father’s passing. The timing could not have been worse. His older brother George, the lawyer, would inherit his father’s position and his lands. His other brother John would take over his father’s business affairs. Patrick’s future though was now empty. Just like his heart. His father had promised to purchase for him an ensign’s commission in the army. Not in the army of King George mind, but in the royal army of France. If the harvest was especially good, his father had even hinted that a lieutenancy was not out of the question.

Like many younger sons in Scotland, the prospect of a soldier’s life had appealed to Patrick. He could well see himself, in exotic and far off lands, in a bright and raffish uniform, commanding a body of men all as brave and as dashing as their officer. The youth sighed. There would be no commission. Of that alone he was certain. His family was not wealthy, his brother George was not generous, and his father was dead. There would be no commission.

* * *

Patrick stood with the other mourners and shivered as the ash-wood coffin was lowered into the ground. The building of the church offered no protection from the nipping sea breeze that blew in off the Firth of Forth. The chill wind reminded the congregation that winter was just around the corner, and Patrick reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew his bonnet. His hand brushed against the letter that had arrived that morning… just as the family was setting off to the church. He placed the woollen bonnet on his head, pulled it down over his ears, and pondered the contents of the paper… a military dispatch. The Earl of Mar, the commander of King James’ army in Scotland, had requested the assistance of Patrick’s father. The venture proposed by Mar was cunning, audacious and potentially foolhardy. For all those concerned. The Jacobite army, although strong, was trapped in the hilly country of the north. The Earl of Mar was unable to advance his regiments south, into the Lowlands and across the River Forth. The only place where the Jacobites could cross the great river was at Stirling. But here the bridge and the fords were guarded by the great fortress of Stirling Castle and the army of King George.

* * *

The burial over, Patrick’s brother George mounted his riding horse and set off with a purpose. His brother John meantime, a more considerate soul, assisted his mother into the family’s carriage. There was no room for any other passengers. But Patrick did not mind; he would make the journey home to Wormiston House on foot, across the fields, by himself. But there was no hurry! And he took a last lingering look at the gravedigger and saw the gnarled old man held his spade with arthritic hands. The labourer stooped and set steadily to his work. With perfunctory toil, the toothless man, his face wizened by sun and wind, piled sandy soil into the grave.

His mind far away, Patrick walked alone through the streets of Crail that were paved with sea-pebbles. He passed between the whitewashed fishermen’s cottages with their tiny windows, their pan-tiled roofs and their crow-stepped walls. The narrow road twisted and tumbled down to the harbour at the foot of the town. The square harbour had high sea-walls and was surrounded by yellow sand and rocky cliffs. He paused and stared out over the shelves of stone and the pools of trapped saltwater to the sea beyond. With a keen eye he surveyed the Firth of Forth to the west and the open water of the German Sea to the east. He frowned. The wind although light, was blowing straight from the south… that was unfortunate! The water though was calm, barely ruffled by the breeze, no sign of a swell… that was a blessing! He saw no boats: no sloops-of-war, no frigates, no ships-of-the-line… that was a Godsend!

Patrick sat himself on the pier allowing his feet to hang out over the water of the snug little harbour. And no-one paid the boy, a familiar figure, a tuppence notice. He watched the many fishermen undertaking their chores: nets were being mended, hulls scrubbed, sails sewn. The fishermen, in their remote corner of Scotland, were quite unconcerned about the rebellion that had erupted in the north of the nation. Patrick absorbed the familiarity of the scene: the smell of fish, rotting seaweed and salty water; the sound of the gulls and lapping waves; the sight of boats and stacked lobster pots; and the presence of the fishermen and their hard-working womenfolk.

Patrick continued to wait patiently on the pier, and it occurred to him that he was the only person at the harbour, the only person in the town, who was aware of what was about to happen. It was a most curious thing, he told himself, that the war should reach such an isolated place. The eastern tip of the peninsula of Fife was far away from anywhere of military importance. Tump, tump, tump . . . his excitement and his expectation caused his heart to beat faster, pounding like the waves at his feet. And then the first soldier appeared. A kilted Highland soldier.

And then there was more than just a single soldier. A whole regiment of clansmen descended on the little harbour. And soon there were scores of blue-bonneted Highlanders milling on the quayside, far more than the fishermen. The Highlanders were bearded and fearsome, bare-legged and heavily armed. Every clansman carried a musket, a sword and a targe. And taken unawares, hemmed in by the sea, the frightened fishermen had no chance to disperse.

