Chapter Twenty One
Borlum Field, Fort Augustus
"The Duke won't let me enter Chianti." Igrat sounded slightly aggrieved. "He says the races are to amuse and entertain the men and their confiscated horses won't stand a chance against him."
"The Duke is right, ducks." Nell looked at her from under her elaborate hat. She had been chatting with Lady Diana, Countess of St Albans, who was learning the fascination of speaking with somebody whose experiences extended over so many years and who had been present at so many events whose details had passed into legend. "He'd be in the home straight before they got around the first corner. The whole point of this gala is to improve morale and he wants the winners to be from the ranks. All the officers have been quietly discouraged from entering. Here, let me buy you a teacake by way of consolation."
Fort Augustus was full of Hanoverian troops, the regiments of foot might be sending out patrols deep into the Highlands but they were keeping the troops in the town between those patrols. The problem was, there wasn't that much for them to be doing there. Idle soldiers caused trouble, got into mischief and generally created disciplinary issues. That meant poor morale and that was something the Duke of Cumberland was not prepared to allow. So, he had come up with the idea of setting up a series of horse-races in a large field near the Fort. The mounts were provided by the same patrols that were hunting down the last supporters of the Jacobite cause.
One of the sanctions against those who refused to acknowledge the Hanoverian supremacy was that they had their livestock confiscated. Fort William and Augustus were both crowded with cattle and horses that had been removed from their previous owners. The cattle were being distributed to those loyalists who had suffered at the hands of the Jacobites with the prime examples being put to one side to compensate loyal Highlanders who had lost their livestock in error. Such mistakes inevitably happened, and they were remedied by allowing the victims to repair their losses from the best of the confiscated beasts. The horses, though, were different. The Army was taking those and the private soldiers had become quite enthused with riding them. So much so that they were spending more time looking after the horses than their camp duties. That had forced the Duke's hand; soon the surplus horses and cattle would be sold.
And so it was that the Wednesday Galas had been instituted, in the words of the Duke, "to allow the men to have an afternoon of healthy enjoyment while they still might." There were a series of horse-races between representatives of the various regiments with a prize of five guineas for the winner of each. The afternoon's racing would be concluded with "The Countess of Strathearn's Cup", an open race of five circuits of the field with the "cup" being a keg of good Navy rum for the winner and a bottle of common brandy for each man who hadn’t fallen off his horse during the race. The Regimental and Company wives had been asked to join in the party by opening small stands where they could demonstrate their cooking and baking prowess using stores provided by the Quartermaster and retaining the profits for the welfare of their families. Enthused by the challenge to show what they could achieve when not limited by Army demands, the wives had turned out a range of cakes, biscuits and scones with fresh butters and jams that would delight any London society affair.
The local inhabitants had started to come as well and had been forced to concede that perhaps these Hanoverians were not the monsters that Jacobite propaganda had led them to expect. That was also a purpose behind the Galas, to bring around the local population and, if not befriend them, at least make them less dedicated foes. But, it was not that success that had pleased the Duke immeasurably. It was that, while walking the grounds incognito, he had heard one of his solders saying, "At least Old Billy cares about us. That's more than some of them do." That evening he had been fond of repeating the unwitting soldier's compliment to everybody in earshot
"We have cheesy scones for a hapenny." A familiar voice broke into Igrat's thoughts. "And Bishop's Fingers for a farthing."
The Avebury contingent was well-versed in the art of progressing around a local fete and consorting with the local population while not encouraging undue or impertinent familiarity. They, after all, had generations of practice. Nell broke away from her conversation with the Duchess of St. Albans to respond. "Why, Mrs. Smille, it is a pleasure to see you again. Six of your cheesy scones for my friends and I, if you please." Nell produced three pence from her purse and handed them over. The party nibbled decorously at the scones (as befitted ladies of quality, Igrat and Nell at least would have preferred wolfing them down were it not for the desirability of keeping up appearances).
Naamah's eyebrows lifted with pleasure as she bit into hers. "These are very good. An interesting blend of herbs you have with the cheese, Just the right amount of savory sharpness to offset the sweetness of the fresh cheese. You collected the herbs around here? Which ones did you use?"
"They're off," Nell said quietly. "They'll be talking herbs and spices for hours now. And Naamah will slip in a warning about making sure they don’t pick bad ones. Although she hardly needs to; there have been enough reports of people trying to live in the heather and eating poisonous plants. There was that whole family that died, caused a major stir, that did."
"Beggin' your pardon, Your Ladyships, may I take the liberty of asking a question?"
"Certainly Mrs, Smille." Igrat gave her the best flashing smile she could.
"Them swine that killed Judith Tomkins so awful. Were they caught?" The words 'and hanged' weren't used but they hung there, the same way everybody hoped the bodies of the killers would hang. .
Nell shook her head. "We think we know who they are and the cavalry is closing in on them. We'll have them in a day or so, you mark my words."
"Thank you, My Lady. Poor Judith was a nice girl before the gin got to her. That rotgut destroyed her mind, we could all see it happening. After she died the way she did, them that was running the illegal stills was sent out of the baggage train."
Naamah's head snapped around. "Good thing too, the difference between a bottle of gin and a bottle of poison is just a few degrees and it changes with the weather. We're capturing enough drinkables, there's no need to make that poison."
The specialty of the next stand was small meat pasties. Naamah bought them for the group and, once again started asking about the herbs and seasonings used. The detailed questioning made the cook beam with pride; to have a lady of quality asking her for advice was quite an honor. Unfortunately, the pleasant afternoon was interrupted by a spite-laden voice slicing cross the party.
"I see the 'Countess' is consorting with the commoners like the whore she is." The Baroness de Ros was behind the, her face twisted with hatred for her rival. She had her own clique with her but their expressions were of shock and dismay at the overt offensiveness of the Baroness's comment. Several of them were already trying to edge away. The common people in the area were also acutely embarrassed and trying make distance between them and the impending confrontation. When such things started, it was best for them to be elsewhere. Anywhere elsewhere.
Igrat glanced around, her eye catching Nell's and she remembered her comment when faced with a similar situation. "Well, at least I am a Protestant whore."
The people around, even the common folk, recognized the near-quotation and the reference to the fabled and beloved Nell Gwynne. It was a deft and humorous response to an aggressive and ill-mannered remark made by the Baroness. To those of higher rank, it was also a sharp reminder that the Countess of Strathearn outranked the Baroness to a substantial degree. Watching from a distance, Conrad (who was not with either party since it was unseemly for a man, even a priest, to walk with the ladies at such events) saw that the shift in positions resulting from some members of the Baronesses party moving away from her and towards Igrat's group. In the ever-shifting political allegiances of Court, the Baroness had just inflicted severe harm upon herself. He couldn’t help wondering if word that the de Ros title was in abeyance and that her claim to it was, at best, highly questionable had started to spread.
The Baroness de Ros reacted very differently, shocking Igrat with the change in her expression. She went bright purple, her face contorted until she was almost unrecognizable and her eyes blazed pure, undiluted fury. So much so that rage drowned out the hate that had previously dominated them. Igrat realized that inadvertently she had just struck a highly sensitive nerve.
"You, you . . . . How dare you . . . . How dare you insu . .. . I am . . . . the true fa . . . . . ." She was spluttering, incoherent with sheer incandescent, not to mention highly inappropriate, rage. Betrayed by her own tongue that would not form the words her mind wanted to say, which to Nell meant her tongue had more tact and discretion than her brain did, she flounced away, Some of her clique went with her but the rest quietly dispersed.
"You hear that? She nearly said 'the true faith' I didn’t know she was a Catholic." Lillith looked curiously at her. "And Catholic means Jacobite".
That remark was more than one of the commoners watching the show had been able to stand. He approached Lillith, cap in hand and deference oozing from every pore. "Beggin' your pardon, My Lady and with no disrespect but I am a Catholic and proud that I have sworn allegiance to Good King George. And will do so again, in front of everybody, every time he might ask. The Good Book says, 'render unto Caesar what is Caesar's and render unto God what is God's'. That's what our pastor says and them's our words to live by."
"Bravely said, my man." Nell decided it was time everybody got back to the purpose of the afternoon which was enjoying themselves in the spring sun. "Here is a shilling for you to drink the health of His Majesty and His Grace the Duke."
In the background, Conrad had heard the exchange and, quite apart from agreeing with the theology, the Baroness's slip of the tongue had made him think very carefully.
Patrol, Duke of Cumberland's Light Dragoons, North of Sandaig
Semiramis had the roll of drawings Igrat had sent that were of the jewelry Joy Thackeray had been wearing at the time of her murder. One of them was of a bracelet that had an unusual design of a cross atop a square stone column. It was the sort of bracelet that a pilgrim might buy at a sacred site to commemorate the completion of a holy duty but this was Sandaig and the cross stood alone on a windswept, deserted moor. To Semiramis's practiced eye, the ground around the cross had once been a graveyard but there was little to substantiate that other than the fact that she had been the cause of enough burial grounds in her time.
"It's the Kilchoan Cross right enough, Colonel." Captain Broadhurst looked carefully at the drawing and nodded. "See, there is the ship at the top and the man on a horse underneath it. The decoration around the cross is much the same as well. The road through the pass from Loch Akraig leads right here as well."
"How many people know of this stone?" Semiramis could see the resemblance easily enough and this convinced her that they were on the track of the missing wagon and its gold.
"Precious few. We only found it by accident. It is strange and out of place enough for us to look at further."
Semiramis thought that over. Assuming that the bracelet was the second part of the puzzle, the first having been the necklace that bore coded directions to this general area, this bracelet was the key to exactly where the treasure should be delivered. She looked at the drawing, recognizing Lillith's hand in the artwork and that meant it was exactly as had been depicted on the bracelet itself with only the precision that an obsessively pedantic accountant could manage. She looked at the stone again and once more at the drawing. Nevertheless, it was minutes before she spotted the key difference yet when she did she kicked herself for missing something so obvious.
"Captain, look. There is a difference. The small square surrounding the base of the column. Here, it is parallel with the sides of the stone but in the picture it is at an angle. The real square is orientated north-south yet on the diagram it is northwest to southeast."
"There is a fork in the path a few hundred paces in front of us, Colonel. On the map at least for whatever that is worth. One fork leads north west to Doune Bay, the other east to Inverguseran."
"It fits so far." Semiramis looked at the picture again. There were two small flowers in the area between cross and square, in the northwest corner. There were none in the real stone that was before them. A few hundred paces could easily be two hundred and these maps are horrible."Private Miller, dismount and follow the path for two hundred paces and then stop. We will follow you with your horse."
Miller slid off his horse and set off, smiling slightly at the unconventional way his Colonel phrased her orders. Instinctively his pace was that specified by Army regulations and so it was than his two hundredth pace put him exactly in the middle of the junction. He could see it was barely that though. The path heading east was obviously the main track; it was little more than a mud path wet and sodden. The one heading north-west was far worse. It was just two narrow tracks cleared by cart wheels with a strip of green between them. Unless somebody did something about it, the path would be completely overgrown when the spring growth started. Miller walked over to the north-west path such as it was and stopped immediately. The wheel tracks of a heavily-loaded wagon were apparent in the mud. Fresh tracks, probably made only the night before and deep. They were obvious because the wheels of the wagon were further apart than the two lanes of the track and one pair of wheels had been on the grass. He retraced his steps to the main track and quickly determined there were no such traces on that one.
By the time he got back, the rest of the patrol had arrived. He showed his discoveries to the Sergeant who passed word up to the officers. Two things were very clear. They were on the right track; the wagon was on its way to Doune Bay and they were close behind it.
Semiramis thought about that. "Only one problem, Captain, if we have the final directions, how did they know where to go?"
"With respect, Colonel, why don’t we ask them when we catch up with the wagon?"
"If they're spared, Captain, if they are spared."
The men exchanged surreptitious grins. Their Colonel might be surpassing strange but she knew the elements of a cavalry raid perfectly.
Quarterdeck, HMS Hornet, Off Doune Bay
"I'd wager she knows her work better than most. For all that she sets a fine table, she knows how to handle a sword. Slicing a roast with a cavalry saber is no easy task yet she managed it to perfection." Captain Belushi looked out to sea. Dusk was falling and he had a decided impression that tonight was going to be a critical one for his career. If this goes well, is it possible I could be made post? Please, Lord, let it be so. The sun was setting behind the island of Skye while to the east, the hills above Doune Bay were already shrouded in darkness. "Signal Captain Swafford on the Hound that there are no lights ashore. Yet."
"Aye, aye Sir." First lieutenant George Cadden looked across at his Captain fondly. He had been doing nothing but speaking admiringly of the Colonel of the Duke of Cumberland's Light Dragoons all day. It had only been when he had discovered that said Colonel was, quite unbelievably, a woman that he had managed, with great relief, to dispel his fears. He gave the order for the signal flags to be hoisted, hoping that there was enough light to allow the Hound to read them. There was a long pause and he was about to repeat the message by signal lamp when the flags on Hound fluttered in acknowledgment.
"It is hard to see how a woman brought up to fight with her hands could turn them to bringing up a child." The First Lieutenant ventured the criticism carefully. His captain's infatuation with the lady in question was one thing but there were practical considerations to be born in mind. Like heirs.
"I don’t think children are part of that one's plans. Nor are husbands." Captain Belushi crossed the quarterdeck, no great journey for the tiny Hornet, and scanned his telescope along the hills. "Anyway, Cadden, I suspect, by her appearance, she is a Musselman. Possibly even a Barbary pirate. Certainly she is not British."
"One of the Duke's mercenaries, then?"
"That is my best guess, yes. But I will say it again. She knows her work. Have you read of her pursuit of the fleeing Highlanders along the Inverness Road? Her cavalry cut them all down along with others who were not at Culloden. Not their fault, the Highlanders did not wear proper uniforms so it was impossible to pick out the civilians amongst them. Hello, what do we see out there? Cadden, I think I see a light? Just above the fold in the hills above the bay?"
Lieutenant Cadden lifted his telescope and stared in the indirection. He saw nothing for a moment and then the light came back on again. "I see it too, Sir, On the high ground east of the beach. With a good smooth slope for a charge downwards. I think your praise is rightly placed, Sir. The lady colonel does know her business well."
"I hope so, Cadden, I hope so. For there is another signal light from the beach."
"Signal from Hound Sir. Two signal lights out to sea. Believed Frenchie frigates."
"Well Cadden, the game is afoot. Three sloops against two frigates. A chance for some good prize money I think."
1746 - Drummossie Moor
Re: 1746 - Drummossie Moor
Chapter Twenty-Two
Quarterdeck, HMS Hound, Off Doune Bay
"Clear for action!” Captain Swafford gave the order calmly but his voice carried across the Hound’s decks and was rewarded by an immediate surge of action. Beneath the forecastle, the warrant officers and senior petty officers immediately organized the seamen into work parties tasked with clearing everything not needed for combat off the main gun deck and sending it all, partitions for the cabins used by the officers, their furniture and carpeting, all the tools that would not be needed for the upcoming fight, everything that could get in the way, start fires or become secondary projectiles to the hold. Other groups of seamen were already hard at work on the gun deck, wetting down the wood to damp out any sparks that might otherwise cause fire and explosion while buckets of sand were scattered to improve footing. Next to the six-pounder guns, the sponge tubs were being filled with water. The six pounders themselves were being prepared to fire with their lashings removed so that they could be run out when needed. Grimmer need was also being served with sea-service muskets issued to marines and marksmen, and the racks holding the boarding weapons unlocked. Down below, the ship’s surgeon was preparing his tools for the butchery that was to come.
To an uneducated observer, it looked like utter pandemonium without the slightest trace of order. To Swafford’s practiced eye, it was a well-oiled, well-practiced machine at work where each man knew his job and how best t’was done. The secret was revealed by watching the senior petty officers. They were not driving men and dictating their every action but leading and encouraging them. There was still much to do and Swafford was heartily glad that naval actions took place at something only slightly faster than a brisk walking pace. As it was, before their galleys were closed, the cooks given each man at least something hot to eat despite the lateness of the hour. After all, the men fought better with something in their stomachs.
Swafford had already broken with tradition by taking the lee gage, placing Hound downwind of Subtile. He knew his enemy, even in the post-dusk gloom he had recognized the French frigate easily. She was unique in the French fleet which was, perhaps, why they had given her the mission of supporting the Jacobites. What Swafford knew and he devoutly hoped that the French captain did not was that the weather gage had been taken by Hazzard with her heavier and more powerful French six pounders. The plan was really quite simple, all good plans were. Hound would engage Subtile. entrap her in a fight where the superiority of his gunners would offset the greater number and power of the guns on the French ship. Meanwhile, Hazzard would sweep in and concentrate her gunnery on the quarterdeck of the French ship, decapitating her by breaking down her command structure. Once the commander structure had failed, Subtile could, God willing, by boarded and taken. The plan and disposition had another advantage; Hound would be between the Frenchie and Hornet allowing Commander Belushi with his detailed knowledge of the waters close inshore to interfere with whatever it was that the other Frenchie was up to without having to worry about his rear.
