The Jacobite Grenadier: The First of Three Novels Telling the Story of Captain Patrick Lindesay and the Jacobite Horse Grenadiers

By Gavin Wood

August 1745. Charles Edward Stuart makes an audacious bid to win the throne of Scotland that is rightfully his. Thousands of noble Highland clansmen rally to his standard. A small number of Lowlanders loyal to the House of Stuart also risk everything and enlist in the rebel Jacobite army. Many of these volunteers serve in three grandly named cavalry regiments: the Scotch Hussars, the Princes Lifeguards, and Lord Kilmarnocks Horse Grenadiers. Lacking experienced officers, the Prince grants an impoverished farmer a commission. This is the story of Patrick Lindesay of Wormiston: Keeper of the Royal Wardrobe for Bonnie Prince Charlie and Captain of the Jacobite Horse Grenadiers perhaps the smallest and most peculiar regiment in British history.

.. In the grandeur of the long gallery, Lord Kilmarnock glared with misgiving at the man in front of him. Kilmarnock hid his surprise and his disappointment. He had not expected his new captain to be so coarse. Confounded, he scrutinised Patricks dog-eared coat, his calloused hands and his cragged face. The handles of two pistols protruded from beneath the half-open greatcoat. He looked more like a villainous rogue than an officer.

Patrick glowered back, holding the Earls gaze and taking the measure of the man. Lord Kilmarnock wore a sky-blue coat richly embroidered in silver frippery. The splendid coat reached down almost to touch his matching court shoes. The Earl wore a powdered periwig that framed his high forehead, his fleshy cheeks and his slender nose. Patrick had never met a man who looked less like a soldier. He was suddenly very aware of his own home-sewn waistcoat and threadbare shirt.

Patrick drew the ragged greatcoat across his chest, fumbling for the buttons. Pray Sir, there has been a mistake. Your son should be captain of your new regiment . . . not me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524631499

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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2016 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 06/03/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-3148-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-3147-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-3149-9 (e)

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Contents

Foreword

Historical Note

Prologue

Part One

Enduring the Fateful Wind

Chapter One

The Great Frost at Eddleston

Chapter Two

The Warehouse at Leith

Chapter Three

The Intrusion at the Breakfast Table

Chapter Four

The Audience at the Castle

Chapter Five

The Card Game at Candlemaker Row

Chapter Six

The View at Salisbury Crags

Chapter Seven

The Weeds at the Palace

Chapter Eight

The Charter at Cherry Valley

Chapter Nine

The Slane at the Peat Hill

Part Two

Keeping the Royal Wardrobe

Chapter Ten

The Shadows at St. Anthony’s Garden

Chapter Eleven

The Wayfarer at the Door

Chapter Twelve

The Earl at Balcarres House

Chapter Thirteen

The Horse-hirer at Abernethy

Chapter Fourteen

The Prince Regent at Haggis Knowe

Chapter Fifteen

The Brush at Magdalene Bridge

Chapter Sixteen

The Waggonway at Tranent

Chapter Seventeen

The March at Seton Mill

Chapter Eighteen

The Battle at Gladsmuir

Chapter Nineteen

The Ball at Holyrood House

Part Three

Raising the Rebel Standard

Chapter Twenty

The Lindesays at Wormiston House

Chapter Twenty-one

The Tall Tale at Feddinch

Chapter Twenty-two

The Proclamation at St. Andrews

Chapter Twenty-three

The Picket at the Weigh-House

Chapter Twenty-four

The Bombardment at the Reservoir

Chapter Twenty-five

The Grenades at the Fire Engine

Chapter Twenty-six

The Sally at the Esplanade

Chapter Twenty-seven

The Charge at the Redoubt

Part Four

Commanding the Curious Regiment

Chapter Twenty-eight

The Boot at the Encampment

Chapter Twenty-nine

The Council at the Tower

Chapter Thirty

The Snub at St. Anthony’s Chapel

Chapter Thirty-one

The Water at the Holy Well

Chapter Thirty-two

The Bonnets at the Kings Park

Chapter Thirty-three

The Farewell at the Forecourt

Chapter Thirty-four

The Tweel Coat at Peebles

Epilogue

Historical Note

Foreword

In 2008 I was researching the history of Feddinch House in Fife. I was constructing the family tree for a chapter on the Victorian Lindesays of Feddinch. In 1808 Charlotte Lindesay of Feddinch married a wealthy businessman called Patrick Lindesay of Leith and inherited the Feddinch estate. Who was this mysterious Patrick Lindesay of Leith? A cousin most likely. I was on his trail at the library of St. Andrews University. Here I was having difficulty locating a rare book written by Archibald Francis Steuart in 1927. The book appeared to be missing and my heart sank. To my knowledge it was the only publically available copy in Scotland. Bitterly disappointed, I had one final look through the Scottish history aisle. Success! I belatedly found the elusive book. It turned out to be the smallest one on the shelf, only a handful of pages thick, hidden away between weighty journals.