The leader of the soldiers was a beetle-browed, raw-boned gentleman; the fellow wore tartan trews and was armed with a brace of silver-embellished pistols. The debonair officer had a fair complexion and a smooth chin and grey eyes quite unlike the dark-skinned clansmen under his command. Patrick admired his bearing and the air of authority that surrounded every one of his actions. And then the officer argued with the fishermen and offered them coin.

* * *

Within the hour all the Highland soldiers had boarded the boats moored in the harbour. And then on the turning tide, as dusk fell, the flotilla of small boats set off. Patrick watched as they passed by, oarsmen rowing hard against the breeze; one behind the other they passed the pier, continued a little way into open water, and then raised sail. The noble-looking officer waved as he passed by.

Because of the unfavourable wind the boats had to tack from side to side… and that made their progress slow. Soon though, more boats were to be seen in the Firth of Forth, sailing out from other villages along the Fife coast. More and more boats joined the extraordinary fleet ferrying a whole army of soldiers over the water, white sails crossing this way and that on a sea of blue. The plan of the Highlanders was to capture Edinburgh on the far side of the firth, outflank the British Army at Stirling, and restore King James to his Scottish throne in one bold move.

The war had come and passed through the village of Crail in a single afternoon. And Patrick Lindesay younger of Wormiston rose to his feet. And with the daylight fading, the youth began the long walk home.

List of Principal Characters

Patrick Lindesay—Master of the Royal Wardrobe to Bonnie Prince Charlie and Jacobite captain of cavalry.

Maggie Wemyss—Patrick’s wife.

Miss Betty—Patrick’s daughter.

Mary Gordon—Dowager of Beldorney.

Margaret Smyth—Lady Beldorney.

Captain John Vere—Principal spy for the British Army.

William, Duke of Cumberland—Commander-in-Chief of the Hanoverian army, younger son of King George II.

Lord George Murray—Commander of the Jacobite army.

John O’Sullivan—Jacobite Quartermaster-General.

Colonel Henry Ker—Staff officer to the Prince.

Lord John Drummond—Commander of the Jacobite forces on the River Spey.

Lieutenant John Simpson—Officer of the Jacobite Hussars.

Captain Charles Boyd—Captain of the Prince’s bodyguard, youngest son of Lord Kilmarnock.

Reverend Robert Lyon—Episcopalian minister of Lord Ogilvy’s regiment and family minister to the Lindesays of Wormiston.

Kilmarnock’s Horse Grenadiers

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Colonel William Boyd 4th Earl of Kilmarnock.

Captain Patrick Lindesay. Farmer.

Lieutenant George Gordon. Gentleman.

Lieutenant William MacKenzie. Fencing master.

Quartermaster James Harvie. Innkeeper.

Ensign William Sharp. Student.

Sergeant William Baird. Coal-heaver.

Drummer Boy John Auld.

Trooper James Sherwood. Servant.

Trooper Andrew Johnston. Gentleman’s son.

Trooper Ninian Wise. Gamekeeper.

Trooper Adam Tait. Jeweller.

Trooper William Moor. Horse-hirer.

Trooper John Warren. Carpenter.

Trooper Laurence Mercer. Gentleman’s son.

Trooper Robert Bisset. Brickmaker.

Trooper George Roy. Servant.

Trooper John Kinaston. Highland gentleman.

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Battle of Drumossie Muir

. . . 16th April 1746 . . .

Part One

Waging the Winter War

Thirty years on, Patrick Lindesay of Wormiston stared out once again over the cold grey German Sea. He strained his eyes. This time, off the coast of Aberdeen, only one boat was to be seen. The solitary vessel was large and bulky, a square-sailed, sea-going transport ship. A French ship.

Chapter One

The French Dragoons at Aberdeen

P atrick waited patiently astride his mount upon the beach. Lap, lap, lap  . . . like the ticking of a clock the waves caressed the shore. The rippling water refracted the morning sun into a thousand twinkling shards. The glare caused him to squint. And the squint creased his face… a face that was already ravaged by strife, weather and war. Patrick allowed his horse, a shaggy-legged black mare, to forage among the detritus of the high tide line. One of his three companions, a horse-hirer called William Moor, a man with a deep knowledge of equine matters, had assured him that seaweed was wholesome for horses. Patrick had no reason to doubt the fellow, and besides, the army was desperately short of forage. And so he allowed the horse to graze.