Swafford felt quietly confident about the impending action. Already, he had one stroke of good fortune; the wind had shifted so that being on the lee gauge hadn’t affected Hound’s speed. It also meant that Hazzard coming in on the weather gage had placed her against the darkness-shrouded hills. The shift in the wind had meant two British ships were near their fastest point of sailing, something that might have made a lesser man think that God was an Englishman. Captain Swafford had never even considered the possibility that this might not be the case.
“Decks cleared, guns ready, Captain.”
“Very good, Mr. Houghton.” Swafford once again noted how quiet were the minutes before a naval engagement erupted into a holocaust of explosions and screaming. He could even hear voices from the Subtile. probably the French captain going a stirring speech to his men. The Frenchies are so melodramatic. Always giving flamboyant speeches. Don’t they understand that this is just business as usual? Still I suppose I’d better lift the men’s hearts as well.
“Men, as we go into battle, I remind you of those things dearest to our hearts and souls by using just two words. Prize Money. Carry on.”
Quarterdeck, French Ship Subtile, Sailing As Royal Stuart.
“You were right, Capitaine. The sloop is sailing straight at us. They cannot have heard of our new guns.” Lieutenant Gilbert Masson looked with his telescope at the approaching sloop. Under his breath he added the traditional prayer of the French Navy when it was about to take on its arch-rival. “From the scheming of the devil and the gunnery of the British, may the Good Lord preserve us”
“Our eight pounders will see him off.” Capitaine Carnot was watching the sloop as well as she closed in. Subtile had already switched to battle sail, her topsails, jibs and spanker deployed while the rest were triced up. Oddly, the sloop was under normal sail but there seemed to be little movement on the decks to switch to battle sail and the ship was eerily quiet. That emphasized something that had been preying on his mind ever since Subtile had been refitted. All wooden ships creaked and groaned in their daily lives, the sounds of timber working being an ever-present accompaniment to the life of a sailor. But, after the eight pounders had been swung on board, the gun deck had started making quite different noises. His experience as a sailor told him that they were the sounds of wooden decks and joints being strained. Had it been wise to replace the six-pounders the ship had been designed to carry with guns that weighed half as much again? "Bring her around, one point to starboard. Prepare our starboard broadside to fire in sequence on command."
The sounds of the ten eight-pounder guns on the starboard side of the ship being rumbled forward into their firing positions joined all the other sounds - including the squeal of protesting timbers as the heavy guns rolled forward. Carnot had already decided on his opening blow in this battle. He knew that the first broadside was the only one that could be counted on; after that the gunners would be loading and firing as fast as possible and the rate of misfires would soar while accuracy plummeted. He knew something else as well; the British gunners fired twice as fast as his and that they were twice as accurate. Despite his apparently overwhelming firepower, he knew he had to cripple the enemy gunners in the first few minutes or it would go hard with him. Accordingly, and contrary to the doctrine he had been taught, he would fire each gun deliberately into the hull of the sloop. As the first gun came to bear, he dropped his hand and heard the crash as the eight pounder hurled its ball at the sloop.
The first shot was close, passing just in front of the approaching sloop. The second whistled over the bow but the third slammed home, bringing down Hound’s outer jib sail. Carnot was waiting for the fourth shot, confidently expecting it to crash into the sloop’s side and disable at least some of her guns but instead, there was a completely unexpected and devastating explosion on his own gundeck. One of his own waist eight-pounders had burst, destroying the gangway, wrecking both of the ship’s boats stowed amidships and mowing down the crews of the burst gun and those of the guns on either side of it. Carnot saw at least seven men were dead and eleven more were down, moving but obviously badly injured. Worse still, the confusion caused by the burst eight pounder had disrupted the smooth cadence of firing from the gun deck. Number five gun was silenced, its crew dead or wounded, number six gun crew were stunned by the unexpected blast and number seven fired but their shot went wild, soaring into the air and landing somewhere out of sight. Only the rear three guns were unaffected by the disaster and they put two shots close alongside the sloop while one scored the longed-for hit on the enemy gundeck. A cheer went up as the British sloop lurched under the impact and started to sheer away,
Quarterdeck, HMS Hound, Off Doune Bay
“Damn it, Houghton, those aren’t six pounders! They’re French eights if they’re an ounce.” Swafford paced his quarterdeck anxiously while a Warrant Officer led a party to cut away the damaged rigging from the wrecked jib sail. The damage wasn’t serious so much as crippling; a few well-placed blows with an axe could cure it but until those blows were struck, the downed outer jib was dragging the bows around and preventing Hound from returning fire. “Mr. Torrance, some vigor with those axes if you please.”
“Aye-aye, Sir. Get on with it you layabouts or do you want that Frenchie to come at us with grape and canister?” Warrant Officer David Torrance took a swing with his ‘starter’ at the rear end of a seaman who appeared to be wielding his axe just a little bit too slowly. The sail, the outer jib, dropped clear and Hound came back to life again.
“Get those bows around Mr. Houghton, get a broadside into that Frenchie before she gets her wits together.” Swafford realized that he had been incredibly lucky so far; the damage forward had been remedied quickly, the shot amidships had hit the empty port between the second and third guns, harming the rigging somewhat but inflicting no mortal damage while the Frenchie seemed to have had an explosion all of her own amidships. A burst gun was Swafford’s guess; the Frenchies still used charcoal for their iron and their guns were weak. He was well-qualified to make that guess, his father was an ironmaster.
Hound's bow was swinging towards the French frigate, allowing her to fire at last. The five shots rippled out, the first smacking cleanly into the damaged area from the burst gun. "Well done, Sykes! Show the Frenchies how it's done, eh!"
The screams from the frigate clearly echoed over the water. Sykes' shot had clearly struck home and done serious harm. The other four six-pounders fired their shots in a ripple that made it hard to tell the blasts were individual shots not a rolling burst of thunder. Three of the balls slammed into the enemy frigate's side including one that seemed to strike directly upon one of the gunports. The cannon were hurled back against their lashings, their crews already swabbing out the barrels and getting the guns ready to fire again. The last act was for the gunner to cock the gunlock and put some priming powder in the pans. Then the guns were rolled back and fired again. Only by the time they were ready to fire their third shot of the battle did the French gunners have their pieces ready to fire.
"More than two broadsides to one, a fine effort wouldn’t you say Mr. Houghton?"
"Acceptable. Just acceptable. I'd expect better of a Hound though." Houghton sounded grudging as his part of the play on the quarterdeck demanded. The Captain would shout praise and encouragement to the men, urging them on. The First Officer would shake his head and demand still more. This time he didn’t get the chance for his words were drowned out by the roar of the Subtile firing. They also overwhelmed the sound of Hound's guns, something that underlined the key fact of the battle. Even with only seven of her ten broadside guns firing, the French frigate had a broadside weight of more than sixty British pounds, double that of Hound's five six-pounders.
The seven eight-pound shot passed low over Hound's hull, the scream of their passing failing to distract the British gun crews desperately working their six-pounders. Up on the quarterdeck, Swafford was confused; the frigate's first broadside had been aimed at his sloop's hull and it had only been by the grace of God (understandable since God was English after all) that Hound had been spared battle-ending damage. This second broadside had been higher, clearing the deck by a few feet but had not been high enough to have targeted the rigging. He had a partial answer with Subtile's third broadside, this time of only six guns, another having fallen victim to the rapid fire of the sloop. One of those six shells struck Hound's main mast, bringing it crashing down across the ship.
Warrant Officer Torrance and his crew of axmen immediately went to work, trying to cut away the wreckage of the fallen mast that was bringing Hound to a halt. For all their efforts, the wreckage of the mast trailing in the water and the loss of sail power had brought the sloop almost to a halt and the Subtile was pulling steadily ahead of her. Swafford saw the frigate beginning to swing and knew that she was planning to cross his sloop's bows and pour a devastating raking fire into her. The truth was, the battle was beginning to go very badly for his ship.
French Frigate Mars, Current Sailing As Royal Charles, Off Doune Bay.
"We're inshore now, Capitaine." Mars had been edging through the shoal waters on the northern edge of the bay before swinging south-east to parallel the shore. It was the hard and complicated way in and the one posing the greatest risk from grounding. The southern route into Doune Bay was much the easier; a straight run down the channel to the beach. However, Maurice had guessed that if the British had a sloop operating inshore as well, that was where she would be. He was well-aware that the British opinion of French seamanship was withering and that they would assume the French would take the easiest route in and out. Fortunately, he had Jacobites on board as part of the crew and some of them were local residents who knew these waters almost from birth. It was his confidence in their knowledge of the waters that had led him to take the chance of coming in from the north.
"Light on the larboard bow, Sir." The larboard lookout shouted out the words, making Maurice wince. He had kept his ship completely darkened and made her run in as quietly as possible. Nevertheless, the news was timely. There was indeed a light on the beach, being swung from left to right. It was the recognition signal he had been waiting for.
"Very well; hove to. Launch the longboats with a party of Marines in each. Keep the watch keen, there's British warships out there somewhere."
It was as if his words had triggered the display that erupted out to sea. The brilliant flash of cannon-fire studded the darkness, suddenly enhanced by a fireball that rose skywards, illuminating the ship it had come from. Despite the distance, Maurice knew she was Subtile. In response there was a ripple of smaller flashes from a ship inshore of the original shooter. The small flashes were of the British six-pounders and the rapidity of their fire spoke of well-trained crews working with enthusiasm. The big question is, are both sloops out there or just one of them? And if it's just one, where is the other? He looked out to sea, noting the rapidity of the gunfire from the sloop, and felt uneasy pride at seeing the Royal Navy at work again. Once again, he asked himself whether his allegiance to the Jacobites was but a residue of times past. And, if so, was it time he accepted that his long-lived heritage meant that any such allegience would, at most, be temporary.
To port, the longboats had reached the shore and beached in the surf. Their crews were holding them steady while the Marines scrambled out and hurried ashore to set up a defense line. And, of course, to stop anybody leaving with the chests of gold. On the beach, the Jacobite supporters who had arrived with the cart carrying the seven chests of gold were already unloading them and starting to carry them to the waiting longboats. That was when everything went seriously wrong.
"Cavalry!" The lookout screamed the warning, making Maurice want to ask if he could shout louder since the British might not have heard him. Nevertheless, once again the warning was desperately needed. Peering into the gloom, Maurice could see a wave of cavalry had breasted the ridge inland and was already heading down the long, gentle slope towards the working parties on the beach. It was hard to tell how many there were but he guessed that there was half a regiment at least, possibly many more. They would surely overwhelm the twenty Marines he had on shore while the only thing the Jacobites could be relied upon to do was break and run. Even though doing so would condemn them to death far more certainly than standing their ground.
Well, that's the end of trying to slip quietly in and out. Maurice formed the words in his mind while his mouth gave the orders. "Larboard broadside, fire on the cavalry charging down the hill." He watched Lieutenant Girout de Saint-Pierre take his hasty command and translate them into properly-formed French gunnery orders. Men ran from the guns on the starboard side ran across the decks to bring the guncrewd facing the shore up to strength. Fire rippled down Mars's side as her own six pounders fired on the charging mass of cavalry. The guns had been loaded with ball in anticipation of a sea fight If my gunners were English, we would have a chance of stopping them, but before we get our next broadside out, the cavalry will be on our people, mixed in with them. This is beginning to go very badly.
Only one thing gave him some cheer; out to see it was apparent from the gun flashes that a third ship had joined the battle out there. That meant Subtile was engaging both the British sloops as planned.
Quarterdeck, HMS Hornet, inside Doune Bay
"Damn! The Frenchies have played us for fools. They came in from the North." Commander David Belushi stamped across the quarterdeck in a fine fury. His knowledge of the waters and his experience in operating close inshore had been turned against him. "Mr. Cadden, get us over there with the maximum possible speed."
There was no need to say where; the broadside from the second frigate made her position all too obvious. First lieutenant George Cadden took a quick bearing and glanced at the map. "She's three hundred yards away, Captain, but there's shoal water between us. We'll have to go round. It will take us six minutes at least to engage her."
"We'll go the other way around, Mr. Cadden. It will take a little longer but we'll be approaching her from her starboard rear quarter while the gun crews are firing on the cavalry. We'll rake from the stern and then try and drive her ashore. Also, that will place the wind more favorably and make up some of the additional time."
Cadden looked at the charts and realized that his captain had seen the advantages of the situation more clearly than he had. A lesson for my journal. The most direct path is not always the best. "Very good, Sir."
Out to sea, he saw the fighting between Subtile and the two sloops out to see redouble in fury as Hazzard joined the battle. His mind computed time and distance, coming to the conclusion that the frigate in front of her would have time to fire three full broadsides into the charging cavalry.
"I hope that the fortunes of war will favor Colonel Semiramis tonight. I suspect that she will be right at the head of her troops." The unspoken words were 'just where those broadsides will be landing'.
"They're moving fast, Captain. They may miss the worst of it. But if that frigate switches to grape . . . ."
Quarterdeck, HMS Hound, Off Doune Bay
"Clear for action!” Captain Swafford gave the order calmly but his voice carried across the Hound’s decks and was rewarded by an immediate surge of action. Beneath the forecastle, the warrant officers and senior petty officers immediately organized the seamen into work parties tasked with clearing everything not needed for combat off the main gun deck and sending it all, partitions for the cabins used by the officers, their furniture and carpeting, all the tools that would not be needed for the upcoming fight, everything that could get in the way, start fires or become secondary projectiles to the hold. Other groups of seamen were already hard at work on the gun deck, wetting down the wood to damp out any sparks that might otherwise cause fire and explosion while buckets of sand were scattered to improve footing. Next to the six-pounder guns, the sponge tubs were being filled with water. The six pounders themselves were being prepared to fire with their lashings removed so that they could be run out when needed. Grimmer need was also being served with sea-service muskets issued to marines and marksmen, and the racks holding the boarding weapons unlocked. Down below, the ship’s surgeon was preparing his tools for the butchery that was to come.
To an uneducated observer, it looked like utter pandemonium without the slightest trace of order. To Swafford’s practiced eye, it was a well-oiled, well-practiced machine at work where each man knew his job and how best t’was done. The secret was revealed by watching the senior petty officers. They were not driving men and dictating their every action but leading and encouraging them. There was still much to do and Swafford was heartily glad that naval actions took place at something only slightly faster than a brisk walking pace. As it was, before their galleys were closed, the cooks given each man at least something hot to eat despite the lateness of the hour. After all, the men fought better with something in their stomachs.
Swafford had already broken with tradition by taking the lee gage, placing Hound downwind of Subtile. He knew his enemy, even in the post-dusk gloom he had recognized the French frigate easily. She was unique in the French fleet which was, perhaps, why they had given her the mission of supporting the Jacobites. What Swafford knew and he devoutly hoped that the French captain did not was that the weather gage had been taken by Hazzard with her heavier and more powerful French six pounders. The plan was really quite simple, all good plans were. Hound would engage Subtile. entrap her in a fight where the superiority of his gunners would offset the greater number and power of the guns on the French ship. Meanwhile, Hazzard would sweep in and concentrate her gunnery on the quarterdeck of the French ship, decapitating her by breaking down her command structure. Once the commander structure had failed, Subtile could, God willing, by boarded and taken. The plan and disposition had another advantage; Hound would be between the Frenchie and Hornet allowing Commander Belushi with his detailed knowledge of the waters close inshore to interfere with whatever it was that the other Frenchie was up to without having to worry about his rear.
Swafford felt quietly confident about the impending action. Already, he had one stroke of good fortune; the wind had shifted so that being on the lee gauge hadn’t affected Hound’s speed. It also meant that Hazzard coming in on the weather gage had placed her against the darkness-shrouded hills. The shift in the wind had meant two British ships were near their fastest point of sailing, something that might have made a lesser man think that God was an Englishman. Captain Swafford had never even considered the possibility that this might not be the case.
“Decks cleared, guns ready, Captain.”
“Very good, Mr. Houghton.” Swafford once again noted how quiet were the minutes before a naval engagement erupted into a holocaust of explosions and screaming. He could even hear voices from the Subtile. probably the French captain going a stirring speech to his men. The Frenchies are so melodramatic. Always giving flamboyant speeches. Don’t they understand that this is just business as usual? Still I suppose I’d better lift the men’s hearts as well.
“Men, as we go into battle, I remind you of those things dearest to our hearts and souls by using just two words. Prize Money. Carry on.”
Quarterdeck, French Ship Subtile, Sailing As Royal Stuart.