I blew the dust off the drab grey cover. Patrick Lindesay the Jacobite. I flipped open the book to see when it had last been issued and discovered no-one had borrowed it for a great many years. And so I began to read. I had been correct in my hunch … Patrick Lindesay of Leith was the grandson of Patrick Lindesay the Jacobite. So who was Patrick Lindesay the Jacobite? I read on. The antique book contained a collection of family letters concerning Captain Patrick Lindesay of Wormiston. These included letters written by Patrick Lindesay himself, by his mother, by his sister Nelly, by Reverend Robert Lyon, and by his uncle Dr William Lindesay of Feddinch. It was a story, long forgotten, that needed to be told.

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 names are real, the characters true to form, and their adventures factually based. I have tried to tell the tale as faithfully as possible relying on the historical accounts of the day. Where-ever they are known the activities and whereabouts of Patrick Lindesay and the Jacobite Horse Grenadiers are written into the story. For example: the sprained ankle, the dripping kettle, the kitchen haberdashery, the leaning candlestick, the curtains at Holyrood House, the barrel of gunpowder, even the Earl of Balcarres’ house-shoes, are based on surviving records.

The hardest decision when sitting down to write this book was how much from my own imagination to introduce into the adventure. In the end I stripped out nearly all of the fiction and decided to let the story reveal itself.

I therefore do not consider myself the creator of this story, merely the teller.

Historical Note

In 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 and 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 by bloodline due to inherit the throne. James though was a catholic and lived in exile. 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 claim the throne of Scotland. Each expedition ended in failure. The 1715 uprising became known as The Great Rebellion. In that year the Earl of Mar departed from the royal court in London and sailed north to Scotland to raise the standard of rebellion for the Jacobite cause at Braemar … surprising everyone including James Stuart in exile. Those that rebelled against the Hanoverian government of King George I in 1715 had differing reasons for risking their lives. Some fought to reinstate the Episcopalian church as the national religion, some fought to return the House of Stuart to the throne, some fought to re-establish Scottish independence, and some fought against the poverty, corruption and crippling taxation of the day. With widespread support throughout the nation, James Stuart found himself in command of a large and loyal army. Despite the opportunity presented, the rebellion failed due to timid leadership at home and the failure of French support to show. After the collapse of the uprising, James fled back into exile and his followers returned to their homes. The government of King George had neither the military might nor the political power to prosecute the rebels in Scotland. However, the lands and titles of the Jacobite gentry were forfeited to the crown.

A generation later and Scotland had been transformed. In 1696 the Presbyterian regime had passed an Act for Setting Schools to ensure every male child could read and therefore study the bible. By 1720 every parish was equipped with a school and by 1740 every town of substance boasted a public library for the lending of books. Also, in contrast to other countries throughout Europe, university education was accessible not just to those of noble birth, but to the sons of tradesmen, farmers and lesser gentlemen. The cost of an education at Glasgow, Aberdeen or St. Andrews University was a tenth of that at Oxford or Cambridge south of the border. Of course, Scotsmen did not stop at reading the bible … but turned to poetry, science, economics and more.

By the year 1740, Scotland had evolved to become a country no longer riven by religious differences, but one based on trade and capital commerce. After four hundred years, Scotland had finally emerged from the civil warfare that had prevented the nation developing while other countries had flourished. No longer would Scotsman fight Englishman, Highlander fight Lowlander or Episcopalian fight Presbyterian. The new generation of a newly educated Scotland had turned its back on the upheaval of the previous century … or so it seemed.

For my Parents:

For their unstinting love, labour and decency.

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The Theatre of War. Autumn 1745

Prologue

‘No sooner is the standard of rebellion displayed,

than men of desperate principles resort to it.’