Patrick removed his bonnet and scratched his head with calloused farmer’s fingers. He had thought he had got rid of all the lice. Perhaps though, he suspected, some of the loathsome bugs had survived… living within the felt lining of the blue woollen bonnet. He hastily replaced the hat on his head and grimaced. The north-easterly wind was bitterly cold. It felt like it was going to snow. He shifted in his saddle to find a more comfortable position; the leather beneath his breeches was worn and cracked. And then at last Patrick grunted with a satisfaction. But not because his buttocks had found a tolerable position. But because a longboat had finally launched from the French ship. Two pairs of oars splashed into the water and the rowing boat began its journey to the Aberdeenshire shore.

The captain of the Emeraude had chosen not to dock in the deepwater harbour at Aberdeen. He was frightened that his ship would become trapped by the tide, by the strong easterly wind, and by the British Navy. And so instead of running out the gangplank and unloading her cargo onto the quayside, the longboat of the Emeraude, crammed with men, ground onto the sand of the beach. The instant the prow touched the shore, the boat’s occupants jumped into the water and began to unload their possessions. Soon there was an array of saddles, weaponry and other military gear on the dry sand out of reach of the encroaching tide. When the longboat had been emptied of all its ordnance, four sailors began to row back out to the anchored Emeraude, to ferry more equipment and more soldiers ashore.

A young French officer and six troopers were left behind on the beach. The French lieutenant walked through the seaweed to where the four horsemen waited. The newly disembarked officer wore bright yellow breeches and a scarlet coat with a black breastplate beneath.

The man removed his tricorne hat and bowed in a most extravagant fashion. ‘Bonjour messieurs. Je m’appelle Lieutenant Barnaval.’ He replaced the lace-trimmed hat on his head. As if he had said enough.

Sand gusted along the beach causing the French dragoon to shield his eyes with his hand. He looked up uncertainly at the horsemen trying to determine which rider held command. The Frenchman swept his gaze from one granite-set face to the next without succeeding. And a glint of fear showed in his eyes. Every one of the unfriendly Scotsmen was bearded, heavily armed and dressed in dark and ragged clothes. The riders on the beach, he saw, were all much of a likeness, and yet quite different. The Scotsmen wore leather boots, riding breeches and cylindrical bonnets with a red pompom upon the crown. They were all attired in long coats, crossed belts and faded plaids: pleated around the waist, pinned over one shoulder. Each man was equipped with a sword and a canteen at his left hip, a powder-horn and a leather pouch at his right. The dangerous looking ruffians sat astride horses that were grey, and chestnut, and black, and blue-dun. One man carried a longarm musket on his back; another a slim carbine in a holster; one tucked a dragon-pistol in his waistcoat; the fourth gripped a short-barrelled musketoon… the four riders of the apocalypse.

Patrick stared down from his saddle and did not smile. And with piercing green eyes he took the measure of the fresh-faced officer noting the frippery of his uniform and the powder in his wig. The man’s scarlet coat had royal blue cuffs and lace-decorated buttonholes.

Still the Frenchman hesitated, unsure what to say or who to address. The Scottish horsemen all appeared to be base fellows… brigands and rogues. One of the riders was surely far too old to hold rank, another too young, the third had two pullets hanging from his saddlebow.

It was the fourth man, the carabineer with the green eyes who spoke. ‘Lieutenant?’

The French officer decided boldness was required. He pointed to the untidy pile of gear on the beach. ‘You… Scotch fellow! I need you to guide us to Colonel Drummond’s army… and to find us wagons to carry our possessions.’

‘No.’

‘No?’ The Frenchman baulked.

And the rider shook his head. ‘No.’

‘You will not help?’ The Frenchman feared there had been a terrible mistake.

A pause. ‘No, there are no wagons.’

The dragoon looked down towards his boots, uneasy, mistrustful. He did not believe the uncouth fellow on the horse. ‘But you can spare the men to assist us?’

‘I cannot.’