“You were right, Capitaine. The sloop is sailing straight at us. They cannot have heard of our new guns.” Lieutenant Gilbert Masson looked with his telescope at the approaching sloop. Under his breath he added the traditional prayer of the French Navy when it was about to take on its arch-rival. “From the scheming of the devil and the gunnery of the British, may the Good Lord preserve us”
“Our eight pounders will see him off.” Capitaine Carnot was watching the sloop as well as she closed in. Subtile had already switched to battle sail, her topsails, jibs and spanker deployed while the rest were triced up. Oddly, the sloop was under normal sail but there seemed to be little movement on the decks to switch to battle sail and the ship was eerily quiet. That emphasized something that had been preying on his mind ever since Subtile had been refitted. All wooden ships creaked and groaned in their daily lives, the sounds of timber working being an ever-present accompaniment to the life of a sailor. But, after the eight pounders had been swung on board, the gun deck had started making quite different noises. His experience as a sailor told him that they were the sounds of wooden decks and joints being strained. Had it been wise to replace the six-pounders the ship had been designed to carry with guns that weighed half as much again? "Bring her around, one point to starboard. Prepare our starboard broadside to fire in sequence on command."
The sounds of the ten eight-pounder guns on the starboard side of the ship being rumbled forward into their firing positions joined all the other sounds - including the squeal of protesting timbers as the heavy guns rolled forward. Carnot had already decided on his opening blow in this battle. He knew that the first broadside was the only one that could be counted on; after that the gunners would be loading and firing as fast as possible and the rate of misfires would soar while accuracy plummeted. He knew something else as well; the British gunners fired twice as fast as his and that they were twice as accurate. Despite his apparently overwhelming firepower, he knew he had to cripple the enemy gunners in the first few minutes or it would go hard with him. Accordingly, and contrary to the doctrine he had been taught, he would fire each gun deliberately into the hull of the sloop. As the first gun came to bear, he dropped his hand and heard the crash as the eight pounder hurled its ball at the sloop.
The first shot was close, passing just in front of the approaching sloop. The second whistled over the bow but the third slammed home, bringing down Hound’s outer jib sail. Carnot was waiting for the fourth shot, confidently expecting it to crash into the sloop’s side and disable at least some of her guns but instead, there was a completely unexpected and devastating explosion on his own gundeck. One of his own waist eight-pounders had burst, destroying the gangway, wrecking both of the ship’s boats stowed amidships and mowing down the crews of the burst gun and those of the guns on either side of it. Carnot saw at least seven men were dead and eleven more were down, moving but obviously badly injured. Worse still, the confusion caused by the burst eight pounder had disrupted the smooth cadence of firing from the gun deck. Number five gun was silenced, its crew dead or wounded, number six gun crew were stunned by the unexpected blast and number seven fired but their shot went wild, soaring into the air and landing somewhere out of sight. Only the rear three guns were unaffected by the disaster and they put two shots close alongside the sloop while one scored the longed-for hit on the enemy gundeck. A cheer went up as the British sloop lurched under the impact and started to sheer away,
Quarterdeck, HMS Hound, Off Doune Bay
“Damn it, Houghton, those aren’t six pounders! They’re French eights if they’re an ounce.” Swafford paced his quarterdeck anxiously while a Warrant Officer led a party to cut away the damaged rigging from the wrecked jib sail. The damage wasn’t serious so much as crippling; a few well-placed blows with an axe could cure it but until those blows were struck, the downed outer jib was dragging the bows around and preventing Hound from returning fire. “Mr. Torrance, some vigor with those axes if you please.”
“Aye-aye, Sir. Get on with it you layabouts or do you want that Frenchie to come at us with grape and canister?” Warrant Officer David Torrance took a swing with his ‘starter’ at the rear end of a seaman who appeared to be wielding his axe just a little bit too slowly. The sail, the outer jib, dropped clear and Hound came back to life again.
“Get those bows around Mr. Houghton, get a broadside into that Frenchie before she gets her wits together.” Swafford realized that he had been incredibly lucky so far; the damage forward had been remedied quickly, the shot amidships had hit the empty port between the second and third guns, harming the rigging somewhat but inflicting no mortal damage while the Frenchie seemed to have had an explosion all of her own amidships. A burst gun was Swafford’s guess; the Frenchies still used charcoal for their iron and their guns were weak. He was well-qualified to make that guess, his father was an ironmaster.
Hound's bow was swinging towards the French frigate, allowing her to fire at last. The five shots rippled out, the first smacking cleanly into the damaged area from the burst gun. "Well done, Sykes! Show the Frenchies how it's done, eh!"
The screams from the frigate clearly echoed over the water. Sykes' shot had clearly struck home and done serious harm. The other four six-pounders fired their shots in a ripple that made it hard to tell the blasts were individual shots not a rolling burst of thunder. Three of the balls slammed into the enemy frigate's side including one that seemed to strike directly upon one of the gunports. The cannon were hurled back against their lashings, their crews already swabbing out the barrels and getting the guns ready to fire again. The last act was for the gunner to cock the gunlock and put some priming powder in the pans. Then the guns were rolled back and fired again. Only by the time they were ready to fire their third shot of the battle did the French gunners have their pieces ready to fire.
"More than two broadsides to one, a fine effort wouldn’t you say Mr. Houghton?"
"Acceptable. Just acceptable. I'd expect better of a Hound though." Houghton sounded grudging as his part of the play on the quarterdeck demanded. The Captain would shout praise and encouragement to the men, urging them on. The First Officer would shake his head and demand still more. This time he didn’t get the chance for his words were drowned out by the roar of the Subtile firing. They also overwhelmed the sound of Hound's guns, something that underlined the key fact of the battle. Even with only seven of her ten broadside guns firing, the French frigate had a broadside weight of more than sixty British pounds, double that of Hound's five six-pounders.
The seven eight-pound shot passed low over Hound's hull, the scream of their passing failing to distract the British gun crews desperately working their six-pounders. Up on the quarterdeck, Swafford was confused; the frigate's first broadside had been aimed at his sloop's hull and it had only been by the grace of God (understandable since God was English after all) that Hound had been spared battle-ending damage. This second broadside had been higher, clearing the deck by a few feet but had not been high enough to have targeted the rigging. He had a partial answer with Subtile's third broadside, this time of only six guns, another having fallen victim to the rapid fire of the sloop. One of those six shells struck Hound's main mast, bringing it crashing down across the ship.
Warrant Officer Torrance and his crew of axmen immediately went to work, trying to cut away the wreckage of the fallen mast that was bringing Hound to a halt. For all their efforts, the wreckage of the mast trailing in the water and the loss of sail power had brought the sloop almost to a halt and the Subtile was pulling steadily ahead of her. Swafford saw the frigate beginning to swing and knew that she was planning to cross his sloop's bows and pour a devastating raking fire into her. The truth was, the battle was beginning to go very badly for his ship.
French Frigate Mars, Current Sailing As Royal Charles, Off Doune Bay.
"We're inshore now, Capitaine." Mars had been edging through the shoal waters on the northern edge of the bay before swinging south-east to parallel the shore. It was the hard and complicated way in and the one posing the greatest risk from grounding. The southern route into Doune Bay was much the easier; a straight run down the channel to the beach. However, Maurice had guessed that if the British had a sloop operating inshore as well, that was where she would be. He was well-aware that the British opinion of French seamanship was withering and that they would assume the French would take the easiest route in and out. Fortunately, he had Jacobites on board as part of the crew and some of them were local residents who knew these waters almost from birth. It was his confidence in their knowledge of the waters that had led him to take the chance of coming in from the north.
"Light on the larboard bow, Sir." The larboard lookout shouted out the words, making Maurice wince. He had kept his ship completely darkened and made her run in as quietly as possible. Nevertheless, the news was timely. There was indeed a light on the beach, being swung from left to right. It was the recognition signal he had been waiting for.
"Very well; hove to. Launch the longboats with a party of Marines in each. Keep the watch keen, there's British warships out there somewhere."
It was as if his words had triggered the display that erupted out to sea. The brilliant flash of cannon-fire studded the darkness, suddenly enhanced by a fireball that rose skywards, illuminating the ship it had come from. Despite the distance, Maurice knew she was Subtile. In response there was a ripple of smaller flashes from a ship inshore of the original shooter. The small flashes were of the British six-pounders and the rapidity of their fire spoke of well-trained crews working with enthusiasm. The big question is, are both sloops out there or just one of them? And if it's just one, where is the other? He looked out to sea, noting the rapidity of the gunfire from the sloop, and felt uneasy pride at seeing the Royal Navy at work again. Once again, he asked himself whether his allegiance to the Jacobites was but a residue of times past. And, if so, was it time he accepted that his long-lived heritage meant that any such allegience would, at most, be temporary.
To port, the longboats had reached the shore and beached in the surf. Their crews were holding them steady while the Marines scrambled out and hurried ashore to set up a defense line. And, of course, to stop anybody leaving with the chests of gold. On the beach, the Jacobite supporters who had arrived with the cart carrying the seven chests of gold were already unloading them and starting to carry them to the waiting longboats. That was when everything went seriously wrong.
"Cavalry!" The lookout screamed the warning, making Maurice want to ask if he could shout louder since the British might not have heard him. Nevertheless, once again the warning was desperately needed. Peering into the gloom, Maurice could see a wave of cavalry had breasted the ridge inland and was already heading down the long, gentle slope towards the working parties on the beach. It was hard to tell how many there were but he guessed that there was half a regiment at least, possibly many more. They would surely overwhelm the twenty Marines he had on shore while the only thing the Jacobites could be relied upon to do was break and run. Even though doing so would condemn them to death far more certainly than standing their ground.
Well, that's the end of trying to slip quietly in and out. Maurice formed the words in his mind while his mouth gave the orders. "Larboard broadside, fire on the cavalry charging down the hill." He watched Lieutenant Girout de Saint-Pierre take his hasty command and translate them into properly-formed French gunnery orders. Men ran from the guns on the starboard side ran across the decks to bring the guncrewd facing the shore up to strength. Fire rippled down Mars's side as her own six pounders fired on the charging mass of cavalry. The guns had been loaded with ball in anticipation of a sea fight If my gunners were English, we would have a chance of stopping them, but before we get our next broadside out, the cavalry will be on our people, mixed in with them. This is beginning to go very badly.
Only one thing gave him some cheer; out to see it was apparent from the gun flashes that a third ship had joined the battle out there. That meant Subtile was engaging both the British sloops as planned.
Quarterdeck, HMS Hornet, inside Doune Bay
"Damn! The Frenchies have played us for fools. They came in from the North." Commander David Belushi stamped across the quarterdeck in a fine fury. His knowledge of the waters and his experience in operating close inshore had been turned against him. "Mr. Cadden, get us over there with the maximum possible speed."
There was no need to say where; the broadside from the second frigate made her position all too obvious. First lieutenant George Cadden took a quick bearing and glanced at the map. "She's three hundred yards away, Captain, but there's shoal water between us. We'll have to go round. It will take us six minutes at least to engage her."
"We'll go the other way around, Mr. Cadden. It will take a little longer but we'll be approaching her from her starboard rear quarter while the gun crews are firing on the cavalry. We'll rake from the stern and then try and drive her ashore. Also, that will place the wind more favorably and make up some of the additional time."
Cadden looked at the charts and realized that his captain had seen the advantages of the situation more clearly than he had. A lesson for my journal. The most direct path is not always the best. "Very good, Sir."
Out to sea, he saw the fighting between Subtile and the two sloops out to see redouble in fury as Hazzard joined the battle. His mind computed time and distance, coming to the conclusion that the frigate in front of her would have time to fire three full broadsides into the charging cavalry.
"I hope that the fortunes of war will favor Colonel Semiramis tonight. I suspect that she will be right at the head of her troops." The unspoken words were 'just where those broadsides will be landing'.
"They're moving fast, Captain. They may miss the worst of it. But if that frigate switches to grape . . . ."
Re: 1746 - Drummossie Moor
Chapter Twenty Three
Duke of Cumberland’s Regiment of Light Dragoons, Above Doune Bay
Down on the beach, two longboats had broken through the surf and were discharging French Marines on to the beach. Semiramis did a quick head-count; there were twenty of them plus around thirty miscellaneous Highlanders. And, of course, there were the four men who were the primary target. That and the gold their cart was carrying, that went without saying. Out to sea, the cannon fire exchanged by the French frigate and the British sloop was a spectacular display while the thunder of the guns rolled across the water. There had already been one serious explosion that Semiramis had seen.
“Hot work going on out there.” Captain Broadhurst. “Looks like one of the sloops is taking on the frigate by herself. How many do you think are on the beach?”
“About fifty, half of them Marines from the frigate offshore. That’s good, it’ll reduce her musketry when Hornet takes her.” Semiramis was aware that Broadhurst was looking at her curiously. It is hard to remember, sometimes, how much better we see in the dark than the short-lifers. Although we must always, always remember never to let bright light strike our eyes from the side. “Two longboats, the standard load being six oarsmen and ten passengers each. That Captain has to balance the loss of his Marines against the need to secure what is on the shore. If I were in his position, I would want about the same number of reliable men as those on that beach. That tells us how many Jacobites are on the beach. Put those together and we end up with forty to fifty men, half of which are Marines.”
Broadhurst nodded and made a mental note to add that explanation to his journal. And underline it for those are the words of a most capable officer. “Your orders, Colonel?”
“Regiment will advance at the gallop in column of companies with each company to form two ranks in close order.” Semiramis saw Broadhurst frown slightly at the order to charge at the gallop. “The longer we’re on that slope, the more broadsides that frigate will put into us. It doesn’t matter if the horses are blown when we get to the beach. Now, order the men to tighten bridles and draw their sabers.”
She saw him nod slightly. He would never have questioned, however politely and respectfully, those orders from Colonel Eliot. It’s time I handed the Regiment over to him. Then he turned to the regiment and repeated the commands in the proper format. The lead company, with Semiramis and Broadhurst at its head moved forward at the accelerated trot until their lines were organized and then broke into a full gallop towards the cluster of Jacobites and Marines surrounding the cart on the beach. This was a cavalry charge the way civilians imagined one to be and it was driven by the threat of the guns on the frigate offshore.
Semiramis at the head of the lead company was a third of the way down the slope when the first broadside of ten six-pounder shot hit the column. The early break into the full charge had deceived the French gunners, who decidedly lacked skill and, anyway, were hampered by still using linstocks to fire. All those facts meant the shots were widely-patterned and struck the second company of the charge rather than the first. Several went high, a few went wide but the deadliest were those that landed short and the skipped through the double-line of horsemen. Out of the 30 men and horses in Second company, a dozen horses went down, screaming as the roundshot blew off legs or slammed into their bodies. The truth was that most horses could shake off a random firelock or pistol wound, in the short term at least, but a six and a half pound roundshot was something quite else. The only thing left to do with the stricken horses was to put them out of their misery.
A quick glance over her shoulder told her that Second company had been halved in strength by that single blow and only four cavalrymen from the shot-down horses were on their feet. The colonel’s side of her brain told her that compared with the two hundred men in seven companies who had started the charge, the losses were acceptable.
The broadside from the frigate had alerted the men on the beach to the threat that was thundering down on them. Some of the men in civilian dress had been carrying chests to the waiting longboats and they were now being hurried through the surf to load a pair of chests into each. That made four out of seven chests. A figure in French uniform was hurrying them on with his boot while the other Marines formed a small square on the beach. Just a tiny square, a single line of five men per side. To eyes used to battles where an entire regiment of 700 plus men would form square, the action of the French Marines was both pathetic and oddly inspiring. Semiramis resolved to show them quarter if she could.
The Highlanders, on the other hand, were a different story. They were already breaking and running as the cavalry closed on them. She saw her primary target, the four men in the wagon, dithering as they tried to decide what to do. They first went to the reins to drive off, then realized that they couldn’t outrun the cavalry while still weighed down by three chests of gold. So they started to run to the rear of the wagon to jump off only then to change their mind and try to use the high sides and extra height of the cart to try and make a fight of it. By the time they realized that was futile, it was too late to do anything meaningful except try and surrender.
Offshore, the side of the frigate was engulfed in flame and smoke as she fired a second broadside. Please, Enlil, let it not be grape. The howl of the roundshot told her that her prayer had been answered, probably because the frigate had shot stacked by her guns in an effort to prepare for a surface battle. The first broadside had been unloading via the muzzle, the second was using whatever was the quickest to load. There wouldn’t be a third; her cavalry were already closing on the beach party and the ship captain couldn’t fire on her without hitting his own men. Semiramis knew that, in his place, she would have weighed the odds and then done just that. She also knew that her approach to warfare was quite different from those around her. Another reason to leave this regiment now.
Without orders, and mostly due to the horses’ understandable reluctance to charge a line of steel spikes leveled at their eyes, her First company had split either side of the little square of Marines. Their commander, now inside the tiny square, actually saluted her as she galloped past, reinforcing her decision not to kill these men if they gave her a chance to do otherwise. She didn’t have an opportunity to return the salute though, the first of the fleeing Highlanders was right in front of her and her levelled saber transfixed him front to rear. The rest of her company cut down the others as they fled. In this part of the action at least, she hadn’t lost a man although two frigate broadsides had left but little of her second company.
The wagon was approaching fast with the men in the back struggling to get their muskets to fire. She drew a pistol and was about to fire herself when the men threw their arms down and raised their hands. With every show of reluctance, she raised her pistol to the vertical and watched men of her Third Company drag them from the wagon and throw them to the sand.
