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 a fashion and in your royal regiment of guards to boot! Such unworthy behaviour will be the ruin of our reputation. And I must counsel that you dismiss Mr Lindesay from his post.
Before the Prince could answer, Patrick stepped closer to the Quartermaster-General, toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye. His face was feral. Patrick curled his lip, bared his teeth, fingered his pistol. The conceited inanity of the fellow was insufferable.
For a moment the Irishman was sure the Captain of the Grenadiers was about to offer a challenge and 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 none-the-less.
And OSullivan frowned, unsure why the Grenadiers anger had turned cold.
And Patricks smile broadened, for the canniest of ploys had just come to him

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524676124

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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© 2017 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 02/07/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7611-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7610-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7612-4 (e)

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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: Waging the Winter War

Chapter One: The French Dragoons at Aberdeen

Chapter Two: The Muster at the Tolbooth

Chapter Three: The Blizzard at Inverurie

Chapter Four: The Fishing Boats at Lonemore

Chapter Five: The Waistcoat at Beldorney

Chapter Six: The Ambuscade at Balloch Hill

Chapter Seven: The Affront at Fochabers

Chapter Eight: The Weir at the River Isla

Chapter Nine: The Fight at Keith

Part Two: Ending the Bad Affair

Chapter Ten: The Sermon at the Pulpit

Chapter Eleven: The Tannage at the Stable

Chapter Twelve: The Gigue at Mr Innes’s Parlour

Chapter Thirteen: The Altercation at Inverness

Chapter Fourteen: The Cranesbill at the Muckle Church

Chapter Fifteen: The Bugler at Nairn

Chapter Sixteen: The Cannonade at Culloden House

Chapter Seventeen: The Charge at Drumossie Muir

Chapter Eighteen: The Squares at Balvaird

Chapter Nineteen: The Barracks at Ruthven

Part Three: Hunting the Mountain Hares

Chapter Twenty: The Disguise at the Roadside

Chapter Twenty-one: The Rescue at St. Walloch’s Pot

Chapter Twenty-two: The Dragoons at the Door

Chapter Twenty-three: The Minister at Glass

Chapter Twenty-four: The Waylaying at Glen Effock

Chapter Twenty-five: The Shielings at Corrie Doune

Chapter Twenty-six: The Desolation at Glen Esk

Chapter Twenty-seven: The Raid at Clova

Chapter Twenty–eight: The Stooge at Green Hill

Chapter Twenty-nine: The Treasure in the Bog

Chapter Thirty: The Ferryboat at the Tay

Chapter Thirty-one: The Gaol at Dundee

Part Four: Fetching the Infernal Keys

Chapter Thirty-two: The Greeting at the Gatehouse

Chapter Thirty-three: The Parade at the Outer Ward

Chapter Thirty-four: The Beholders at the Wall

Chapter Thirty-five: The Oath at the Town Hall

Chapter Thirty-six: The Confinement at the Keep

Chapter Thirty-seven: The Brawl at the Bridge

Chapter Thirty-eight: The Clerk at the Courthouse

Chapter Thirty-nine: The Papers at the Jury Box

Chapter Forty: The Stranger at the Witness Stand

Chapter Forty-one: The Prayers at the Licking Stone

Chapter Forty-two: The Breakout at the Breach

Chapter Forty-three: The Capon Tree at Brampton

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 discovered 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 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 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 tail-less 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, Edinburgh, Stirlingshire and further afield. They served tirelessly for the entirety of the rebellion … right to the 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 riding the roads, 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 of King George 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 followers of Prince Charles found little support for their cause in England, and pursued by the enemy the Prince’s army 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 more. 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, seven 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 and the son of King George, 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

C:\Users\Fiona\Documents\My Scans\Gavin's scans\map for Fate of the JG.jpg

The Theatre of War. Spring 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 Laird 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 that he was dying. John Lindesay had told everyone that 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 lands. His other brother John would take over his father’s business affairs. Patrick’s future though was now wrung 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 letter … 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 River Forth 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, to set in order the family’s affairs. His brother John meantime, a more considerate soul, assisted his mother into the family’s carriage: a two wheeled jauncing-cart. 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 and 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 gravedigger stooped and set steadily to his work. With perfunctory toil the toothless man, his face wizened by sun and wind, piled soil into the grave.

His mind far away, Patrick walked 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-built harbour had a high sea-wall and was surrounded by yellow sand and rocky cliffs. Patrick 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 down 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 town’s 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 broken out 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 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 below 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 so 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 and the cliffs, the frightened fishermen had no chance to disperse.

The leader of the soldiers was a straight-backed, 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. The officer argued with the fishermen and offered them coin.

*      *      *

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

Because of the unfavourable winds the boats had to tack from side to side … and that made their progress slow. Soon though, more boats could 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, the youngest son of the House of Wormiston, rose to his feet. 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 horse.

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

grenadier (square).jpg

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.

author- drumossie.jpg

Battle of Drumossie Muir

… 16th April 1746 …

Part One

Waging the Winter War

T hirty 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 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 Patrick to squint his eyes. 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. He allowed the horse to graze.