The dragoon in his black breastplate frowned. He had come dressed for war against his enemy, the English. And he had expected a fine welcome from his Scottish allies. After all, was it not the case that the French soldiers were here to rescue the Scotsmen and their failing cause? ‘Nous venons au bon endroit… we have come to the right place?’

‘Aye,’ Patrick continued to glower at the Frenchman. ‘If you are seeking the war?’

The young lieutenant noticed the sullied white cockade sewn onto the side of the Scotchman’s bonnet. There had been no mistake! And the fear in his breast faded to be replaced by a flurry. ‘We are indeed seeking the war!’

Again the sagacious green eyes. ‘That is just as well. For death is only a day’s march away.’ It was coldly said.

And the remark caused the Frenchman to look at the rider, then he looked at his comrades, then he looked at the ground. No-one had forewarned him that Scotchmen were so contemptible. ‘I think you bluster, you rascal!’

Patrick shrugged. He had not lied. ‘The redcoats will be upon us tomorrow.’

The dragoon pursed his lips and considered his situation. The cheerless horseman in front of him was surely no man for jests; nor did he appear the sort to speak ill-founded flummery. A base, low-bred and war-wearied soldier thought the Frenchman. He fingered the ornate grip of his sword. Bravado was required, and a show of authority. ‘Let the English redcoats come, I say! And let them learn the taste of French steel!’

Patrick sighed. It was not the young Frenchman’s fault he had too much wealth and too little worldliness. ‘We will guide you to Drummond’s army as you wish.’

The lieutenant nodded. Progress!

‘Is there aught else that you require?’ The Frenchie needed taking down a peg, ‘Other than a nursemaid perhaps with plump titties?’

The Scotsmen on their horses grinned, the first sign of humour.

But the dragoon’s face flushed red. Confusion. He was unsure whether to laugh aloud or to challenge the older man to a duel. The first option was beyond him, the second probably unwise. He chose to do neither. ‘I would speak with your officer, you scoundrel.’ More swagger. ‘I need to arrange horses and carts to transport our weapons and saddlery.’

There had been two insults: the first that he was a scoundrel, the second that he was a common soldier. Patrick forgave both, for a scoundrel he surely was. Furthermore, he wore no badge of rank other than the tartan sash wrapped around the waist of his coat. The sash was stained and faded. Time to take command. He turned to his companion at his side, a young man, ‘Lieutenant MacKenzie!’

‘Sir?’

‘Take Sherwood with you. Ride to the nearest farm. Find a bloody cart.’

‘Yes Sir.’ It had been subtly done.

Back to the Frenchman, ‘Have you no horses of your own, Lieutenant?’

‘S-Sir?’ The dragoon stuttered, more confused than before… outranked.

‘Where are your own horses, Lieutenant Barnacle?’

‘Barnaval.’

Patrick was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘Your horses, Lieutenant, where are they?’

‘Our horses are not on board this ship.’

‘I asked you where they are, Lieutenant. Not where they are not!’

‘They are on one of the other transports, along with the rest of our regiment… Sir.’

Now here was a revelation! ‘How many men do you have, Barnacle?’

‘Barnaval.’

‘How many men do you have, Lieutenant?’

The French dragoon removed one of his riding boots and poured seawater onto the sand. ‘One hundred and twenty on this ship… four hundred more on the others.’

Patrick considered the news; he had not expected so many. No-one had. He did not divulge to the keen young lieutenant that his own dog-eared regiment numbered just forty-two men. He didn’t wish to dishearten the fellow. ‘We’ll try and find you some God-damned carts.’

Chapter Two

The Muster at the Tolbooth

P atrick found Lord Kilmarnock inside his quarters within the city. The Earl, already wearing his battered tricorne, was playing a soft melody upon a much neglected clavichord. Out of respect, Patrick did not interrupt his colonel. Lord Kilmarnock’s slender fingers moved skilfully over the ivory keys producing an atmospheric, almost haunting tune. William Boyd the fourth Earl of Kilmarnock was an accomplished dancer, painter and musician. No-one had expected that he would also prove to be a fine commander of light horse. Lord Kilmarnock finished the piece and closed the lid of the instrument. He spun himself quarter way around on his stool to face his captain. The Earl was warmly dressed in preparation for the long ride ahead. ‘How many ships have still to arrive?’

‘Four.’