Quarterdeck, HMS Hazzard, Off Doune Bay
“My God, Sir. They couldn’t have set this up better if they had planned it.”
“My God, Mr. Berdwell, I think you have it right.” Lieutenant Commander Stephen Murray, Captain of Hazzard could see the chance of a lifetime opening before his eyes. With Hound’s mainmast down, she had come to a virtual halt, allowing Subtile to pull ahead of her. The French frigate, every eye on board her fixed on the crippled sloop, had responded by coming around, setting herself up to rake the sloop from the bows. Not quite as devastating as a stern rake but bad enough. But, in doing so she had exposed her own stern to Hazzard coming in from behind, blacked out and exploiting the shadows of the headland to remain unseen. “Remind the gunners that we have linstocks and that the gun will fire only after a delay. Make due allowance for that, we are only going to get one chance to do this right.”
Every one of her six pounder guns had been loaded with shot. Murray would have dearly liked to double charge them with both shot and grape but he was too dubious of the gun’s strength to take the risk. On the other hand, he had the four half-pounder swivel guns loaded with canister while his marines were formed up and ready to pour volley fire into Subtile’s quarterdeck. Every man who was not needed elsewhere and who claimed to be able to operate a firelock had been given one while supplies held out and the rest armed with boarding pikes and cutlasses. The truth was that Murray wasn’t quite sure who would be boarding who but it was wise to be prepared either way.
Subtile was about to fire her broadside into Hound when Hazzard loomed out of the darkness. With Murray’s caution strongly in mind, Hazzard’s gunners fired singly as their guns came to bear and at such short range, less than a half pistol-shot, the steady, aimed gunfire decided the engagement. One shot struck Subtile’s mizzen mast 12 feet above the deck, severing it and sending it crashing down on to the gundeck. Any plans Subtile might have had of firing on Hound were forgotten as Hazzard’s second shot struck the wheel, shattering it and sending the helmsman forward in a bloody spray. A third shot hit the Capitaine Carnot, blowing off his hip and leg and sending him screaming to the deck. The remaining hits made steering Subtile completely impossible with her rudder, steering wheel, tiller and steering sails all lost.
Yet, worse was to come. The swivel guns on her quarterdeck sent a hail of canister across Subtile’s already sorely blooded quarterdeck, killing Lieutenant Masson on the spot. It was the disciplined volley-firing from Hazzard’s Marines, somewhat assisted by the wild, undisciplined fire from the seamen, that made the next step possible. Their fire soon dominated Subtile’s quarterdeck while the few surviving Marines on the French frigate’s decks were picked off by the trained marksmen in Hazzard’s rig. Within a few minutes sustained fusillade Subtile’s master, captain, all of its lieutenants and the lieutenant of marines were either killed or seriously wounded. The ship was out of control, her involuntary swing making it impossible for her guns to bear on Hound giving that gallant sloop the breathing space she desperately needed.
“Larboard the helm!” Murray’s order was instantly obeyed, spinning Hazzard’s bows to starboard and sending them crashing into Subtile’s starboard quarterdeck bulwark. The shuddering collision caused the ranks of marines on Hazzard’s deck to fall in an ungainly sprawl that ended their volley fire. Hazzard condinued to slide across Subtile’s quarter until her anchor caught into one of the holes left by the six-pounder broadside. It was neiether a big hole nor deep but it did its duty of locking the two ships together. Hazzard’s bow was firmly fixed in Subtile’squarter gallery. Even better, Hazzard’s bowsprit lay across Subtile’s quarterdeck makinga a perfect bridge for a boarding.
“Boarding Party Away!” Using Hazzard’s bowsprit as a gangway, sailors and marines with Murray at their head swarmed over Subtile’s quarterdeck. By the time they had secured the vital quarterdeck, Subtile’s crew were resisting stoutly and were trying to repel the Hazzards but their position was grim. It was one thing to storm directly on to the quarterdeck, quite another to fight on to it from below, especially under galling fire form the swivel guns on Hazzard.
That was when Subtile lurched and rolled heavily. On board Hound, Torrance and his team of shipwrights had finally cut the wrecked mast loose and Hound had regained the ability to move forward, albeit at greatly reduced speed. Now, she had rammed Subtile just aft of her forecastle and once again, a wave of sailors and marines poured on to the French frigate. Their baying cries of “Hound, Hound, Hound” swept across the ship as they took the men trying to regain the quarterdeck from the rear. As was now inevitable, the British position and weight of numbers told. Between them, Hounds and Hazzards soon commanded Subtile’s upper works. Trapped below, with no options left, their officers dead or captured and the deadly threat in mind that the British might elect to burn the ship, the remaining crew surrendered.
Swafford stepped across the bloodied main deck and looked around the prize. It was then that he performed a great act of generosity that would be noted as an act becoming to an officer and a gentleman by their Lords of the Admiralty and would greatly enhance Swafford’s career in future years. It didn’t actually cost him much either for his crew’s share of the Prize Money was already set by participating in the capture. But, his cry of “You hold the Quarterdeck, Mr. Murray, the Prize is yours” gave the young man the honor of the capture and thus an exceedingly good start in his career.
French Frigate Mars, Current Sailing As Royal Charles, Off Doune Bay.
“The gunfire out sea has ceased.” Maurice folded his telescope up and grimaced. “I do not think the fortunes of war have favored Subtile tonight.
“But capitaine, she has eight pounders.”
“We must hope that they were enough. Anyway, she has done her duty, keeping those sloops off our back while we pick up our cargo here. Some of it anyway, I fear the British cavalry have taken the rest.”
“Long boats alongside, Capitaine. With four chests and two passengers.”
“Bring them on board.” Two disheveled figures were unceremoniously hauled aboard while the chests of gold were brought up with significantly greater respect. “Sir John MacDonald and Colonel John O’Sullivan? Welcome on board the Marine Nationale frigate Mars.
“Do you not mean the Royal Charles Sir?
“That was when we served the Jacobite Navy but the Jacobite cause died on Culloden Moor. Now, we serve King Louis again and once again, we are the frigate Mars.”
“Capitaine, enemy warship approaching from behind!”
Maurice only needed one look to tell who the new ship belonged to and he knew how the situation had gone irretrievably bad. She was a sloop, approaching under topsails, jibs and spanker but the critical thing was, she was between Mars and the open sea. Maurice knew that not a single shot had yet been fired but Mars was already fighting for her life. “Get the men in the boats up quickly. Drop a shot through the bottom of the boats as soon as the men are clear. We have to get moving before that sloop guts us.”
Quarterdeck, HMS Hornet, inside Doune Bay
“Across her stern, each gun fires as they bear. If those gunners can put each shot into the same hole?”
“Asking a bit much, Sir. Hello, she’s moving. That captain must know his business.”
Ahead of them, Mars was already beginning to swing her bows around for a run out to sea. As she did so, she started to expose her broadside. What happened next was almost inevitable. The French frigate started firing her guns individually, as they came to bear, firing seven shots and bringing down Hornet’s jib. Belushi, though, was reserving Hornet’s to point-blank range where even the handful of six-pounders would have lethal effect. He could see that as Mars turned for her run out to sea, she would expose her rear to Hornet’s fire. Despite the loss of his jib, his ship still had enough way on to cross the enemy stern and Belushi took every last drop of advantage from it. He took Hornet so close behind the French frigate that Mars spanker boom hung over her. From that distance, Hornet’s gunners used their gun-locks with deadly precision. They allowed the gunner to stand behind his gun and sight down the barrel and at this point blank range that made Hornet’s broadside a nightmare for the recipient. To make matters worse, the six-pounders had been double charged and double loaded, with a cannon ball on top of grape. That was something no French gunner would dare do.
The double blast sent the shot followed by a hail of grape down the length of Mars’s gun decks. The French ship was heading back down the channel, obviously using the relatively deep channel to get out of the bay it would otherwise be trapped in. She was picking up speed as well, something that Hornet couldn’t do with any great effectiveness due to her damaged jib. Nevertheless, Belushi was doing his best, wearing Hornet around so that she could again pass Mars’s stern, and rake the frigate’s gundeck with her previously unengaged battery. Even so, it was obvious that Hornet was falling behind. More S-turns would simply increase the rate at which Mars would pull away from him. Belushi decided that he would pursue her as fast and as hard as he could, after all who knew what might happen? She might run aground, the frigates from Mallaig might take a hand, the Frenchie could make a mistake. If I keep in pursuit and something does happen, then I’ll at least get a share of the prize money.
Duke of Cumberland’s Regiment of Light Dragoons, shoreline Doune Bay
“My colonel offers you terms.” Captain Broadhurst knew that Semiramis had sent him because it would easier for the French Marines to surrender to a man. Behind him he could hear the screaming of the crippled horses and the shots as they were put out of their agony. The Regiment had taken more casualties from the frigate's gunfire than they had in the whole of the rest of the uprising. “My colonel says that your position is completely hopeless, that we outnumber you ten to one and that we need not even charge you. We are Dragoons, we can stand off and shoot you down. To save unnecessary loss of life, we ask that you surrender with the full honors of war and my Colonel will ask that you be returned home without necessity of exchange. Our chief is the Duke of Cumberland and he has a reputation for generous treatment of regular troops taken prisoner.”
The French commander looked at his men and knew that he couldn’t condemn them to die on this bleak, rocky shore for no sane reason. “He does indeed. That being so, I accept these terms. My sword.”
Broadhurst smiled at him. “My colonel says that it would be unseemly and unjust to take the sword of such brave men. Tell your marines to stack their weapons in the wagon and we will head for Fort William. If any of your men are sick or injured, they can ride in the wagon as well.”
“Captain, may I ask about those four men in the wagon? They do not seem . . . honorable.”
“Ah yes, them. My Colonel is thinking about that right now.”
A few minutes later, the niceties of an honorable surrender having been negotiated, Broadhurst returned to Semiramis. She was staring at the apparent leader of the four, a large fair-haired man tending to obesity with small-close-set eyes saturated with unfathomable stupidity set above a button nose and a chin of outstanding weakness. Broadhurst couldn’t help but think that if ever he had seen a man totally lacking in any form of virtuous mind or any sign of moral character, this was the one. Despite the chill of the night, the man was sweating profusely and visibly shaking with terror.
“Have we learned anything, Colonel?”
“Not yet no. Send over the farrier and the blacksmiths. I want these four skinned alive. Tell our people that they will get a hundred lashes for each square inch of skin left. Then put a rope around their feet, drag them through the surf until they are thoroughly salted and hang them by their feet to dry.”
Broadhurst gasped. “Colonel, we can’t do that! This is no time for moderation.”
“Captain, we must always strive to temper justice with mercy.”
“But, after what these animals did to that poor girl . .”
“All right. Never let it be said I do not take advice from my officers. After you’ve strung them up, you may light a small fire under their heads. Only a small one mind you.”
“Yes, Colonel.” Broadhurst turned to leave.
“No, please, Colonel, it was nothing to do with us.” The man pointed at the fair-haired man. “It was him. We knew that girl didn’t know anything. Her mind was rotted by the gin. We tried to stop him but he carved her like that anyway, giggling and slobbering all the time.”
Semiramis smiled. “You tell me everything that happened and we’ll see you get a proper trial instead of a field court-martial and an execution. If things are as you say, you’ll just get sent to the Colonies. He’s done though, but we’ll do it legal. What’s his name?”
“Dunno Colonel. Crapman, something like that. German sounding name.”
“We’ll get it out of him.” Semiramis listened to the long story, noting the nods from the other two Jacobites. Eventually, with the whole picture in mind, she turned to Broadhurst. “Captain, manacle these men to the back of the wagon. They can walk to Fort William.”
“Yes, Colonel. We certainly bluffed them into confessing didn’t we.” Then a thought occurred to him. “We were bluffing weren’t we?”
“Perhaps. Let’s check those chests.”
It took a few minutes to hammer the chests open. Once the locks were smashed, Semiramis and Broadhurst looked down at the contents. She shook her head in disbelief. “All this and there’s nothing in there but . .”
French Frigate Mars, Off Doune Bay.
“Rocks.” Captain Maurice looked shocked. “All that for four chests of rocks.”
Duke of Cumberland’s Regiment of Light Dragoons, Above Doune Bay
Down on the beach, two longboats had broken through the surf and were discharging French Marines on to the beach. Semiramis did a quick head-count; there were twenty of them plus around thirty miscellaneous Highlanders. And, of course, there were the four men who were the primary target. That and the gold their cart was carrying, that went without saying. Out to sea, the cannon fire exchanged by the French frigate and the British sloop was a spectacular display while the thunder of the guns rolled across the water. There had already been one serious explosion that Semiramis had seen.
“Hot work going on out there.” Captain Broadhurst. “Looks like one of the sloops is taking on the frigate by herself. How many do you think are on the beach?”
“About fifty, half of them Marines from the frigate offshore. That’s good, it’ll reduce her musketry when Hornet takes her.” Semiramis was aware that Broadhurst was looking at her curiously. It is hard to remember, sometimes, how much better we see in the dark than the short-lifers. Although we must always, always remember never to let bright light strike our eyes from the side. “Two longboats, the standard load being six oarsmen and ten passengers each. That Captain has to balance the loss of his Marines against the need to secure what is on the shore. If I were in his position, I would want about the same number of reliable men as those on that beach. That tells us how many Jacobites are on the beach. Put those together and we end up with forty to fifty men, half of which are Marines.”
Broadhurst nodded and made a mental note to add that explanation to his journal. And underline it for those are the words of a most capable officer. “Your orders, Colonel?”
“Regiment will advance at the gallop in column of companies with each company to form two ranks in close order.” Semiramis saw Broadhurst frown slightly at the order to charge at the gallop. “The longer we’re on that slope, the more broadsides that frigate will put into us. It doesn’t matter if the horses are blown when we get to the beach. Now, order the men to tighten bridles and draw their sabers.”
She saw him nod slightly. He would never have questioned, however politely and respectfully, those orders from Colonel Eliot. It’s time I handed the Regiment over to him. Then he turned to the regiment and repeated the commands in the proper format. The lead company, with Semiramis and Broadhurst at its head moved forward at the accelerated trot until their lines were organized and then broke into a full gallop towards the cluster of Jacobites and Marines surrounding the cart on the beach. This was a cavalry charge the way civilians imagined one to be and it was driven by the threat of the guns on the frigate offshore.
Semiramis at the head of the lead company was a third of the way down the slope when the first broadside of ten six-pounder shot hit the column. The early break into the full charge had deceived the French gunners, who decidedly lacked skill and, anyway, were hampered by still using linstocks to fire. All those facts meant the shots were widely-patterned and struck the second company of the charge rather than the first. Several went high, a few went wide but the deadliest were those that landed short and the skipped through the double-line of horsemen. Out of the 30 men and horses in Second company, a dozen horses went down, screaming as the roundshot blew off legs or slammed into their bodies. The truth was that most horses could shake off a random firelock or pistol wound, in the short term at least, but a six and a half pound roundshot was something quite else. The only thing left to do with the stricken horses was to put them out of their misery.
A quick glance over her shoulder told her that Second company had been halved in strength by that single blow and only four cavalrymen from the shot-down horses were on their feet. The colonel’s side of her brain told her that compared with the two hundred men in seven companies who had started the charge, the losses were acceptable.
The broadside from the frigate had alerted the men on the beach to the threat that was thundering down on them. Some of the men in civilian dress had been carrying chests to the waiting longboats and they were now being hurried through the surf to load a pair of chests into each. That made four out of seven chests. A figure in French uniform was hurrying them on with his boot while the other Marines formed a small square on the beach. Just a tiny square, a single line of five men per side. To eyes used to battles where an entire regiment of 700 plus men would form square, the action of the French Marines was both pathetic and oddly inspiring. Semiramis resolved to show them quarter if she could.
The Highlanders, on the other hand, were a different story. They were already breaking and running as the cavalry closed on them. She saw her primary target, the four men in the wagon, dithering as they tried to decide what to do. They first went to the reins to drive off, then realized that they couldn’t outrun the cavalry while still weighed down by three chests of gold. So they started to run to the rear of the wagon to jump off only then to change their mind and try to use the high sides and extra height of the cart to try and make a fight of it. By the time they realized that was futile, it was too late to do anything meaningful except try and surrender.
Offshore, the side of the frigate was engulfed in flame and smoke as she fired a second broadside. Please, Enlil, let it not be grape. The howl of the roundshot told her that her prayer had been answered, probably because the frigate had shot stacked by her guns in an effort to prepare for a surface battle. The first broadside had been unloading via the muzzle, the second was using whatever was the quickest to load. There wouldn’t be a third; her cavalry were already closing on the beach party and the ship captain couldn’t fire on her without hitting his own men. Semiramis knew that, in his place, she would have weighed the odds and then done just that. She also knew that her approach to warfare was quite different from those around her. Another reason to leave this regiment now.