Patrick removed his bonnet and scratched his head with calloused farmer’s fingers. He had thought that 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 bonnet on his head and grimaced. The north-easterly wind was bitterly cold. It felt like it was going to snow. Patrick shifted in his saddle to find a more comfortable position; the leather beneath his breeches was worn and cracked. And then at last he grunted with satisfaction, but not because his buttocks had found a more 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 breeze, 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 of its ordnance, four sailors began to row her 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 backless 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 tricorne 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 it was fear and not sand that stung his eyes. Every one of the unfriendly Scotsmen was bearded, heavily armed and dressed in dark and ragged clothes. The riders on the beach, the Frenchman saw, were all much of a likeness, and yet quite different. The Scotsmen wore leather boots and riding breeches, and dark cylindrical bonnets with red pompoms upon the crown. They were all attired in long coats, crossed belts and faded plaids, pleated around the waist and pinned up 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, and the fourth gripped a short-barrelled musketoon … the four riders of the apocalypse.

Patrick stared down from his saddle and did not smile. With piercing green eyes he took the measure of the fresh-faced lieutenant 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 Scotch horsemen all appeared to be base fellows … brigands and rogues. One of the riders was surely 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 and a brass gorget around his neck, who spoke. ‘Lieutenant?’

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

‘No!’

‘No?’ The Frenchman baulked.

And the rider with the gorget shook his head. ‘No!’

‘You will not help?’ The Frenchman feared there had been a terrible mistake. The small brass gorget around the neck of the carabineer was suspended by a chain. It was imprinted not with the thistle of the House of Stuart … but with the symbol of a striding horse: the symbol of the House of Hanover.

A pause. And then Patrick spoke again. ‘No … there are no waggons.’

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 deeper. He had come dressed for war against his enemy, the English. And he had expected a fine welcome from his Scotch 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, for the first time, noticed the sullied white cockade sewn onto the side of Patrick’s bonnet, the badge of the House of Stuart. There had been no mistake! The brass gorget was a plundered trophy. And the fear in the breast of the French lieutenant 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 blink hard at Patrick. 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 taste the acid etching of French steel!’

Patrick sighed. It was not the 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 out loud 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, with the exception of the strange gorget at his neck, he wore no other badge of rank. Unless one took regard of the tartan sash wrapped around the waist of his coat? And that was stained and faded. Time to take command! Patrick 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, shortly to arrive … 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 and hid his surprise; he had not expected so many. Nobody 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 clavichord. 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 horse, armoured cuirassiers, would have on the battlefield? They would ride down the English dragoons, unsteady the redcoats … and greatly lift the spirits of our own infantry.’

His colonel pondered the dilemma. ‘Five hundred, you say?’

‘More!’

‘Incredible!’ Lord Kilmarnock knew that such numbers could change the course of the war.

‘And fusiliers too … several companies of them.’

‘Good God!’ whispered Lord Kilmarnock. And then he said more loudly, ‘Or more likely … it’s the Devil’s caper!’ The Earl lowered his head until the point of his tricorne rested on the case of the clavichord. He closed his eyes, weighing up the risks to be taken and the gains to be made.

Patrick allowed his colonel time to gather his thoughts.

And then Lord Kilmarnock slowly pushed himself upwards, his mind made up. ‘We will wait one day more … just one. If the missing ships don’t arrive, we must march north tomorrow.’ The Earl removed his tattered hat and raised the lid of the clavichord once more. ‘If we delay any longer then we will surely be surrounded.’ Kilmarnock’s eyes glazed over and he 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 his drummer boy to beat his drum to summon the rest of the men. All morning Patrick’s troop of 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 beneath, 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 the corner of 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.’

‘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.

Patrick meantime looked beyond the old soldier. And he called out, ‘Sergeant Baird!’

‘Sir?’ A Grenadier, 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 and rattled window glass.

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 the last to climb into his saddle. He stood in the middle of the street, 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. Baird failed to place his toe into the swinging stirrup-iron as his horse sidled away. To free his hands, he thrust the half eaten pie into his mouth, and then he grabbed the pommel of his saddle, used a doorstep as a mounting block, and heaved himself upwards. At last, safely atop his horse, the big sergeant 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 possibility. 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 horses, 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 Hussars 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 rabbit fur hats. 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 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. 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, Patrick saw, were already mustered, ready to march and impatient to be underway. Most of the four thousand Lowland Jacobites had departed some days earlier, and only a small garrison of foot and an escort of cavalry had been left behind.

The town’s tolbooth towered over the marketplace. Beneath its grey granite walls, in three tidy ranks, stood the two hundred fusiliers of Gordon of Glenbucket. This regiment was made up of local men; they didn’t have a uniform as such, but all of Glenbucket’s fusiliers 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.

All of Glenbucket’s men were warmly dressed for the march ahead; every one of them was attired in a long brown coat, plaid waistcoat beneath, 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 forty 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 the Prince’s cavalry; now the men were jaded and their 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 Grenadiers were refreshed and well provisioned. During their time in Aberdeen, Quartermaster Harvie had also 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.

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

Patrick looked up to the roof of the tolbooth. The square tower was topped with battlements; and between the merlons Trooper Warren could be seen wearing his distinctive Grenadier’s bonnet with its pompon atop. Warren was keeping watch 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 and black plastron breastplates. Half of the foreign cavalrymen were now mounted. Their 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 Scotch regiments, but they would now serve the Frenchmen instead. Half of the French dragoons 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!’ said Patrick.

And Kilmarnock grimaced by way of reply. ‘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 winter 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 Gordon of 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 swords. 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