– William Ames, Philosopher 1576-1633

I t was a perfect sea. Flat and blue with a westerly breeze to fill the sails. A courteous wind. The two merchants, brothers, stood silently at the end of the pier. The ancient breakwater reached far out into the blue-grey water to grasp a tiny island of rock, like an arm offering benevolence, or a fist offering defiance. A thousand years before a fleeing Northumbrian monk had been ship-wrecked on the very same spot. The monk, thankful to have survived the merciless seas, had built a tiny church on the rocky island. But the winds and the waves and the tides had battered and destroyed the shrine. And so the monk had rebuilt his church on the nearby shore. And now a beacon, unlit, stood on the sacred site where the holy shrine had once fought bravely against the winter storms of the German Sea … and lost.

The brothers watched a boat, a brig, glide out beyond the breakwater, through the slabs of yellow sandstone, and out into St. Andrews Bay. The vessel was squat and sturdy and boasted two tall masts. The crew balanced high on the footropes of the fore-mast bending over the yard; they untied the gaskets to free the brown, square sail. The sailors paused in their work as they left the shelter of the harbour, and they waved to the two watching men. John and Patrick Lindesay waved back, a farewell salute, but otherwise the little ship attracted no attention from either the sea or the shore. Once the brig reached the safety of the deeper water she swung southwest. The sailors braced the yards around and set the triangular spanker sail at the prow.

With nothing more to be done the two brothers turned away. With nothing more to be said they began walking back along the pier, unspeaking and full of melancholy. They had been fond of the ugly, brown-sailed ship, she had carried them and their cargoes on many journeys to France and Spain and Portugal. It had, they had both agreed, been a great shame to sell the vessel, she had been loyal and dependable and hardworking, and she had provided them with their living for a dozen years. Now gone.

The two men carefully retraced their steps along the paving stones of the crumbling pier. They negotiated the dangerous gaps where the yellow stone had tumbled into the water ten feet below. They avoided the great mooring rings set fast in the stonework. The iron rings, rusted and pitted by salt water spray, were placed to secure ocean-going vessels to the dockside. They were no longer needed; there were no ships present, not now that the dumpy little brig had departed.

The brothers arrived at the shelter of the inner harbour where the miserly Kinness Burn trickled into the sea. At low tide the harbour displayed her un-dredged floor of silt and seaweed. But not now. The tide was high and a dozen fishing boats bobbed up and down in the peaceful sanctuary.

A long time ago, before the Reformation, before the civil wars, before anyone could remember, the town’s harbour had been a thriving centre of commerce. Half the money in the nation had passed through the hands of the church. And the great archbishopric of St. Andrews had been richer than all the other bishoprics put together. The money had attracted merchants … merchants from England, France and Spain; merchants from Holland, Hamburg and Flanders; merchants from Norway, Poland and Russia. And at each spring, at the Senzies Market, three hundred tall ships would cram into the harbour. They had filled the skyline with their masts and their rigging, and it hardly seemed possible now, for the greedy bishops and the profiteering merchants and the corrupt money were long gone.

John and Patrick climbed the many steps from the harbour until they were on top of the sea-cliff. They passed through the fortified wall that had once isolated the monks and defended the archbishops’ wealth. They were not challenged. It was a century since guards had stood watch in the many towers that buttressed the walls. And once through, and out of sight of the sea, they reached the sad ruins of the town’s cathedral. The roofless building was no small church. There were still people in the town, old people, who could remember the place in all its heavenly glory. In its day the cathedral at St. Andrews had been the longest in the nation, the longest in any nation.

The ruins were a reminder that the town, now reduced to little more than a fishing village, but once a glorious city, had been the very centre of God’s church in Scotland. Firstly, in times too distant to date, had arrived the monks of the Celtic Church; centuries later, good King David had invited in the priests of the Catholic Church; more centuries passed and the Church of Rome was ousted by King James’ reformed church; and then King Charles had been beheaded and the pious Presbyterians had held sway; and then the Episcopalian Church had been reinstated by the King’s son. And then finally, after decades of misrule and warfare, the King’s bishops were dethroned once again by the puritans of the Presbyterian Church. In a stroke, the venerable city of St. Andrews, the holy capital, had lost its ecclesiastical authority … its very reason to exist.

The two brothers wended a way between the rubble and the cow turds, between the gravestones and the ghosts of the past. A brown and white heifer was grazing undisturbed within the fallen chapter house; the beast squatted, strained with a grunt, and pissed against the stone stalls where the richest man in the nation had once held his council. At the west end of the cathedral a team of masons was at work quarrying stone. The great blocks were levered and sawed and smashed into pieces small enough for two men to carry. The masonry, still richly decorated with corbel heads, chevrons and foliage patterns from Norman times, was loaded onto waiting carts and wheeled away.