Without orders, and mostly due to the horses’ understandable reluctance to charge a line of steel spikes leveled at their eyes, her First company had split either side of the little square of Marines. Their commander, now inside the tiny square, actually saluted her as she galloped past, reinforcing her decision not to kill these men if they gave her a chance to do otherwise. She didn’t have an opportunity to return the salute though, the first of the fleeing Highlanders was right in front of her and her levelled saber transfixed him front to rear. The rest of her company cut down the others as they fled. In this part of the action at least, she hadn’t lost a man although two frigate broadsides had left but little of her second company.
The wagon was approaching fast with the men in the back struggling to get their muskets to fire. She drew a pistol and was about to fire herself when the men threw their arms down and raised their hands. With every show of reluctance, she raised her pistol to the vertical and watched men of her Third Company drag them from the wagon and throw them to the sand.
Quarterdeck, HMS Hazzard, Off Doune Bay
“My God, Sir. They couldn’t have set this up better if they had planned it.”
“My God, Mr. Berdwell, I think you have it right.” Lieutenant Commander Stephen Murray, Captain of Hazzard could see the chance of a lifetime opening before his eyes. With Hound’s mainmast down, she had come to a virtual halt, allowing Subtile to pull ahead of her. The French frigate, every eye on board her fixed on the crippled sloop, had responded by coming around, setting herself up to rake the sloop from the bows. Not quite as devastating as a stern rake but bad enough. But, in doing so she had exposed her own stern to Hazzard coming in from behind, blacked out and exploiting the shadows of the headland to remain unseen. “Remind the gunners that we have linstocks and that the gun will fire only after a delay. Make due allowance for that, we are only going to get one chance to do this right.”
Every one of her six pounder guns had been loaded with shot. Murray would have dearly liked to double charge them with both shot and grape but he was too dubious of the gun’s strength to take the risk. On the other hand, he had the four half-pounder swivel guns loaded with canister while his marines were formed up and ready to pour volley fire into Subtile’s quarterdeck. Every man who was not needed elsewhere and who claimed to be able to operate a firelock had been given one while supplies held out and the rest armed with boarding pikes and cutlasses. The truth was that Murray wasn’t quite sure who would be boarding who but it was wise to be prepared either way.
Subtile was about to fire her broadside into Hound when Hazzard loomed out of the darkness. With Murray’s caution strongly in mind, Hazzard’s gunners fired singly as their guns came to bear and at such short range, less than a half pistol-shot, the steady, aimed gunfire decided the engagement. One shot struck Subtile’s mizzen mast 12 feet above the deck, severing it and sending it crashing down on to the gundeck. Any plans Subtile might have had of firing on Hound were forgotten as Hazzard’s second shot struck the wheel, shattering it and sending the helmsman forward in a bloody spray. A third shot hit the Capitaine Carnot, blowing off his hip and leg and sending him screaming to the deck. The remaining hits made steering Subtile completely impossible with her rudder, steering wheel, tiller and steering sails all lost.
Yet, worse was to come. The swivel guns on her quarterdeck sent a hail of canister across Subtile’s already sorely blooded quarterdeck, killing Lieutenant Masson on the spot. It was the disciplined volley-firing from Hazzard’s Marines, somewhat assisted by the wild, undisciplined fire from the seamen, that made the next step possible. Their fire soon dominated Subtile’s quarterdeck while the few surviving Marines on the French frigate’s decks were picked off by the trained marksmen in Hazzard’s rig. Within a few minutes sustained fusillade Subtile’s master, captain, all of its lieutenants and the lieutenant of marines were either killed or seriously wounded. The ship was out of control, her involuntary swing making it impossible for her guns to bear on Hound giving that gallant sloop the breathing space she desperately needed.
“Larboard the helm!” Murray’s order was instantly obeyed, spinning Hazzard’s bows to starboard and sending them crashing into Subtile’s starboard quarterdeck bulwark. The shuddering collision caused the ranks of marines on Hazzard’s deck to fall in an ungainly sprawl that ended their volley fire. Hazzard condinued to slide across Subtile’s quarter until her anchor caught into one of the holes left by the six-pounder broadside. It was neiether a big hole nor deep but it did its duty of locking the two ships together. Hazzard’s bow was firmly fixed in Subtile’squarter gallery. Even better, Hazzard’s bowsprit lay across Subtile’s quarterdeck makinga a perfect bridge for a boarding.
“Boarding Party Away!” Using Hazzard’s bowsprit as a gangway, sailors and marines with Murray at their head swarmed over Subtile’s quarterdeck. By the time they had secured the vital quarterdeck, Subtile’s crew were resisting stoutly and were trying to repel the Hazzards but their position was grim. It was one thing to storm directly on to the quarterdeck, quite another to fight on to it from below, especially under galling fire form the swivel guns on Hazzard.
That was when Subtile lurched and rolled heavily. On board Hound, Torrance and his team of shipwrights had finally cut the wrecked mast loose and Hound had regained the ability to move forward, albeit at greatly reduced speed. Now, she had rammed Subtile just aft of her forecastle and once again, a wave of sailors and marines poured on to the French frigate. Their baying cries of “Hound, Hound, Hound” swept across the ship as they took the men trying to regain the quarterdeck from the rear. As was now inevitable, the British position and weight of numbers told. Between them, Hounds and Hazzards soon commanded Subtile’s upper works. Trapped below, with no options left, their officers dead or captured and the deadly threat in mind that the British might elect to burn the ship, the remaining crew surrendered.
Swafford stepped across the bloodied main deck and looked around the prize. It was then that he performed a great act of generosity that would be noted as an act becoming to an officer and a gentleman by their Lords of the Admiralty and would greatly enhance Swafford’s career in future years. It didn’t actually cost him much either for his crew’s share of the Prize Money was already set by participating in the capture. But, his cry of “You hold the Quarterdeck, Mr. Murray, the Prize is yours” gave the young man the honor of the capture and thus an exceedingly good start in his career.
French Frigate Mars, Current Sailing As Royal Charles, Off Doune Bay.
“The gunfire out sea has ceased.” Maurice folded his telescope up and grimaced. “I do not think the fortunes of war have favored Subtile tonight.
“But capitaine, she has eight pounders.”
“We must hope that they were enough. Anyway, she has done her duty, keeping those sloops off our back while we pick up our cargo here. Some of it anyway, I fear the British cavalry have taken the rest.”
“Long boats alongside, Capitaine. With four chests and two passengers.”
“Bring them on board.” Two disheveled figures were unceremoniously hauled aboard while the chests of gold were brought up with significantly greater respect. “Sir John MacDonald and Colonel John O’Sullivan? Welcome on board the Marine Nationale frigate Mars.
“Do you not mean the Royal Charles Sir?
“That was when we served the Jacobite Navy but the Jacobite cause died on Culloden Moor. Now, we serve King Louis again and once again, we are the frigate Mars.”
“Capitaine, enemy warship approaching from behind!”
Maurice only needed one look to tell who the new ship belonged to and he knew how the situation had gone irretrievably bad. She was a sloop, approaching under topsails, jibs and spanker but the critical thing was, she was between Mars and the open sea. Maurice knew that not a single shot had yet been fired but Mars was already fighting for her life. “Get the men in the boats up quickly. Drop a shot through the bottom of the boats as soon as the men are clear. We have to get moving before that sloop guts us.”
Quarterdeck, HMS Hornet, inside Doune Bay
“Across her stern, each gun fires as they bear. If those gunners can put each shot into the same hole?”
“Asking a bit much, Sir. Hello, she’s moving. That captain must know his business.”
Ahead of them, Mars was already beginning to swing her bows around for a run out to sea. As she did so, she started to expose her broadside. What happened next was almost inevitable. The French frigate started firing her guns individually, as they came to bear, firing seven shots and bringing down Hornet’s jib. Belushi, though, was reserving Hornet’s to point-blank range where even the handful of six-pounders would have lethal effect. He could see that as Mars turned for her run out to sea, she would expose her rear to Hornet’s fire. Despite the loss of his jib, his ship still had enough way on to cross the enemy stern and Belushi took every last drop of advantage from it. He took Hornet so close behind the French frigate that Mars spanker boom hung over her. From that distance, Hornet’s gunners used their gun-locks with deadly precision. They allowed the gunner to stand behind his gun and sight down the barrel and at this point blank range that made Hornet’s broadside a nightmare for the recipient. To make matters worse, the six-pounders had been double charged and double loaded, with a cannon ball on top of grape. That was something no French gunner would dare do.
The double blast sent the shot followed by a hail of grape down the length of Mars’s gun decks. The French ship was heading back down the channel, obviously using the relatively deep channel to get out of the bay it would otherwise be trapped in. She was picking up speed as well, something that Hornet couldn’t do with any great effectiveness due to her damaged jib. Nevertheless, Belushi was doing his best, wearing Hornet around so that she could again pass Mars’s stern, and rake the frigate’s gundeck with her previously unengaged battery. Even so, it was obvious that Hornet was falling behind. More S-turns would simply increase the rate at which Mars would pull away from him. Belushi decided that he would pursue her as fast and as hard as he could, after all who knew what might happen? She might run aground, the frigates from Mallaig might take a hand, the Frenchie could make a mistake. If I keep in pursuit and something does happen, then I’ll at least get a share of the prize money.
Duke of Cumberland’s Regiment of Light Dragoons, shoreline Doune Bay
“My colonel offers you terms.” Captain Broadhurst knew that Semiramis had sent him because it would easier for the French Marines to surrender to a man. Behind him he could hear the screaming of the crippled horses and the shots as they were put out of their agony. The Regiment had taken more casualties from the frigate's gunfire than they had in the whole of the rest of the uprising. “My colonel says that your position is completely hopeless, that we outnumber you ten to one and that we need not even charge you. We are Dragoons, we can stand off and shoot you down. To save unnecessary loss of life, we ask that you surrender with the full honors of war and my Colonel will ask that you be returned home without necessity of exchange. Our chief is the Duke of Cumberland and he has a reputation for generous treatment of regular troops taken prisoner.”
The French commander looked at his men and knew that he couldn’t condemn them to die on this bleak, rocky shore for no sane reason. “He does indeed. That being so, I accept these terms. My sword.”
Broadhurst smiled at him. “My colonel says that it would be unseemly and unjust to take the sword of such brave men. Tell your marines to stack their weapons in the wagon and we will head for Fort William. If any of your men are sick or injured, they can ride in the wagon as well.”
“Captain, may I ask about those four men in the wagon? They do not seem . . . honorable.”
“Ah yes, them. My Colonel is thinking about that right now.”
A few minutes later, the niceties of an honorable surrender having been negotiated, Broadhurst returned to Semiramis. She was staring at the apparent leader of the four, a large fair-haired man tending to obesity with small-close-set eyes saturated with unfathomable stupidity set above a button nose and a chin of outstanding weakness. Broadhurst couldn’t help but think that if ever he had seen a man totally lacking in any form of virtuous mind or any sign of moral character, this was the one. Despite the chill of the night, the man was sweating profusely and visibly shaking with terror.
“Have we learned anything, Colonel?”
“Not yet no. Send over the farrier and the blacksmiths. I want these four skinned alive. Tell our people that they will get a hundred lashes for each square inch of skin left. Then put a rope around their feet, drag them through the surf until they are thoroughly salted and hang them by their feet to dry.”
Broadhurst gasped. “Colonel, we can’t do that! This is no time for moderation.”
“Captain, we must always strive to temper justice with mercy.”
“But, after what these animals did to that poor girl . .”
“All right. Never let it be said I do not take advice from my officers. After you’ve strung them up, you may light a small fire under their heads. Only a small one mind you.”
“Yes, Colonel.” Broadhurst turned to leave.
“No, please, Colonel, it was nothing to do with us.” The man pointed at the fair-haired man. “It was him. We knew that girl didn’t know anything. Her mind was rotted by the gin. We tried to stop him but he carved her like that anyway, giggling and slobbering all the time.”
Semiramis smiled. “You tell me everything that happened and we’ll see you get a proper trial instead of a field court-martial and an execution. If things are as you say, you’ll just get sent to the Colonies. He’s done though, but we’ll do it legal. What’s his name?”
“Dunno Colonel. Crapman, something like that. German sounding name.”
“We’ll get it out of him.” Semiramis listened to the long story, noting the nods from the other two Jacobites. Eventually, with the whole picture in mind, she turned to Broadhurst. “Captain, manacle these men to the back of the wagon. They can walk to Fort William.”
“Yes, Colonel. We certainly bluffed them into confessing didn’t we.” Then a thought occurred to him. “We were bluffing weren’t we?”
“Perhaps. Let’s check those chests.”
It took a few minutes to hammer the chests open. Once the locks were smashed, Semiramis and Broadhurst looked down at the contents. She shook her head in disbelief. “All this and there’s nothing in there but . .”
French Frigate Mars, Off Doune Bay.
“Rocks.” Captain Maurice looked shocked. “All that for four chests of rocks.”
Re: 1746 - Drummossie Moor
Chapter Twenty Four
Army Headquarters, Fort Augustus
"A surprising end to an otherwise excellent operation." The Duke of Cumberland looked fondly at Igrat whose ride to Fort William and back had put the account of the action off Skye in his hands hours earlier than otherwise would have been the case. Thus it was that he had already been well-briefed on the situation before the Light Dragoons had ridden in and thus created a reputation for omniscience. He had already commanded that the French Marines be comfortably lodged as guests rather than prisoners in Fort William and would, as Semiramis had promised, be returned without necessity of exchange. The four men captured with the wagon had been brought to Fort Augustus and would be tried as rebels, traitors and for the murder of Judith Tomkins. "Have we any idea where the gold is?"
Conrad shook his head. "I think it is obvious that the whole story about going to the west coast was a decoy. It was intended to make us think that the gold had been picked up by the French and gone back to King Louis. I would say the gold is still in the Inverness area although precisely where is a riddle that may take some careful thought."
Conrad, in fact, had a theory about what had happened to the gold but it was so incredible that he had decided to keep it to himself. Behind him, Semiramis was trying to adapt back to being a civilian again. She had handed the Light Dragoons over to Colonel Eliot, bidden her farewells to the men and ridden out of history. She knew that already the records showed that Colonel Eliot had been in command of the Regiment ever since it had ceased to be Kingston's Light Horse. She would vanish from the official history as if she had never been.
"We have learned much from the prisoners that we took." Semiramis shifted uncomfortably in her day-dress and wished she was back in the cavalry. "The basic story is that Gerrard and Joy Thackeray landed on the South Coast with seven months of subsidies for delivery to the Jacobites in Derby. All they knew was that they had to be in Derby by a set date. Why exactly they were chosen remains a mystery although I would guess it was because they were unimportant and it was always intended that they should be killed once the job was done to shut their mouths. By the time they got to Derby, the Jacobite Army had already started to retreat. At first the Thackerays wanted to catch up with them and deliver the gold and they elected to do so by joining your army's baggage train on the basis that, at some point, the two armies would meet. Hence the abduction of Lady Beverly Wilberforce, her murder and the blackmail of her husband under the pretext she was still alive.
"Then, at some point, it occurred to them that they had vanished into the baggage train and nobody knew where they were. There was no need to deliver the gold; it would be easy to keep it. So, they did. That brings our four prisoners into the picture."
The Duke of Cumberland held up his hand. "The next part is very secret. Some of you have been sworn into that secret, others have not. Will you all please consider yourself bound by the most solemn oath of secrecy?"
Receiving the affirmation he desired, the Duke nodded and Semiramis continued. "They were part of the plot to assassinate King George. That attempt obviously failed and the assassins went on the run. Our four people, whose orders I suspect were to kill the assassins to shut their mouths, were left adrift but they then got orders from the Marquis of Tullibardine to find the Thackerays, recover the gold and kill them. This, they managed to do and their leader, a thoroughly repulsive and incredibly stupid man called Kratman, killed Joy Thackeray. They knew her necklace was the secret to where to take the gold; what they didn’t know was that it would only take them to an approximate area. They needed the information on her bracelet to get the rest of the way. By the time they knew that and went to the body, Judith Tomkins had stolen the jewels. Despite the objections of the other three who could see that her brain was so gin-rotted she hardly knew her own name, Kratman abducted and then murdered her after unsuccessfully torturing her for the information.
"The other three were a bit brighter; they socialized with the people who knew Judith Tomkins best and collected enough information to recreate the bracelet. They knew enough to look for a stone cross and then to take the left hand path after it. So, off they went. There ends the story from the prisoners. Only, we know now that by the time they left the baggage train and headed west, somebody had stolen the gold and replaced it with rocks."
In one corner, Parmenio grinned slightly and caught Conrad's eye. Conrad nodded equally imperceptibly. The Duke, being unaware of the exchange, asked the one question that concerned him most. "So, who was it who tried to murder my father. And intends to murder me, come to that."
"We do not know yet, Your Grace." Parmenio knew what had to be done and put other considerations aside. "Naamah is keeping strict surveillance over your food, Nell is keeping the court under watch and you have four most formidable bodyguards, none of whom look the part. We hope that the assassins will still make the attempt and then we will have them And that will solve the attack on His Majesty as well for they are surely the one and the same."