‘Christ! Why couldn’t they have come sooner?’

‘They had to wait for bad weather… to slip out of Ostend, past the British Navy blockade.’

Lord Kilmarnock groaned, his face suffused with frustration. ‘We were supposed to depart Aberdeen this morning… everybody else has already gone.’

‘I know.’

‘Why the hell could they not have come sooner… the French… six months ago, two months back… last week even?’

Patrick shrugged. He had not expected the French to show at all. ‘Can we not wait just a little longer?’

Lord Kilmarnock glanced at his luggage, just a single valise and a large bundle of clothes resting by the door. ‘Lieutenant Gordon’s patrol spied the redcoats this morning… marching north towards Stonehaven. If we tarry, Cumberland’s dragoons will fall upon us.’

Patrick pressed the heel of his hand against his temple. The perversity of the situation was almost too much to bear. ‘Lord Drummond needs the French soldiers… and their fresh horses. Our whole army at present can muster just four hundred cavalrymen. Imagine the impact a whole regiment of heavy dragoons, armoured cuirassiers, would have on the battlefield? They would ride down the enemy horse, unsteady the redcoats… and greatly lift the spirits of our own infantry.’

His colonel pondered the dilemma. ‘We will wait one day more… just one day. If the missing ships don’t arrive then, we must march north tomorrow.’ Lord Kilmarnock removed his tattered hat and raised the lid of the clavichord once more. ‘If we delay any longer then we will surely be surrounded.’ The Earl closed his eyes and began to play again. ‘It’s an aria, Captain Lindesay.’

‘A what?’

‘An Italian melody, full of emotion… by the composer Handel.’

Patrick bowed his head apologetically. ‘I don’t play music.’

‘That is a pity,’ said Kilmarnock. And he smiled. And the tension in his brow eased. ‘It helps a man forget his troubles.’

* * *

Patrick called off the search and returned to his horse in the Aberdeen street. He ordered John Auld to beat his drum to summon the rest of the men. All morning the troopers of the Horse Grenadiers had searched in vain for horses, horses that were required to mount the French heavy dragoons.

Patrick fiddled with the brass button at his left breast. The shiny button, decorated with a hunting horn, did not match the other deer-horn buttons of his coat. The coat itself was woven from green tweel and was heavier and longer than was fashionable for light cavalrymen. The garment was much worn, dulled and patched. He unfastened the out-of-place button, reached inside the pocket there, and felt about. He extracted his silver pocket watch and read the time.

‘How late is it?’ Sherwood was by far the oldest man in the regiment.

‘Almost noon.’

‘God’s blood!’ Sherwood removed the clay pipe from his mouth. A perfectly circular hole was revealed in his teeth where the stem of the pipe had rested. ‘We were supposed to leave the city at ten O’clock.’

‘Aye, you have the right of it.’ Patrick replaced the watch into his pocket. ‘Let’s get back to the marketplace… before it’s too late.’

Sherwood gripped the pipe once more between his teeth and made towards his horse.

And Patrick looked about. And he called out. ‘Sergeant Baird!’

‘Sir?’ A soldier, a heavily bearded fellow, appeared from a nearby doorway. He was never far away.

‘Get the men ready to ride.’

‘Yes Sir.’ Sergeant Baird clutched a chicken pie in one hand. He waved it and shouted, ‘Mount up!’ And the order, excessively loud, rang out.

The cavalrymen in the street, a score of shoddily-dressed and hamit fellows, responded to the command. Their sergeant’s tone did not invite hesitation.

Sergeant Baird himself was last of all to climb into his saddle. He stood in the middle of the road, built like an oak tree, a lumbering bear of a man. It was almost laughable that such a hulking fellow could serve in a regiment of light horse. He failed to place his toe into the swinging stirrup-iron as his mount sidled away. And so Baird thrust the half eaten pie into his mouth to free up his hands, and then grabbed the pommel of his saddle, and then heaved himself upwards. And at last, safely atop his horse, the big man removed the pie from his mouth and swore. ‘Bloody lunacy! We knew there were no horses in the town for the Frenchies. If there had been, we would have taken them for ourselves.’ Gravy slaistered down his beard. ‘We never had a hope in hell of finding a hundred and twenty horses!’