Once through the weeds and the debris the two brothers entered the town. It was just a short distance to John’s house. They walked on, still in silence, between the dung heaps and the middens of fish guts, and shells, and crab claws that had been piled onto the cobbles. On both sides of the street the tall timber houses of the medieval merchants had all been demolished. In their place stood a jumble of crudely built cottages, all jutting this way and that, and carelessly erected in stone raided from the cathedral and other religious houses.

They neared John Lindesay’s home in the shadow of the spire of St. Salvators. A party of students emerged from the college chapel. The young scholars were poorly dressed and poorly mannered. Since the union with England, the Scotch nobleman of means sent their sons to England to be educated, to Oxford and to Cambridge. The students that continued to attend the colleges in St. Andrews were the sons of lesser gentlemen. But even these scholars were no longer present in any great number. The university had been heavily tainted with Jacobitism in the previous decade; and after the Great Rebellion the government had appointed a commission to enquire into the teachings of the colleges. The commission had rooted out the Episcopalians and Jacobites from among the educated men of the town, the commission had also restricted the teaching of the professors, and the commission had deprived the three colleges of funds. Now the colleges festered in a position of abject poverty and disrepair; it was newly proposed to relocate the whole institution to Perth.

The sun at their backs, the students approached as bold as bantams. The ill-mannered youths glowered upon John and Patrick with malice and mistrust, and not wishing trouble the two older men stepped into the street to allow the youngsters to pass. Only when the way was clear did they cross to the porch of the house.

‘When does your ship sail?’ Patrick stood in the doorway. ‘To America.’

‘Next week, from Leith … Tuesday.’

Patrick did not look up as he spoke. ‘You will make a poor officer. You are not suited to join the navy.’

John Lindesay looked with affection upon his younger brother. Surprise and little mirth registered on his face. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘You are poor at taking orders.’

‘I am?’

‘Piss poor.’

John laughed. ‘I do not intend to take orders … but to give them.’

‘Huh!’ An impertinent grunt. ‘Aye … well … that you are good at.’

John placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘Are you envious? Do you regret not coming … that you will not share in my great adventure?’

Patrick stared sullenly at the leather brogues on his feet. He felt like a child all over again. ‘Perhaps a little envious,’ he admitted the truth quietly. ‘But unlike you, I have a wife and child to consider … and another one on the way.’

‘Then it is you, not I, who is the fortunate one.’

‘Och, it is true enough!’ Patrick conceded. ‘We have sold the tenement in Dundee. My wife’s … Alison’s … dowry. Now we will use the money to find a farm to purchase.’

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere quiet and peaceful. Somewhere to settle and raise children. Somewhere to grow rich and old.’

‘It is a good plan.’ And it was too. ‘A surer way of life and much more innocent.’ The ports had never exported so much grain; each year the harvest seemed to be more bountiful than the year before.

‘Aye, farming … not trade … is the way of the future,’ declared Patrick. ‘The way to win wealth and standing. New crops, new beasts, new ideas… the next time we meet it will be you that is envious … when you see my fields of ripe barley, my tall sons and my comfortable house.’

‘I do hope so. For that would be good to behold.’ A laugh to hide sorrow. ‘And well earned. Take care, brother.’

Patrick, at long last, managed a smile. ‘That will not be necessary. Unlike yourself, where I am heading, I face no danger.’

Patrick collected his horse from the stable. The mare was a barrel-chested cob, a short-legged beast, only a little taller than a pony. It was a horse of poor breeding unsuited for a gentleman, or a merchant, but ideal for a farmer. John entwined his fingers, reversed his hands, and assisted the rider into the saddle. He wiped his dirty palms on the rump of the horse and grinned in an awkward fashion. And then, the two brothers shook hands for the first and last time.

Alone, Patrick trotted off along the road to the ferry and to Dundee, to return to his expectant wife and his baby son. St. Andrews, he had long since decided, was a place of the past. The town was no longer of any ecclesiastical, educational or economic importance. It held no future, it belonged to the ghosts, and he was glad to leave the place behind.

The year was 1730. The two brothers, both down on their luck but keen to revive their fortunes, went their separate ways. Neither could have imagined the adventures that lay ahead.

List of Principal Characters

Patrick Lindesay. Youngest of Wormiston.

John Lindesay. Patrick’s older brother.

Davie, Jock, Sandy, Jamie. Sons of Patrick.

Miss Betty. Patrick’s daughter.

William Bell. Leith wine merchant.

Maggie Wemyss. Postmaster’s daughter.