"So, you intend to use me as bait?" The Duke was actually quite amused by the idea and his bearing showed it.
"That is so, Your Grace. We really should get this matter behind us."
Formal Victory Ball, Manor Hall, Fort Augustus
"My Lords, Ladies and Gentleman, Pray Silence for his Royal Highness, the Duke of Cumberland."
"Welcome to this Ball, held to celebrate the surrender of the last few rebel Clan Lairds and the disbandment of their Clan forces. With their action, the Jacobit rising has been finally put down and we may rejoice knowing that the United Kingdom is once again tranquil. We are also here to rejoice in the great victory won by three of our smaller ships against an enemy of much greater force. Our sloops, Hound, Hazzard and Hornet, each of ten guns, engaged two French frigates, taking one and driving the other off with heavy loss. The Admiralty has just informed me that in recognition of their victory, Lieutenant Swafford, master and commander of HM Sloop Hound who planned the action has been awarded a knighthood, raised to Captain and appointed to the command of the frigate Siren, a sixth rate of 20 guns."
The thunder of applause that ran around the room acknowledged the implicit message. A sixth-rate was a post-ship and being awarded her command meant that Swafford was now a post-captain. All he had to do was not get killed and he would inevitably rise to the highest ranks of the Navy. The Duke waited until the applause had died down before continuing. "Lieutenant Murray, master and commander of Hazzard who took prize the frigate Subtile of twenty guns, will replace Captain Swafford as commander of the Inshore Squadron. The Subtile is presently in Mallaig where she is being surveyed for possible service in the Navy."
There was another eruption of applause for a young officer who was obviously destined for higher things. Several of the unmarried ladies present at the ball (and a few of the married ones) eyed him thoughtfully. Smiled upon by the Royal Family, with a distinguished career already established and a nice fat envelope of prize money in his pocket, suddenly Murray had become a desirable catch.
"Finally, Lieutenant David Belushi, master and commander of Hornet, engaged the French frigate Mars of 20 guns, driving her away from our shores by inflicting heavy damage upon her and prevented her from picking up fleeting Jacobites. In doing so, Hornet rendered most valuable assistance to the Regiment of Light Dragoons who were engaging rebellious Jacobites on shore. I am pleased to announce that he will be taking up an appointment with Vice-admiral of the Blue Sir George Anson on that valiant admiral's personal staff aboard the Third Rate HMS Yarmouth.
Yet another thunderous burst of applause rang around the ballroom with much envy being directed at Lieutenant Belushi. It was well known that Admiral Anson had a keen nose and could sniff out prize money in the Atlantic while his ship was still in the Pacific. Belushi turned and stretched out his hand to a young lady whom he formally introduced to the Duke. It was noted that the young lady in question had a beauty patch by the left corner of her mouth, marking her as a fiancé (for a wife would have had the beauty patch on the right side of her mouth) undoubtedly that of the dashing young commander. The sigh of disappointment form the unmarried ladies was distinctly audible.
After finishing his welcoming remarks, the Duke led Igrat on to the dance floor and they began the opening dance together. The Duke noticed that Igrat's eyes (one of which had a beauty mark beside it, a mark by the eye being that of an acknowledged mistress) never stopped scanning the room for potential threats. Once joined by the other guests on the floor, he also realized that he was being discretely surrounded by the Avebury contingent who were shielding him from any possible threat. They were, he noted, very good at doing so.
After the first set of dances, the Duke joined several of the more distinguished gentlemen in the room to exchange greetings and casual conversation. As the evening progressed, he would move steadily down the order of precedence until he had spoken with each of the gentlemen present. It was a point of honor with him that he would spend the same amount of time with each man, regardless of his rank. Meanwhile, Igrat, as the Countess of Strathearn, was doing the same with the ladies. It was just before the second set of dances was due to start that she heard the Baroness de Ros's voice behind her. "Why, it is Butcher Cumberland's whore."
The gasp at the outrageous barb, in breach of all elements of courtesy and etiquette, ran around all the ladies present. Most had heard of the previous exchange at the racing gala and were appalled that the Baroness had dared to renew her abuse. For one of the few times in her life, Igrat was getting sympathetic glances from other women. That was when her memory of Nell's advice that she must never allow an insult aimed at her patron to pass unchallenged came back to her and she used the line Nell had recommended. "Well, Baroness, if His Grace is the King's butcher, then His Majesty must partake of the finest cuts in England."
There was a ripple of laughter and a scatter of discrete applause at the reply. Having moved to support Igrat, Nell gave her a smile of approval. The Baroness though scowled furiously. "One would expect knowledge concerning pieces of meat from such a rustic wench."
Igrat's smile remained polite and playful. "Any lady, no matter what her background, should know the difference between a good and a bad piece of meat. Were it not too late to do so, I would have been pleased to teach you."
That sally also brought laughter and a little applause, mixed with apprehension. Igrat had just, very politely, accused the Baroness de Ros of being syphilitic. This was obviously not going to end here.
It was the Baron de Ros who picked up the gauntlet. "You have insulted my wife, Countess. I demand satisfaction."
Now, the room was silent. Igrat could see the ploy very clearly. The Baron could not challenge the Duke of Cumberland directly because of the Duke's royal rank. He could, however, challenge Igrat. As a woman, Igrat had the right, indeed the duty, to ask a member of her family to act for her in that duel. The only such person who appeared to qualify was the Duke of Cumberland who, it was well known, was an indifferent swordsman. The effect of the challenge was to lever the Duke out from behind his screen of bodyguards who would have to watch him engage a skilled swordsman and be able to do nothing to assist. It was a cunning plan, one that Igrat realized had been in the making ever since the Baroness's apparently irrational behavior at the racing gala.
It was also destined to fail. Igrat had every intention of asking Achillea to act for her. The rules presumed that the challenged lady would call upon a male member of her family to act for her but didn’t actually specify that. Asking another woman, Achillea, to act for her was within the letter of the rules if not their spirit. It was also a mortal insult to the Baron, quite apart from signing his death-warrant. However, she didn’t get the chance. A familiar voice came from one side. "Countess, if you will permit it, I would be pleased to act for you."
Captain Caroline Frederick Scott, his face set in its usual saturnine glower, had spoken. The Baron de Ros was obviously shocked by the unexpected turn of events and that some person other than the anticipated target would be acting on Igrat's behalf. He managed to get himself under enough control to object most strenuously. "This man is not my social equal and he is not a member of The Countess's family,. I will not allow this."
Scott's voice and bearing were remorseless. Igrat's initial impression of him, as one of the Army's 'hard men', one of the number who were assigned the most difficult task and pursued them pitilessly, had been entirely correct. "I believe the key point here continues to elude you, Sir. I am an Army Captain, of Guises Regiment of Foot, in the service of His Majesty King George the Second. As such, I am equal in rank to the disputed claimant of a questionable title. Furthermore, you may have heard of the term 'brotherhood of arms'? Any man who serves His Majesty in the field with honor and courage is my brother. All here know that the Countess of Strathearn gained her title by risking her life on the battlefield of Culloden when she carried vital messages to the guns without thought for her own safety. In that capacity, she also served His Majesty on the field of battle with honor and courage, and so by irresistible logic, she is my sister.
"The disputed claimant of a questionable title?" The Baron was shaking both with rage and the knowledge that his plan was going badly wrong. "You accuse me of falsehood, Sir?"
It had been a catastrophic mistake and the Baron de Ros knew it as soon as the words left his lips. Scott pounced with obvious ferocity. "The de Ros title is in abeyance and you have no greater claim on it than many others. You are explicitly prohibited from claiming any privilege of the title until it is called out of abeyance. And so, I do not only name you as a liar but also that as a thief and a scoundrel."
"Hold fast." The speaker was the Duke of Grafton, the acknowledged keeper of the codes of practice on affairs of honor. "Captain Scott is entirely correct in his statement and is qualified to act for the Countess of Strathearn. Countess, do you accept his offer to act for you in his capacity as your brother?"
"Captain Scott, I am honored that you regard me as your sister and gratefully accept your offer to act for me."
"Then, the Captain may do so. But, it is now irrelevant. His words to the self-claimed Baron de Ros, for the title is indeed in abeyance, take precedence over any other issue. The matter of honor will proceed."
There was considerable stir at the exchanges and great resentment at the revelation of the questionable title of the de Ros couple. Also, the emphasis that had been placed on the brother/sister relationship between Captain Scott and the Countess of Strathearn and its explicit rejection of any motivation other than that of siblings had been noted. Tongues would not wag on that issue. Not if they knew what was good for them.
"Very well." The Baron de Ros's words were snarled out. "I will meet you at dawn, outside the fortress with rapier in hand."
"Once again, sir, the key point continues to elude you. The challenge was yours, as I act for the Countess, the choice of time, place and weapon are mine. I choose the time as now, the place as here and the weapon as the heavy infantry saber."
Once again, a murmur of shock and excitement ran around the ballroom. In the background, Achillea was gravely disappointed. She had known she would be Igrat's first choice to act for her and she had been looking forward to performing in front of an audience again. It was, however, the Duke of Cumberland who spoke. "I think not. Not here anyway. The blood that will inevitably tarnish the floor will interfere with the dancing while the ladies, who have taken so much care over their appearance tonight, will be at risk of having their delightful presentation marred by the combat. Captain Scott, I would ask you to modify the place of the duel to the adjoining reception room through those double doors on the left. It is more than adequate in size and shape for this purpose."
"Of course, Your Grace. I know the room, it is ideally suited to our purpose."
Cumberland nodded and continued. "Also, the policy of His Majesty is to discourage dueling. I must therefore ask that you two reconcile your differences and put this affair behind you. If you do not, I cannot be associated with your conduct. Lord Augustus, would you kindly represent me in supervising this affair?"
"As you wish, Your Grace." Grafton looked around the ballroom and noted the silence that had befallen the ball. It had suddenly dawned on everybody present that this affair was deadly serious and somebody stood a very good chance of getting killed. "Countess, would you accompany us into the designated room. As the challenged party, you must be present. If, however, you wish to bring your ladies-in-waiting, that will be entirely acceptable. Baroness de Ros, or whoever you really are, since it was your reprehensible conduct that triggered this unfortunate situation, you will attend as well."
Grafton walked over and opened the doors to the designated room. The Baron de Ros and Captain Scott entered first, followed by their seconds and then by Igrat with Achillea and Nell as her ladies-in-waiting. The Duke of Cumberland was still surrounded by members of the Avebury circle, Parmenio on his right and Gusoyn on his left. Naamah was also present and that made Igrat guess that if somebody did try another attack, they would get something in their eyes that would ensure they never saw anything ever again. Parmenio caught Igrat's eye and gave her a tiny nod. That eased the tension for her; it was the lodestone of her life that no matter how bad a situation appeared to be, he had anticipated it and arranged a way out for her. With a flash of insight she realized that he had noted her comments about Captain Scott and arranged for his presence here tonight. He had also arranged for the Duke of Grafton to be present although how he had managed that was beyond her. Finally, the rear of the party was made up by the Baroness de Ros, between two soldiers of the Provost Guard who were holding her arms, none too gently. Her eyes were filled with horror and panic as she contemplated how badly wrong what had undoubtedly seemed a foolproof plan had gone.
"Gentlemen, I call upon you to reconcile your differences and end this affair. Captain Scott, as the challenged party, I ask you, in the King's Name, to withdraw your words and apologize to the alleged Baron."
"Your Grace, with no disrespect to you or to His Majesty, I cannot in conscience do so unless the Baron de Ros, or whoever he is, testifies to the truth of my words and admits the accusation of falsity, thievery and fraud to be true. Also, on the primary issue, I would demand that he retract his challenge to my sister-in-arms, the Countess of Strathearn, and apologize to her for the vile insinuations made by his wife."
"The hell you say!" The alleged Baron de Ros had allowed his anger at the thwarting of his plot to overcome his natural caution and replace fear with rage. He was well-aware that his wife was already, if not quite under arrest, something very close to it.
"This is regrettable." Grafton shook his head, secretly pleased that de Ros was about to get his just rewards. "Very well, the affair of honor shall proceed."
"Proceed a l'outrance." Scott's words, announcing a duel that would be fought until one of the contestants was dead or too badly injured to continue, seemed to have all the quality of a tolling bell.
"Very well. A l'outrance."
Army Headquarters, Fort Augustus
"A surprising end to an otherwise excellent operation." The Duke of Cumberland looked fondly at Igrat whose ride to Fort William and back had put the account of the action off Skye in his hands hours earlier than otherwise would have been the case. Thus it was that he had already been well-briefed on the situation before the Light Dragoons had ridden in and thus created a reputation for omniscience. He had already commanded that the French Marines be comfortably lodged as guests rather than prisoners in Fort William and would, as Semiramis had promised, be returned without necessity of exchange. The four men captured with the wagon had been brought to Fort Augustus and would be tried as rebels, traitors and for the murder of Judith Tomkins. "Have we any idea where the gold is?"
Conrad shook his head. "I think it is obvious that the whole story about going to the west coast was a decoy. It was intended to make us think that the gold had been picked up by the French and gone back to King Louis. I would say the gold is still in the Inverness area although precisely where is a riddle that may take some careful thought."
Conrad, in fact, had a theory about what had happened to the gold but it was so incredible that he had decided to keep it to himself. Behind him, Semiramis was trying to adapt back to being a civilian again. She had handed the Light Dragoons over to Colonel Eliot, bidden her farewells to the men and ridden out of history. She knew that already the records showed that Colonel Eliot had been in command of the Regiment ever since it had ceased to be Kingston's Light Horse. She would vanish from the official history as if she had never been.
"We have learned much from the prisoners that we took." Semiramis shifted uncomfortably in her day-dress and wished she was back in the cavalry. "The basic story is that Gerrard and Joy Thackeray landed on the South Coast with seven months of subsidies for delivery to the Jacobites in Derby. All they knew was that they had to be in Derby by a set date. Why exactly they were chosen remains a mystery although I would guess it was because they were unimportant and it was always intended that they should be killed once the job was done to shut their mouths. By the time they got to Derby, the Jacobite Army had already started to retreat. At first the Thackerays wanted to catch up with them and deliver the gold and they elected to do so by joining your army's baggage train on the basis that, at some point, the two armies would meet. Hence the abduction of Lady Beverly Wilberforce, her murder and the blackmail of her husband under the pretext she was still alive.
"Then, at some point, it occurred to them that they had vanished into the baggage train and nobody knew where they were. There was no need to deliver the gold; it would be easy to keep it. So, they did. That brings our four prisoners into the picture."
The Duke of Cumberland held up his hand. "The next part is very secret. Some of you have been sworn into that secret, others have not. Will you all please consider yourself bound by the most solemn oath of secrecy?"
Receiving the affirmation he desired, the Duke nodded and Semiramis continued. "They were part of the plot to assassinate King George. That attempt obviously failed and the assassins went on the run. Our four people, whose orders I suspect were to kill the assassins to shut their mouths, were left adrift but they then got orders from the Marquis of Tullibardine to find the Thackerays, recover the gold and kill them. This, they managed to do and their leader, a thoroughly repulsive and incredibly stupid man called Kratman, killed Joy Thackeray. They knew her necklace was the secret to where to take the gold; what they didn’t know was that it would only take them to an approximate area. They needed the information on her bracelet to get the rest of the way. By the time they knew that and went to the body, Judith Tomkins had stolen the jewels. Despite the objections of the other three who could see that her brain was so gin-rotted she hardly knew her own name, Kratman abducted and then murdered her after unsuccessfully torturing her for the information.
"The other three were a bit brighter; they socialized with the people who knew Judith Tomkins best and collected enough information to recreate the bracelet. They knew enough to look for a stone cross and then to take the left hand path after it. So, off they went. There ends the story from the prisoners. Only, we know now that by the time they left the baggage train and headed west, somebody had stolen the gold and replaced it with rocks."
In one corner, Parmenio grinned slightly and caught Conrad's eye. Conrad nodded equally imperceptibly. The Duke, being unaware of the exchange, asked the one question that concerned him most. "So, who was it who tried to murder my father. And intends to murder me, come to that."
"We do not know yet, Your Grace." Parmenio knew what had to be done and put other considerations aside. "Naamah is keeping strict surveillance over your food, Nell is keeping the court under watch and you have four most formidable bodyguards, none of whom look the part. We hope that the assassins will still make the attempt and then we will have them And that will solve the attack on His Majesty as well for they are surely the one and the same."
"So, you intend to use me as bait?" The Duke was actually quite amused by the idea and his bearing showed it.
"That is so, Your Grace. We really should get this matter behind us."
Formal Victory Ball, Manor Hall, Fort Augustus
"My Lords, Ladies and Gentleman, Pray Silence for his Royal Highness, the Duke of Cumberland."