‘Lord Kilmarnock never expected us to find that many.’ Patrick felt the need to defend their colonel. ‘The Earl thought though that… perhaps… the townsfolk might have hidden a few.’

‘Pah!’ Baird dismissed the idea. And crumbs of pastry sprayed from his lips. ‘The skinflint bastards might hide their hens, their goats… even their pies. But you can’t hide a bloody great horse!’

Patrick did not argue. Secretly he agreed with Sergeant Baird… The search had been a waste of time. Two weeks previously the gentlemen of the Lifeguards and Lord Pitsligo’s Horse had entered the city. They had purchased all the horses of quality to replace their own exhausted mounts. Not that the cavalrymen had paid for the beasts, or for anything else, in coin. Instead they had written notes of credit. The credit notes would be useless to the unfortunate people of Aberdeen, unless the rebels won the war. And that now seemed most unlikely.

And then just a week later the contemptible Hussars had passed through the city. The rantipoles had taken away every scrawny hag and short-legged pony they could lay their hands upon. The Grenadiers despised the brash and gasconading Hussars with their tartan jackets and fur bonnets. Everywhere the Hussars went they plundered the local people and created difficulties for the Prince’s regiments that followed. What irked Patrick most of all about the Hussar was not their posturing, nor their looting, but their neglect of their mounts… at a time when the Jacobite army was so desperately short of horses.

* * *

Patrick’s troop of Horse Grenadiers rode out of the narrow street and into the expanse of the marketplace. The bells of St. Machars Cathedral were peeling out across the square, and the sound reminded Patrick that it was a Sunday. It made no difference. The war did not pause for God… the war just ground on, day after day, wearing down the hard-pressed volunteers of the Prince’s army.

All the other soldiers in the city, they found, were already mustered, ready to march and impatient to be underway. Most of the three thousand Lowland Jacobites had departed some days earlier, and only a small garrison of foot and a rearguard of cavalry had been left behind.

The town’s tolbooth towered over the marketplace… and beneath the grey building in three tidy ranks, stood the two hundred fusiliers of Gordon of Glenbucket. These foot-soldiers were local men; they didn’t have a uniform as such but all of Glenbucket’s men were armed and clothed in a similar fashion. Each volunteer shouldered a Spanish musket and carried a giberne, a thin leather satchel with an overlarge flap, against his right hip. The giberne contained powder charges and musket balls, flints and tools; it sheathed a bayonet at the rear, sheltered a powder-horn at the side, and was suspended by a broad and buff shoulder-belt. Glenbucket’s men were warmly dressed for the march ahead; every one of them was attired in a long brown coat, waistcoat too, knee-length gaiters and linen breeches. The only splash of colour to their drab appearance was provided by the flat blue bonnet that each man wore, embellished with a white cockade.

Alongside the foot-soldiers waited the horsemen of Lord Pitsligo. This regiment, one hundred and twenty strong, was composed entirely of north-country gentlemen and their servants. At the beginning of the rebellion, Pitsligo’s fellows had been the best armed and mounted of all of the Prince’s cavalry, now the men were jaded and their overworked horses in a sorry state.

Patrick and his troop rode on to reach the market cross. The tall pillar was topped with a Scottish unicorn and surrounded by six arches arranged in a hexagonal fashion. Here, in the long shadow of the unicorn, Lord Kilmarnock waited with a second troop of Horse Grenadiers. The week of rest in the city had served the regiment well: the troopers were refreshed and well provisioned. During their time in Aberdeen, Quartermaster Harvie had sought out all the hay and oats he could find. Now the regiment’s horses were in a better condition than any other in the army.

‘The missing ships haven’t appeared?’ Patrick reined in his horse.

And Lord Kilmarnock shook his head. ‘No more supply ships, no more horses, no more food to be found in the city either… it’s been a devil-foiled waste of a Sabbath morning.’

Patrick looked up to the roof of the tolbooth. The square building was topped with battlements. Trooper Warren wearing his distinctive Grenadier’s bonnet could be seen on the parapet. Warren was keeping lookout for enemy dragoons approaching from the south. ‘Sergeant Baird found a chicken pie.’

Lord Kilmarnock grinned at the news. ‘Did he share it?’

‘Not bloody likely!’

Kilmarnock laughed.