James Lindsay Earl of Balcarres. Patrick’s cousin.

Margaret Haliburton. Patrick’s widowed mother.

Dr William Lindesay of Feddinch. Patrick’s uncle.

George Lindesay of Wormiston. Patrick’s eldest brother.

Colonel James Gardiner. Colonel of dragoons.

Lord Duncan Forbes. Secretary of State for Scotland.

Captain John Vere. Principal spy for the British Army.

General Cope. Commander of the British Army.

General Preston. Governor of Edinburgh Castle.

Lord George Murray. Jacobite commander-in-chief.

John O’Sullivan. Jacobite quartermaster-general.

Donald Cameron of Lochiel. Chief of Clan Cameron.

Murray of Broughton. Colonel of the Jacobite Hussars.

Alexander Erskine. Earl of Kellie.

Oliphant of Gask. Captain of the Perthshire Dragoons.

Captain Charlie Boyd. Youngest son of Kilmarnock.

Kilmarnock’s Horse Grenadiers

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Colonel William Boyd 4th Earl of Kilmarnock.

Captain Patrick Lindesay. Farmer.

Lieutenant George Gordon. Gentleman.

Lieutenant Donald MacDonald. Riding master.

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 Adam Tait. Jeweller.

Trooper Ninian Wise. Gamekeeper.

Trooper James Callander. Baker.

Trooper Andrew Bolton. Clerk.

Trooper William Moor. Horse-hirer.

Trooper James Brand. Watchmaker’s son.

Trooper Robert Bisset. Brickmaker.

Trooper John Kinaston. Highland gentleman.

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Battle of Gladsmuir

21st September 1745

Part One

Enduring the Fateful Wind

T he black sheep high on the Wether Law had given up the struggle. The beast was hopelessly trapped in the snow of the hillside. The farmer dug the sheep clear with ice-bitten hands. Revived by her fortuitous escape, the ewe ran off to rejoin the flock.

The farmer replaced his bonnet on his head and blew on his fingers. His green eyes stared out over the frosted fields to the summit of the Peat Hill and the bleak winter landscape beyond. He contemplated the year to come and his face was grim. 1742, he had thought, could not be as calamitous as the year just past. The country people of Scotland had suffered terribly. Now the excise man had just delivered the news that the cess, the land tax, was to rise yet again. The news could not have been more painful had the taxman slid a bayonet between his ribs. The tax would pay for the war raging against Spain, in the Americas, on the far side of the world. The war was entering its fourth year and was still spreading outwards … like a bloodstain.

Patrick Lindesay resented both the tax and the war. He resented that the simple country people of Scotland would be sent deeper into poverty to ensure the wealthy plantation owners and city merchants grew even richer. He resented that a German king ruling Scotland was making war on a French king ruling Spain.

Chapter One

The Great Frost at Eddleston

H e hunched in the churchyard at the very distant corner. It had not been easy to find the grave, freshly dug beneath the feathery branches of a yew tree. But he had found it … eventually. The yellow-green needles of the tree provided the only colour in the graveyard, the only sign of life in the consecrated piece of ground. No tears would come. A tiny mound of evil black earth stood out above the layer of innocent white snow. Like an irksome molehill. Without the whiteness of the snow he would not have found the grave. In a week or two, perhaps less, after the earth had settled and more snow had fallen, the grave would disappear completely. The child, he reflected, deserved something … a headstone, a wooden cross, even a posy of snowdrops would have sufficed. Just something to show that he had been loved. Even for the short moment of his life. But there was nothing.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mouthed the words.

Patrick felt his own heart, alive and pounding in his breast. Anger, guilt, shame, he could not make sense of the feeling. All three probably … certainly anger. He drew his sword from its scabbard and hacked at the stunted yew tree slicing free a branch with the blade of the weapon. There was still a scattering of blood red berries clinging to the stem. He lifted the fallen branch and thrust it through the crust of newly dug soil. Patrick had believed he was beyond hurting, that his capacity to care was long since gone. He had been wrong. The recent death of another child had reminded him once again of his failings. The guilt, un-soothed, came back and seeped into his frozen bones.