"Welcome to this Ball, held to celebrate the surrender of the last few rebel Clan Lairds and the disbandment of their Clan forces. With their action, the Jacobit rising has been finally put down and we may rejoice knowing that the United Kingdom is once again tranquil. We are also here to rejoice in the great victory won by three of our smaller ships against an enemy of much greater force. Our sloops, Hound, Hazzard and Hornet, each of ten guns, engaged two French frigates, taking one and driving the other off with heavy loss. The Admiralty has just informed me that in recognition of their victory, Lieutenant Swafford, master and commander of HM Sloop Hound who planned the action has been awarded a knighthood, raised to Captain and appointed to the command of the frigate Siren, a sixth rate of 20 guns."
The thunder of applause that ran around the room acknowledged the implicit message. A sixth-rate was a post-ship and being awarded her command meant that Swafford was now a post-captain. All he had to do was not get killed and he would inevitably rise to the highest ranks of the Navy. The Duke waited until the applause had died down before continuing. "Lieutenant Murray, master and commander of Hazzard who took prize the frigate Subtile of twenty guns, will replace Captain Swafford as commander of the Inshore Squadron. The Subtile is presently in Mallaig where she is being surveyed for possible service in the Navy."
There was another eruption of applause for a young officer who was obviously destined for higher things. Several of the unmarried ladies present at the ball (and a few of the married ones) eyed him thoughtfully. Smiled upon by the Royal Family, with a distinguished career already established and a nice fat envelope of prize money in his pocket, suddenly Murray had become a desirable catch.
"Finally, Lieutenant David Belushi, master and commander of Hornet, engaged the French frigate Mars of 20 guns, driving her away from our shores by inflicting heavy damage upon her and prevented her from picking up fleeting Jacobites. In doing so, Hornet rendered most valuable assistance to the Regiment of Light Dragoons who were engaging rebellious Jacobites on shore. I am pleased to announce that he will be taking up an appointment with Vice-admiral of the Blue Sir George Anson on that valiant admiral's personal staff aboard the Third Rate HMS Yarmouth.
Yet another thunderous burst of applause rang around the ballroom with much envy being directed at Lieutenant Belushi. It was well known that Admiral Anson had a keen nose and could sniff out prize money in the Atlantic while his ship was still in the Pacific. Belushi turned and stretched out his hand to a young lady whom he formally introduced to the Duke. It was noted that the young lady in question had a beauty patch by the left corner of her mouth, marking her as a fiancé (for a wife would have had the beauty patch on the right side of her mouth) undoubtedly that of the dashing young commander. The sigh of disappointment form the unmarried ladies was distinctly audible.
After finishing his welcoming remarks, the Duke led Igrat on to the dance floor and they began the opening dance together. The Duke noticed that Igrat's eyes (one of which had a beauty mark beside it, a mark by the eye being that of an acknowledged mistress) never stopped scanning the room for potential threats. Once joined by the other guests on the floor, he also realized that he was being discretely surrounded by the Avebury contingent who were shielding him from any possible threat. They were, he noted, very good at doing so.
After the first set of dances, the Duke joined several of the more distinguished gentlemen in the room to exchange greetings and casual conversation. As the evening progressed, he would move steadily down the order of precedence until he had spoken with each of the gentlemen present. It was a point of honor with him that he would spend the same amount of time with each man, regardless of his rank. Meanwhile, Igrat, as the Countess of Strathearn, was doing the same with the ladies. It was just before the second set of dances was due to start that she heard the Baroness de Ros's voice behind her. "Why, it is Butcher Cumberland's whore."
The gasp at the outrageous barb, in breach of all elements of courtesy and etiquette, ran around all the ladies present. Most had heard of the previous exchange at the racing gala and were appalled that the Baroness had dared to renew her abuse. For one of the few times in her life, Igrat was getting sympathetic glances from other women. That was when her memory of Nell's advice that she must never allow an insult aimed at her patron to pass unchallenged came back to her and she used the line Nell had recommended. "Well, Baroness, if His Grace is the King's butcher, then His Majesty must partake of the finest cuts in England."
There was a ripple of laughter and a scatter of discrete applause at the reply. Having moved to support Igrat, Nell gave her a smile of approval. The Baroness though scowled furiously. "One would expect knowledge concerning pieces of meat from such a rustic wench."
Igrat's smile remained polite and playful. "Any lady, no matter what her background, should know the difference between a good and a bad piece of meat. Were it not too late to do so, I would have been pleased to teach you."
That sally also brought laughter and a little applause, mixed with apprehension. Igrat had just, very politely, accused the Baroness de Ros of being syphilitic. This was obviously not going to end here.
It was the Baron de Ros who picked up the gauntlet. "You have insulted my wife, Countess. I demand satisfaction."
Now, the room was silent. Igrat could see the ploy very clearly. The Baron could not challenge the Duke of Cumberland directly because of the Duke's royal rank. He could, however, challenge Igrat. As a woman, Igrat had the right, indeed the duty, to ask a member of her family to act for her in that duel. The only such person who appeared to qualify was the Duke of Cumberland who, it was well known, was an indifferent swordsman. The effect of the challenge was to lever the Duke out from behind his screen of bodyguards who would have to watch him engage a skilled swordsman and be able to do nothing to assist. It was a cunning plan, one that Igrat realized had been in the making ever since the Baroness's apparently irrational behavior at the racing gala.
It was also destined to fail. Igrat had every intention of asking Achillea to act for her. The rules presumed that the challenged lady would call upon a male member of her family to act for her but didn’t actually specify that. Asking another woman, Achillea, to act for her was within the letter of the rules if not their spirit. It was also a mortal insult to the Baron, quite apart from signing his death-warrant. However, she didn’t get the chance. A familiar voice came from one side. "Countess, if you will permit it, I would be pleased to act for you."
Captain Caroline Frederick Scott, his face set in its usual saturnine glower, had spoken. The Baron de Ros was obviously shocked by the unexpected turn of events and that some person other than the anticipated target would be acting on Igrat's behalf. He managed to get himself under enough control to object most strenuously. "This man is not my social equal and he is not a member of The Countess's family,. I will not allow this."
Scott's voice and bearing were remorseless. Igrat's initial impression of him, as one of the Army's 'hard men', one of the number who were assigned the most difficult task and pursued them pitilessly, had been entirely correct. "I believe the key point here continues to elude you, Sir. I am an Army Captain, of Guises Regiment of Foot, in the service of His Majesty King George the Second. As such, I am equal in rank to the disputed claimant of a questionable title. Furthermore, you may have heard of the term 'brotherhood of arms'? Any man who serves His Majesty in the field with honor and courage is my brother. All here know that the Countess of Strathearn gained her title by risking her life on the battlefield of Culloden when she carried vital messages to the guns without thought for her own safety. In that capacity, she also served His Majesty on the field of battle with honor and courage, and so by irresistible logic, she is my sister.
"The disputed claimant of a questionable title?" The Baron was shaking both with rage and the knowledge that his plan was going badly wrong. "You accuse me of falsehood, Sir?"
It had been a catastrophic mistake and the Baron de Ros knew it as soon as the words left his lips. Scott pounced with obvious ferocity. "The de Ros title is in abeyance and you have no greater claim on it than many others. You are explicitly prohibited from claiming any privilege of the title until it is called out of abeyance. And so, I do not only name you as a liar but also that as a thief and a scoundrel."
"Hold fast." The speaker was the Duke of Grafton, the acknowledged keeper of the codes of practice on affairs of honor. "Captain Scott is entirely correct in his statement and is qualified to act for the Countess of Strathearn. Countess, do you accept his offer to act for you in his capacity as your brother?"
"Captain Scott, I am honored that you regard me as your sister and gratefully accept your offer to act for me."
"Then, the Captain may do so. But, it is now irrelevant. His words to the self-claimed Baron de Ros, for the title is indeed in abeyance, take precedence over any other issue. The matter of honor will proceed."
There was considerable stir at the exchanges and great resentment at the revelation of the questionable title of the de Ros couple. Also, the emphasis that had been placed on the brother/sister relationship between Captain Scott and the Countess of Strathearn and its explicit rejection of any motivation other than that of siblings had been noted. Tongues would not wag on that issue. Not if they knew what was good for them.
"Very well." The Baron de Ros's words were snarled out. "I will meet you at dawn, outside the fortress with rapier in hand."
"Once again, sir, the key point continues to elude you. The challenge was yours, as I act for the Countess, the choice of time, place and weapon are mine. I choose the time as now, the place as here and the weapon as the heavy infantry saber."
Once again, a murmur of shock and excitement ran around the ballroom. In the background, Achillea was gravely disappointed. She had known she would be Igrat's first choice to act for her and she had been looking forward to performing in front of an audience again. It was, however, the Duke of Cumberland who spoke. "I think not. Not here anyway. The blood that will inevitably tarnish the floor will interfere with the dancing while the ladies, who have taken so much care over their appearance tonight, will be at risk of having their delightful presentation marred by the combat. Captain Scott, I would ask you to modify the place of the duel to the adjoining reception room through those double doors on the left. It is more than adequate in size and shape for this purpose."
"Of course, Your Grace. I know the room, it is ideally suited to our purpose."
Cumberland nodded and continued. "Also, the policy of His Majesty is to discourage dueling. I must therefore ask that you two reconcile your differences and put this affair behind you. If you do not, I cannot be associated with your conduct. Lord Augustus, would you kindly represent me in supervising this affair?"
"As you wish, Your Grace." Grafton looked around the ballroom and noted the silence that had befallen the ball. It had suddenly dawned on everybody present that this affair was deadly serious and somebody stood a very good chance of getting killed. "Countess, would you accompany us into the designated room. As the challenged party, you must be present. If, however, you wish to bring your ladies-in-waiting, that will be entirely acceptable. Baroness de Ros, or whoever you really are, since it was your reprehensible conduct that triggered this unfortunate situation, you will attend as well."
Grafton walked over and opened the doors to the designated room. The Baron de Ros and Captain Scott entered first, followed by their seconds and then by Igrat with Achillea and Nell as her ladies-in-waiting. The Duke of Cumberland was still surrounded by members of the Avebury circle, Parmenio on his right and Gusoyn on his left. Naamah was also present and that made Igrat guess that if somebody did try another attack, they would get something in their eyes that would ensure they never saw anything ever again. Parmenio caught Igrat's eye and gave her a tiny nod. That eased the tension for her; it was the lodestone of her life that no matter how bad a situation appeared to be, he had anticipated it and arranged a way out for her. With a flash of insight she realized that he had noted her comments about Captain Scott and arranged for his presence here tonight. He had also arranged for the Duke of Grafton to be present although how he had managed that was beyond her. Finally, the rear of the party was made up by the Baroness de Ros, between two soldiers of the Provost Guard who were holding her arms, none too gently. Her eyes were filled with horror and panic as she contemplated how badly wrong what had undoubtedly seemed a foolproof plan had gone.
"Gentlemen, I call upon you to reconcile your differences and end this affair. Captain Scott, as the challenged party, I ask you, in the King's Name, to withdraw your words and apologize to the alleged Baron."
"Your Grace, with no disrespect to you or to His Majesty, I cannot in conscience do so unless the Baron de Ros, or whoever he is, testifies to the truth of my words and admits the accusation of falsity, thievery and fraud to be true. Also, on the primary issue, I would demand that he retract his challenge to my sister-in-arms, the Countess of Strathearn, and apologize to her for the vile insinuations made by his wife."
"The hell you say!" The alleged Baron de Ros had allowed his anger at the thwarting of his plot to overcome his natural caution and replace fear with rage. He was well-aware that his wife was already, if not quite under arrest, something very close to it.
"This is regrettable." Grafton shook his head, secretly pleased that de Ros was about to get his just rewards. "Very well, the affair of honor shall proceed."
"Proceed a l'outrance." Scott's words, announcing a duel that would be fought until one of the contestants was dead or too badly injured to continue, seemed to have all the quality of a tolling bell.
"Very well. A l'outrance."
Re: 1746 - Drummossie Moor
Chapter Twenty Five
Witness's Area, Reception room, Manor Hall, Fort Augustus
"If Captain Scott is injured in this affair, I will be mortified." Igrat had spoken quietly but Achillea standing next to her had heard the sincerity in her voice.
"I don’t think you have much to be concerned over." Achillea looked at Scott thoughtfully. He had taken off his jacket and was now wearing the white trousers, white shirt and black stock of his uniform. The Baron de Ros had made similar preparations but by doing so he had only emphasized the stronger build of the dour Lowland officer. "He's used to fighting with swords, not dancing with them."
Achillea's contempt for the rules of formal dueling etiquette was profound. In the Arena where she had grown up, there was only one rule. Win. Yet, for the last few decades she had done most of her fighting with a rapier rather than the edged swords she had spent so many painstaking hours learning how to use. Those who knew her looked on her as a weapons polymath, somebody who could pick up any weapon and immediately use it to lethal effect. It was accurate but it did not allow for the centuries of training that had gone behind that expertise. Even today, after 1500 years, Achillea spent most of her spare time learning about the weapons she handled. She heard her Dottore's voice echoing down through the centuries, 'a sword never kills anybody; it is a tool in the killer's hand.' She knew herself to be a highly proficient user of such tools and was content with that. In fact, her stoic philosophy meant that she was deeply at peace with herself on a level that very few others understood.
Across the room, the Baron de Ros was strutting backwards and forwards, posing and posturing for the audience while not forgetting to cast a thunderous glare at Captain Scott whose only response was to direct an amused and calculating glance over his opponent. His icy calm was a vivid, and to Achillea inspiring, contrast to the display of self-righteous fury opposite. She drifted over to Scott, knowing that Nell was with Igrat and the two of them were quite safe. "Anger, if not restrained, is frequently more hurtful to us than the injury that provokes it.”
That actually made Scott smile. "Seneca, My Lady?"
"Seneca. I came to wish you good fortune. Are those the swords that will be used?" Achillea glanced at the weapons that had been brought in. there were four of them, two set aside for the duel that nobody could touch before the choice of weapon was offered to the duelists. The others were spares. Those, she could touch.
"That pair are, My Lady." Scott looked at her closely, recognizing her bearing as that of a swordswoman. "If you wish to inspect the others, you may do so."
Achillea picked one of the two spares up, feeling her muscles adjust to compensate for its weight and poor balance. Scott noted how she handled the heavy weapon without apparent effort. "No disrespect intended, Captain Scott, but this is a club, not a sword."
"And so it is, My Lady. Your preferred weapon?"
"A Deschaux rapier."
"L'Assassin." Scott's eyes bulged slightly as he spoke the name of the deadly swords that had carved their way through the ranks of the French Aristocracy at a rate of over a thousand dead bodies a year. "A formidable weapon in the right hands. Like yours I believe, My Lady. But there are times when a bludgeon is the correct tool for the situation. This is one."
"Indeed it is." Achillea reached through a slit in her dress to the petticoat pocket beneath and took out one of her lace handkerchiefs. "The blood may damage your blade, Captain. Perhaps this would be of assistance in wiping it clean?"
"A kind thought, My Lady, for which I am most grateful. My wife will ensure that it is returned to you, in the finest possible condition."
Achillea returned to Igrat, exchanging a quick nod with Nell. "Well, now we know two things. One is that the Baron de Ros is a dead man walking."
Igrat nodded in agreement. Her ability to read people had been working full-time and had reassured her greatly. "And the other?"
Achillea smiled, slightly regretfully. "He loves his wife."
Duelling Ground, Reception room, Manor Hall, Fort Augustus
"Once again, I call upon you, in the King's name, to resolve your differences and put an end to this quarrel." Lord Grafton looked hopefully at the two men. Despite the fact he was the national authority of correct procedure in a duel, privately he regarded the institution as regrettable in the extreme. In one respect, he was disappointed for both men shook their heads. And yet, his dismay was mitigated by the perception that the man who was almost certain to lose this duel richly deserved his fate. In that respect, for once a duel would serve the ends of justice. "Very well, Captain Scott, as the challenged you may choose your weapon first."
Scott barely glanced down as he stretched his hand out and took one of the two swords at random. Both had been to the armorer who had put a proper edge on them rather than the blunt-sharpened edge most military swords had. He handled the weapon easily, being most familiar with its weight and unusual balance. The Baron de Ros took the other sword, foolishly expecting it to be similar in weight to the small sword he was familiar with. The weight actually pulled his arm down so that the tip of the sword touched the ground before he recovered and made due allowance for the different weapon. Now, his face showed real fear since he knew that his lengthy and detailed experience with the small-sword counted for nothing in handling this brute of a weapon.
Some of the ladies had giggled at the sight of de Ros struggling with the unfamiliar sword. Grafton turned around angrily. "Hold your tongues. This is a serious matter and will be treated as such."
The women who had made the inappropriate noise looked abashed and tried to shrink backwards.
"Nell, five guineas says he is a stamper." Achillea was looking at Nell out of the corners of her eyes. She would have offered the wager to Igrat but nobody in their right minds betted against Igrat where people were concerned. Nell knew better than to take a wager with either and shook her head.
"Gentlemen, you may begin."