And Patrick’s eyes lowered to gaze upon the French heavy dragoons in their splendid uniforms. Half of the foreign cavalrymen were now mounted. Their sixty horses had not been found within the city; they had been captured from the enemy at the Battle of Falkirk Muir. The horses had been intended to form a reserve for the Scottish cavalry regiments, but they would now serve the Frenchmen instead. Sixty of the French horsemen though still had no mounts. They stood glum-faced beside three carts piled high with their weapons and saddles.

‘The Frenchies don’t look happy!’

Kilmarnock grimaced, ‘They will have to march on foot.’

‘It’ll toughen the bastards up!’

Kilmarnock didn’t laugh this time. Instead he took a turn to look up at the tolbooth. The building was decorated with a clock-face above which rose a six-sided steeple. The clock showed it was half past twelve O’clock. ‘I daren’t wait any longer.’

‘Aye, we had better be going.’

And then the cry went up, ‘Dragoons!’ And it came from the top of the tolbooth, from John Warren the lookout.

Attracted by the shout, all the soldiers in the marketplace turned, twisted and gazed anxiously upwards. Warren shaded his eyes against the midday sun. He leaned out over the parapet, peered towards the seven arches of the Bridge of Dee, and called down to the men below. ‘Red-coated riders… a regiment… perhaps four hundred of them.’ His thick Lancashire accent seemed out of place among the Frenchmen and the ranks of Scotsmen. ‘They’re coming this way… two miles distant… crossing the bridge.’

Lord Kilmarnock took his horse from his servant, mounted, and ordered the retreat.

* * *

The English dragoons watched on as the rebel garrison abandoned the city. At the head of the Jacobite column rode the horsemen of Lord Pitsligo. Next, in close order, marched the four companies of fusiliers commanded by Colonel Glenbucket; each of the fusiliers shouldered his musket and carried a slouch-bag or a knapsack slung on his back. In the centre of the column was the baggage: a dozen carts and carriages carrying food, forage and heavy equipment. Following the carts trudged the newly arrived Frenchmen: some fellows mounted and some on foot. The Horse Grenadiers formed a rearguard riding a little behind the others.

The English dragoons, armed with musketoons and swords, mounted on bay-brown horses, followed the Jacobites up the road. They did not encroach within musket range, nor did they draw their blades. The dragoons were wary. For the Prince’s horse despite their lack of numbers, was a foe with a formidable reputation. They were known for their ferocity and guile… half soldier, half bandit. And Lord Kilmarnock’s cavalrymen were well marshalled and well furnished with weapons… a minacious sight.

Each Scotchman riding with the rearguard wore the distinctive bonnet of Kilmarnock’s regiment with a red pompom on the crown and a chequered riband around the base. It was a warning splash of colour, like the patterning of a snake. The bonnet may have been their only item of uniform, but strangely, the Grenadiers’ sundry attire only served to make them appear more soldierly still.

A mile up the road and Glenbucket’s fusiliers locked their bayonets and formed into a square. It was enough to make the English cavalrymen turn back. The rebels, they counted, had four hundred men in their column, and they were all no doubt experienced and hard fighting men. The Jacobites may have been coarsely dressed, but they were well-trained, heavily armed, and arrayed to exactness; an attack was too much for the English dragoons to risk. Not against rows of bayonets. Not against a well-formed infantry square. They were content to allow the last Jacobites in Aberdeen to march away into the winter hills.

The vengeful dragoons went in search of easier prey. There would be warmth and wine and women in the city.

* * *

Between Aberdeen and Inverness lay a vast expanse of rolling country known as the Laich O’Moray. The country was bordered by the sea to the north and the east, and by the high mountains of the Cairngorms to the south and the west. The Laich O’Moray was divided into two by the mighty River Spey which emerged from the mountains and ran north to reach the sea by the little town of Fochabers. The Lowland Jacobites under the command of Lord Drummond were too few to fight in the open field against the advancing army of the Duke of Cumberland. And it would have been folly to leave a garrison behind in Aberdeen. Colonel Drummond had therefore decided to withdraw his regiments and hold a line behind the River Spey. Here they would be safe, for the time being at least, safe from the redcoats that were relentlessly driving them north. The Jacobite army was being squeezed into a corner of Scotland around the city of Inverness. And the Spey was to be their last line of defence.

* * *

The February air was bitterly, bitterly cold. And at the rear of