Patrick cursed at his own sorrow. He tried to push the pain and the pity from his conscience. He had insufficient time to mourn, and insufficient food to feed another child. It was the truth, but the sinful thought made him loathe himself even more. He sheathed his sword and walked towards the rows of gravestones at the rear of the churchyard. An elderly widow, the only other figure to be seen, stooped there. From beneath the brim of her bonnet she saw Patrick approach from the untended far reaches of the graveyard, and the crone pulled her shawl over her head and hurried away between the tilting lines of headstones. The old woman was frightened. Frightened by the un-smiling man with the piercing eyes who muttered by the paupers’ graves, frightened by his unkempt beard and his tattered clothes, frightened by his fiendish short sword that no gentleman would carry. Perhaps the dangerous looking fellow was a vagrant, thought the woman, or even worse … a Highlander.

Patrick paid no heed to the old woman. He walked on through the freshly fallen snow to a small and plain headstone. He knelt in front of it and swept away the white cap of snow. God, it was a cold and miserable place to be buried! He fastened every one of the buttons of his coat. He turned down the cuffs. He pulled the collar high. It didn’t help. The wind continued to cut through the weave of the coat and a cruel gust tugged at a patch on the elbow revealing a ragged hole beneath. He cursed again. A man needed good clothes to be about in such weather, warm clothes. And yet he had never dressed so poorly. He no longer cared about his appearance. But he needed a new coat to fend off the winter chill.

Patrick looked up intending to reassure the grieving widow; he would not harm her. But the woman was gone. No wonder the old lady had viewed him with distain. He carried with him the scent of pigs and not perfume; he could blend in unnoticed with the Lowland stockmen and Highland drovers at the market in Peebles. His presence displayed broad shoulders, dark forearms and a troubled face. His handshake divulged gout-swollen fingers, ridged nails and a labourer’s strength. Only his tongue betrayed he was not a true Borders’ farmer; only when hearing him speak would a bystander realise he was not a common man.

Patrick wiped snow from the face of the gravestone; it allowed him to read the date. 1735 had been a bad year. Letters appeared, crystals of ice gripping defiantly into each name … there was not one body buried there but two. Beside Alison lay their daughter. The baby girl had not been given a name, she had not lived long enough, and for the first time Patrick understood that had been a mistake. Every child, surely, deserved a name.

Patrick had never grieved for his dead daughter; he had never felt the need. And anyway, Alison had grieved enough for the both of them. After the child had died his wife had refused to speak further on the matter, and pushed away Patrick had felt no fondness for the unfortunate child. He bowed his head shamefully, that had been a mistake too. It was not the child’s fault.

‘I’m sorry!’ For a second time that afternoon he sought forgiveness.

The headstone, half buried in the snow, did not reply.

Patrick sighed and rubbed the stubble of his beard. In the recent weeks he had not troubled himself to shave and his beard was now a curious mixture of red and blond and black hairs. Alison had once compared it to the tortoise-shell cat that lived in the kitchen, a waspish creature. He nearly smiled at the memory.

In addition to the red of his beard, Patrick’s eyes also hinted at the generous measure of Highland blood in his veins. He had inherited his green eyes and his red hair from his mother, and it was his eyes that defined him. It was not just the depth or the colour. It was their intensity that held the attention of those he met … not that he met many people at Wester Deans.

Wester Deans was Patrick’s farm. The place stood in the heart of the hill-country of southern Scotland, far away from anywhere of importance, far away from anywhere at all. A post-road from the town of Peebles passed nearby heading north to Edinburgh, to the capital, twenty miles away. The road was well trodden and just as straight as any one of General Wade’s new military roads. Consequently, when Patrick visited Edinburgh, even though he travelled on foot out of necessity, he could leave at dawn and still arrive before noon. After twelve years of herding cattle and shepherding sheep, he joked that he could outmarch any soldier … even a Highland one.

But despite the nearness of the highway, Patrick received few visitors at Wester Deans. And this suited him well enough. For he had not improved the farmhouse since he purchased it all those years ago. He told himself that his shame was a good thing; it proved at least his dignity was intact.

When he had bought the farm of Wester Deans, Patrick’s intentions had been modest, but still full of good foundation and fine enough. In those days when he had still been young, he had held the belief that his future was full of honest deeds and hard-earned wealth. It had seemed unimaginable then that strenuous labour and a keen mind would bring failure. He had envisaged the home he would build for his family, a house of convenience fit for a gentleman of noble birth. The place would be sheltered by beech trees and set among green pastures. Each enclosed field would be golden with oats or stocked with fat beasts. The farm would be inherited by his son Davie one day, and the grandchildren to come would admire the woodland that framed the landscape and marvel at the foresight of Patrick Lindesay. Perhaps there would be a townhouse in Edinburgh where the family could reside during the winters, enjoying the pleasures of high society and attending the assemblies.

During the early years at Wester Deans, Patrick had held on to his dream. The first winters had been mild and the harvests fair, and yet year after year the farm had failed to yield a profit. Each winter he had assured himself that the winds of fortune would turn and blow his way. After all, each spring the soil was improving, each summer his knowledge of crops was growing, and each autumn there were greater numbers of lambs to sell. To better manage the grazing, Patrick collected stones and built dykes on the hillside; to drain the land, he dug ditches and spread lime; to shelter the crops, he planted trees in long lines.

Patrick had not given up on his dream when his baby daughter had died, or when Alison had become ill in the months that followed. Patrick had found it hard to watch his wife’s health fail. It had been his own wish, a selfish desire, to become a farmer. But it was not a dream his wife had shared. Alison had been an elegant lady from a well-to-do family, she was the daughter of a Dundee merchant and she had never asked to be a farmer’s wife. Alison had missed both the sea and the city, and her husband was sure her malaise had been as much an affliction of the mind as of her ailing body.

Increasingly, Patrick had spent long days in the fields whilst Alison had spent much of her time in her bed. It had been left to Ms Drummond the housekeeper to run the household and oversee the children. Patrick was not in the house when Alison had died. Davie had brought him the news as he harvested the potatoes.

*     *     *

There was a flurry of fresh snow, God’s wrath no doubt! And Patrick straightened slowly and stiffly. It was all the years bending in the fields, harvesting turnips, cutting peat and wrestling with sheep … either that, or God’s punishment.

He hurried to the far side of the church leaving footprints in the snow, a trail of sorrow, and there was shelter to be had within the doorway. He adjusted his scarf, wrapping it around his neck, over his mouth and across his nose. From the refuge of the porch he studied the handsome headstone that stood nearest. It was the largest monument in the whole churchyard and it occupied the most prominent ground. The gravestone belonged to the family of the minister and carved at its foot a new name had neatly been added. It was here that Patrick’s second wife was buried. More memories … recent, raw, unhealed … returned.

With four children to raise and a farm to run, Patrick had been in no position to dwell on Alison’s death. The year following he had taken for a wife the widowed daughter of the local minister. Agnes Robertson had been twenty-five years of age when the couple were wed; she had been a good woman and a good choice for a farmer’s wife. Patrick had soon gained a loving respect for his assiduous young bride. During her life Agnes had known nothing else other than the farming ways of the harsh Border hill-country. Agnes had run the house at Wester Deans without complaint; she had tended to the children and even worked in the fields. For the first time that he could recall, Patrick had known both companionship and contentment in his life. The toil of life at Wester Deans had not troubled Agnes Robertson.

Patrick’s love for his new wife had fast deepened and before they had seen out their second winter, Agnes had announced that she was with child. On learning the news, Patrick had delighted at the prospect of fatherhood once more. He had looked on with satisfaction as the boyish body of his young wife had transformed into that of a curvaceous woman. As the childbearing progressed, Patrick had slept at night with his hand on Agnes’s belly, feeling for the baby to kick. Instinct told him the baby would be a boy, a staunch and strong-willed character, just like his mother. Finally, Patrick felt that the winds of fortune had blown his way.

The happiness though did not last long. The birth of Patrick’s son James in the summer of 1739 did not go well. For a week before the birth Agnes had been afflicted with pleurisy. A week later she was dead. In her final days Agnes’s pain had eased and the doctor had said she would recover. The doctor had taken his fee and been confident in his prognosis. But the doctor had been wrong. Agnes had died in her bed in the arms of her husband.

The day after Agnes’s death, her family had taken her body away and buried her beside her mother. Patrick had grieved terribly. George of Wormiston his eldest brother sent him a letter of sympathy. His mother as always was more considered; she sent to Wester Deans a wet-nurse to care for the newborn child. All through that summer Patrick had worked on alone in the fields, day after day, and a heaviness of heart had brought him sleep each night. Weary of the struggle he no longer looked forward to improving the farm or raising his children. His hopes had all been blown away by the ill winds of fortune.

Other than his mother, William Bell was the only person who had rallied to Patrick’s side during that mournful time. Patrick considered William to be his best friend. But as William Bell pointed out, the competition was not considerable. The two men had worked together for many years, many years before, as young men, in the vaults and counting houses of Leith and Dundee. Whilst Patrick had given up his life as a trader of wine, William Bell had inherited the business of his father. It had been a surprise to Patrick when his friend had ridden into the yard at Wester Deans; it was only the second time William had visited, and on neither occasion had he come invited.

William Bell had been shocked when he saw his friend’s greying hair, hollow eyes and drawn face. William was always blunt, usually right and rarely serious. ‘You must wake up, Patrick, and get away from this hovel.’

‘Hovel!’ Patrick would not have accepted the insult from anyone else. He put aside the flail he had been using to thresh corn sheaves and straightened his back.

‘Aye, this is not a civilised life for a gentleman. Come to Edinburgh. Just for a week. It will be like the old days.’

‘I can’t leave now, William. It’s harvest time.’

‘My friend, this place will be the ruin of you. You could help me with my business. Trade in the city is good. Even a couple of days in Edinburgh would raise your spirits. The world will not look so gloomy afterwards. We’ll visit some fine gentlemen that I know, we’ll sell them some fine wine, and then we’ll dance with their fine daughters.’

‘It’s harvest time.’

‘The harvest will last … what … another week now. Promise me you’ll visit then? Come when you can.’

‘I promise.’ Patrick could think of no reason to decline the invitation.

*     *     *

It was time to be heading home. Patrick would have liked to have stayed a little longer, to have prayed inside the church, to have sought solace. But it was four O’clock, overly late, and already the mid-winter sun was setting behind the Wether Law. Patrick left the churchyard and walked through the village of Eddleston passing the manse and the smithy and the weavers’ cottages. He crossed the bridge over the Eddleston Water and headed into the bleak hills beyond. For an hour Patrick followed a little trodden track, buried deep in snow, retracing his own footprints still visible in the twilight from his outward journey. His way crested the shoulder of the Peat Hill, and here he left the path and took to the open hillside. In the valley ahead, an indeterminate distance away, a single light was visible. He headed towards it like a moth towards a lantern.

More snow began to fall from the ink-blue sky. Damnation! Only a dullard, Patrick knew, would enter the hills at night, and in a snowfall to boot. But it was his land and he knew every yard of the hateful terrain. Besides, he was a dullard to have chosen to live in such a God-forsaken place!

The snow fell thicker, not as a blizzard but as gentle flakes that softly buried the footprints behind him. It was a cruel penance, and Patrick wondered if the winter ahead would prove to be as harsh as the two previous ones. Surely such a thing was not possible?

After Agnes had died, the invitation to visit William Bell had been quickly forgotten. No sooner had the harvest been gathered in than an early winter had arrived. Patrick, now a widower for the second time, had told himself that his ill luck could not continue; his fortunes could only improve. Yet again he had been mistaken. He turned over his ankle whilst working on the frozen ground and such was the pain he feared he had broken the bones. Dr Crawford, a physician for the local dragoons, informed him that he had torn the sinews. Which, warned the learned doctor, was even worse.

For a fortnight Patrick had been confined to the fireside unable to walk. A further week of idleness had passed and then he had collapsed with a spasm sharp in his side. Davie was sent in foul weather to fetch Dr Crawford once again. Meantime, his father had curled up in sufferance on the parlour floor. Dr Crawford had duly arrived; he bled his patient and sold him medicine to dull the pain and soothe the bunching of his muscles.

And then two days after Christmas whilst Patrick had lain stricken in his bed, a storm had blown in from the north. This in itself was not unusual. But the Christmas gale of 1739 blew for ten days without stopping. It was so severe that no-one could venture out of doors. So long did the gale blow that by the time the winds eased, Patrick’s ankle had healed and he was able to walk with a hobble, with the aid of a stick. He had ventured outside. In the barns he discovered that all the potatoes had been destroyed by the bitterly cold weather. Some of the potatoes had been put aside for planting, but most were food to see the family through the winter.

The protracted gale had been only the beginning. The winter had dragged on with the temperature never once permitting a thaw. There was no snow on the ground but the land itself had turned to ice. The rivers and the lochs, the grass and the soil, even the trees had all set frozen. By the end of that January there had been no more coal to purchase. And the old people had died first. The miners could not dig the coal from the frozen ground, the waggoniers could not transport the coal along the frozen roads, and the ships could not ferry the coal with their frozen sails.

In February an even stranger event had occurred. For the first time anyone could recall the sea had iced over. The country had been imprisoned by an evil hand and the fishermen could not sail out from their harbours. Had they done so, they would have found that the cod did not migrate that year. Instead, shoals of fish floated dead beyond the ice flows.

The frost had persisted into March, the bitterest cold any Scotsman had ever endured. Such cold, that not only the winter crops died, but also the hedges and trees. It was as if time itself had stood still.

The ice had gripped onto