De Ros attempted to seize the initiative by lunging at Scott, bringing his foot down in a mighty stamp as he did so. It was a common duelist's ploy, aimed at distracting and intimidating inexperienced opponents. Scott was completely unimpressed as de Ros should have expected. A foot-stamp was hardly likely to intimidate a man who had stood next to nine-pounder field guns when they fired. "Told you." Achillea whispered.
Scott swept aside the thrust with contemptuous ease, the impact of the heavy infantry sword being far greater than anything de Ros has experienced before. Scott had swiveled his blade so that its flat struck de Ros's weapon and sent it swinging wildly to one side. De Ros caught the swing despite the unfamiliar momentum of the heavy sword and managed to convert it into an overhead cut aimed at Scott's head. However, the captain had anticipated the move and already brought his own sword up so that it was held horizontally to block the blow. From there, it was the work of but a second for Scott to twist the grip in his hand and stage another cut at de Ros's sword, defeating the attack as if it had never happened. Now, it was Scott who had the upper position and he used his strength, position and familiarity with his weapon to beat de Ros down.
By now it was apparent to even the most unskilled in swordsmanship that this was closer to being an execution than a duel. Scott followed up his attack by a series of down-hand blows that forced the beaten-down blade further and further to one side with the result that de Ros was becoming more and more exposed.
"This looks hard; doing this is even harder." Achillea whispered the advice to Nell. Igrat had seen Achillea fighting often enough to appreciate the display in front of her. Nell, though, was a newcomer to this kind of thing. Achillea knew that she would become an experienced observer soon enough. She also promised herself that if it were humanly possible she would make sure that Nell was never in a position where she had to be anything more than an observer.
De Ros had fallen back and was now standing with his sword more or less horizontal although his unfamiliarity with its weight meant that the blade sloped downwards away from his hand. Scott had moved his sword to the vertical and started to move in. De Ros tried another slash at the vertical blade, hoping to knock it sideways and open a path to a slash at Scott's throat. If he had been holding a rapier, its speed and precision would probably have allowed the ploy to work but the heavy infantry sword was unsuited to such timing. By the time the swing had arrived, Scott had angled his sword to one side so that the swing was deflected downwards and, one again, de Ros was in the inferior position, his sword down towards the floor. He tried a wild swing at his opponent, hoping against hope that it might connect. Achillea shook her head. She had been watching very closely and had come to the conclusion that if she had been out there, either with sword or rapier, she would have slaughtered both men by now. "That's it. He's gone. When they start slashing like that, they're done."
This time Scott had turned his blade around the slash so as it passed to his right, putting his own sword in an overarm position and perfectly placed for a cut that slammed into de Ros's sword arm just underneath the shoulder. The dull, sickening thud of the impact seemed to hang in the air while Scott swung around from delivering the blow. It was apparent to everybody that the blow had been a critical one; de Ros had his shoulder laid open, exposing the upper bone of his arm. If that was not enough, the heavy sword had cut deeply into that bone, revealing marrow while shards of bone fragment were sticking out of the wound. De Ros staggered backwards from the impact and the blinding agony of the wound but that helped him not at all. Scott's backhand swing took him behind the knees. It lacked the force of the terrible blow to de Ros's shoulder but it was enough to cut through to the bone, severing the tendons and muscles in the knees. De Ros fell to the floor, his legs dragging and useless.
"Hold!" Grafton's voice cut across the room. Scott immediately stepped back and swung his sword to the vertical in a salute of acknowledgement to the Duke. De Ros was writhing on the floor, his legs useless, his sword-arm crippled, obviously completely incapable of continuing the duel. Indeed, to Achillea's practiced eyes, the shoulder wound alone was probably mortal. She didn’t know why people died from bone-shattering injuries like that but they often did. In this case the wound would certainly require amputation even if the victim survived. "Honor is satisfied, Captain Scott. Lady Isadora, the matter is settled in your favor."
The Baroness de Ros ran out on to the floor to kneel over her husband. Behind them the doors banged and Naamah hurried in. Her work on the wounded at Culloden was remembered well and it was believed that she could save those who would otherwise surely die. So, she had been brought with great urgency to the scene. Her reaction though, was unexpected. She approached the body, looked at it and drew sharply back.
"Keep away from him. And don’t get his blood on you. There is nothing anybody can do for him. You see those black marks on his legs? He's got the Black Lion. And so, very surely and certainly, have you, Baroness."
A shudder went around the room. The Black Lion was syphilis, the most dreaded of all the poxes. It meant madness and a slow, agonizing death for all those who contracted it. Sex with somebody who had it was the surest way of contracting the disease but contact with their blood or other body fluids could do the same. The most merciful thing to do was to let the Baron die on the floor, to spare him the terrible end that contracting the Black Lion inevitably meant.
“Is there nothing that can be done, My Lady.” Grafton was looking with horror at the crippled swordsmen on the floor. Even the Baroness had pulled back from her husband, her face stricken with terror at the realization the same death sentence had been passed on her. Around the rooms, ladies clasped their handkerchieves to their noses while quite a few of the men looked as it they would have liked to do the same.
“Take the swords, very carefully for to cut your hand on them and get that poisoned blood in the wound is to suffer the same fate. The blades must be boiled for at least three hours and the water thrown into the privies where it can do no harm. Mop the floor where there are bloodstains with boiling water and lye, as many times as possible. Then throw the mops and the water away.” Naamah pushed her hair back and looked at the Baron and Baroness. Baron, I believe your wounds are mortal and you have at most a few hours. Baroness, bearing in mind the fate that surely awaits you, you might consider going with him.”
“Before you do, please tell me what has happened here? And why?” The Duke of Cumberland had arrived and was demanding in a tone that was not to be denied.
The tale was a simple one, punctuated only by the weakening moans of the dying man on the floor. The person claiming to be the Baroness de Ros was really named Jane Kerr and the man posing as the Baron was her husband Henry Kerr. They had been lifelong Jacobites and had fled to Paris where Jane Kerr had worked as a coquette while Henry Kerr has become an assassin and footpad. While there, they had heard by chance that the de Ros title was in abeyance and adopted it for themselves, their aristocratic pretensions acting as good cover for their real professions. In Paris, the exiled community did not know any different and took their claims to nobility at their word. Eventually, they had been recruited by the Irish clique surrounding Charles Edward Stuart and promised that if they took part in the assassination of King George, their assumed titles would be called out of abeyance and granted to them once the Stuarts were back on the throne. When they had failed in that attempt, they had been given a second chance by being assigned to assassinate the Duke. The plan had been for Jane Kerr to seduce and murder him while he slept. Igrat had ruined that plan and so the scheme to stage a duel had been developed.
In the background, Parmenio was shaking his head. As a strategist, he could think of a dozen schemes more likely to succeed than the crazy plan the Kerrs had finally adopted. Then, he forced his mind back to business. “Captain Scott, you have done my family a great service by acting for my daughter at great personal risk to yourself. I would not insult you by offering you money, but perhaps my family can use its influence to help yours? Your Grace, Captain Scott has a son, William Scott, who has the makings of a fine officer and is the pride of his family. Yet, sadly, they do not have the funds available to buy a fitting commission for him. May I respectfully request that he receive one in a suitable regiment?”
“Of course. Captain Scott, I have been meaning to advance you in rank following your diligent work since Culloden. You will advance to Major and be assigned to the Royal Artillery where your engineering skills will be best used. I also have a Lieutenancy in Richbell’s 39th Regiment of Foot within my gift. This, I award to your son William and the Army will be much advantaged when he undoubtedly will serve the Crown with the same courage and loyalty as his father. The regiment is in Gibraltar now and will offer much opportunity to officers of his caliber.”
Scott’s saturnine countenance broke into an unexpectedly charming smile. “Your Grace, that is exceedingly generous of you and our family will forever be in your debt. Sir Stewart, we will also be in your debt for your very great kindness.”
There was the sound of the doors opening again and an officer brought Conrad in. In the background, Grafton had sent for a priest when it became apparent that Henry Kerr would not recover from his wounds. Naamah spoke quickly to him, cautioning him of Kerr’s condition, then stood back and watched him give the last rites to the dying man.
“Nammie, is the pox that bad? I’ve . . .” Nell looked very worried at Naamah’s words of warning.
“You were poxed when you joined us, Nell, but not with that. You had one of the milder poxes and one I am well able to cure. Also, this is the 18th century and we are much more enlightened about medical things than we were then. There is no cure for the Black Lion. It is rare now, fortunately, but once contracted it is death.” Naamah looked at the dying man and the wife who dared not touch him even though it was too late for that to make any difference. As she watched, Kerr spasmed and died.
“The French Pox.” Igrat shook her head. Her preferred lifestyle included knowledge of how to avoid sexually transmitted diseases, one being great care in selection of her partners. A single skin ulcer, no matter how mundane, was enough to make her reject a suitor. What the people acquainted with her family didn’t know was that they had seen the disease since it had arrived in Italy with the French Army some two hundred and fifty years earlier and they took avoiding it very seriously. “No matter what we did, they were both doomed, all this was for nothing.”
“For them, yes. I would say she has a couple of year at most and they would best be spent in a convent somewhere. The disease is already affecting their brains. Even if they had got their title, it wouldn’t have done them any good.” Naamah sighed gently. The knowledge that there were diseases she could not treat distressed her greatly. She had taken upon herself the duty of keeping the family healthy and, like every other duty she assumed, she took it gravely.
“Now, I wonder where the gold is.” Gusoyn had joined them and was watching while, with great care and avoidance of any contact, the body of Henry Kerr was removed. Jane Kerr was escorted from the room under arrest.
Naamah looked over at Conrad. “I think he knows.”
*Editorial notes.
Lieutenant William Scott, son of Caroline Frederick Scott was one of the British soldiers who died in the Black Hole of Calcutta in 1756.
The various sexually transmitted diseases were epidemic in court circles in the Restoration era. There is still some dispute about where syphilis came from but there is no doubt that it was spread by the French Army (actually mostly Spanish mercenaries) during the Italian campaign of 1495. It was much more virulent and infectious then than it is now. Voltaire summed the Italian Campaign up when he said “The French Army gained Naples, Genoa, and syphilis but in the peace treaty they returned Naples and Genoa”. By the mid-18th century, people knew that syphilis was spread by sexual contact and those who had it (or might have it) were pariahs. As we have seen here, the degree of infection danger had reached panic proportions with people believing that just touching a victim of the disease was enough to contract it. Paris was notorious as the center of syphilis infection (hence Igrat’s mention of the French Pox) and it has been suggested that Charles Edward Stuart’s rapid mental decline was due to his contracting the disease.
Witness's Area, Reception room, Manor Hall, Fort Augustus
"If Captain Scott is injured in this affair, I will be mortified." Igrat had spoken quietly but Achillea standing next to her had heard the sincerity in her voice.
"I don’t think you have much to be concerned over." Achillea looked at Scott thoughtfully. He had taken off his jacket and was now wearing the white trousers, white shirt and black stock of his uniform. The Baron de Ros had made similar preparations but by doing so he had only emphasized the stronger build of the dour Lowland officer. "He's used to fighting with swords, not dancing with them."
Achillea's contempt for the rules of formal dueling etiquette was profound. In the Arena where she had grown up, there was only one rule. Win. Yet, for the last few decades she had done most of her fighting with a rapier rather than the edged swords she had spent so many painstaking hours learning how to use. Those who knew her looked on her as a weapons polymath, somebody who could pick up any weapon and immediately use it to lethal effect. It was accurate but it did not allow for the centuries of training that had gone behind that expertise. Even today, after 1500 years, Achillea spent most of her spare time learning about the weapons she handled. She heard her Dottore's voice echoing down through the centuries, 'a sword never kills anybody; it is a tool in the killer's hand.' She knew herself to be a highly proficient user of such tools and was content with that. In fact, her stoic philosophy meant that she was deeply at peace with herself on a level that very few others understood.
Across the room, the Baron de Ros was strutting backwards and forwards, posing and posturing for the audience while not forgetting to cast a thunderous glare at Captain Scott whose only response was to direct an amused and calculating glance over his opponent. His icy calm was a vivid, and to Achillea inspiring, contrast to the display of self-righteous fury opposite. She drifted over to Scott, knowing that Nell was with Igrat and the two of them were quite safe. "Anger, if not restrained, is frequently more hurtful to us than the injury that provokes it.”
That actually made Scott smile. "Seneca, My Lady?"
"Seneca. I came to wish you good fortune. Are those the swords that will be used?" Achillea glanced at the weapons that had been brought in. there were four of them, two set aside for the duel that nobody could touch before the choice of weapon was offered to the duelists. The others were spares. Those, she could touch.
"That pair are, My Lady." Scott looked at her closely, recognizing her bearing as that of a swordswoman. "If you wish to inspect the others, you may do so."
Achillea picked one of the two spares up, feeling her muscles adjust to compensate for its weight and poor balance. Scott noted how she handled the heavy weapon without apparent effort. "No disrespect intended, Captain Scott, but this is a club, not a sword."
"And so it is, My Lady. Your preferred weapon?"
"A Deschaux rapier."
"L'Assassin." Scott's eyes bulged slightly as he spoke the name of the deadly swords that had carved their way through the ranks of the French Aristocracy at a rate of over a thousand dead bodies a year. "A formidable weapon in the right hands. Like yours I believe, My Lady. But there are times when a bludgeon is the correct tool for the situation. This is one."
"Indeed it is." Achillea reached through a slit in her dress to the petticoat pocket beneath and took out one of her lace handkerchiefs. "The blood may damage your blade, Captain. Perhaps this would be of assistance in wiping it clean?"
"A kind thought, My Lady, for which I am most grateful. My wife will ensure that it is returned to you, in the finest possible condition."
Achillea returned to Igrat, exchanging a quick nod with Nell. "Well, now we know two things. One is that the Baron de Ros is a dead man walking."
Igrat nodded in agreement. Her ability to read people had been working full-time and had reassured her greatly. "And the other?"
Achillea smiled, slightly regretfully. "He loves his wife."
Duelling Ground, Reception room, Manor Hall, Fort Augustus
"Once again, I call upon you, in the King's name, to resolve your differences and put an end to this quarrel." Lord Grafton looked hopefully at the two men. Despite the fact he was the national authority of correct procedure in a duel, privately he regarded the institution as regrettable in the extreme. In one respect, he was disappointed for both men shook their heads. And yet, his dismay was mitigated by the perception that the man who was almost certain to lose this duel richly deserved his fate. In that respect, for once a duel would serve the ends of justice. "Very well, Captain Scott, as the challenged you may choose your weapon first."
Scott barely glanced down as he stretched his hand out and took one of the two swords at random. Both had been to the armorer who had put a proper edge on them rather than the blunt-sharpened edge most military swords had. He handled the weapon easily, being most familiar with its weight and unusual balance. The Baron de Ros took the other sword, foolishly expecting it to be similar in weight to the small sword he was familiar with. The weight actually pulled his arm down so that the tip of the sword touched the ground before he recovered and made due allowance for the different weapon. Now, his face showed real fear since he knew that his lengthy and detailed experience with the small-sword counted for nothing in handling this brute of a weapon.
Some of the ladies had giggled at the sight of de Ros struggling with the unfamiliar sword. Grafton turned around angrily. "Hold your tongues. This is a serious matter and will be treated as such."
The women who had made the inappropriate noise looked abashed and tried to shrink backwards.
"Nell, five guineas says he is a stamper." Achillea was looking at Nell out of the corners of her eyes. She would have offered the wager to Igrat but nobody in their right minds betted against Igrat where people were concerned. Nell knew better than to take a wager with either and shook her head.
"Gentlemen, you may begin."
De Ros attempted to seize the initiative by lunging at Scott, bringing his foot down in a mighty stamp as he did so. It was a common duelist's ploy, aimed at distracting and intimidating inexperienced opponents. Scott was completely unimpressed as de Ros should have expected. A foot-stamp was hardly likely to intimidate a man who had stood next to nine-pounder field guns when they fired. "Told you." Achillea whispered.
Scott swept aside the thrust with contemptuous ease, the impact of the heavy infantry sword being far greater than anything de Ros has experienced before. Scott had swiveled his blade so that its flat struck de Ros's weapon and sent it swinging wildly to one side. De Ros caught the swing despite the unfamiliar momentum of the heavy sword and managed to convert it into an overhead cut aimed at Scott's head. However, the captain had anticipated the move and already brought his own sword up so that it was held horizontally to block the blow. From there, it was the work of but a second for Scott to twist the grip in his hand and stage another cut at de Ros's sword, defeating the attack as if it had never happened. Now, it was Scott who had the upper position and he used his strength, position and familiarity with his weapon to beat de Ros down.
By now it was apparent to even the most unskilled in swordsmanship that this was closer to being an execution than a duel. Scott followed up his attack by a series of down-hand blows that forced the beaten-down blade further and further to one side with the result that de Ros was becoming more and more exposed.
"This looks hard; doing this is even harder." Achillea whispered the advice to Nell. Igrat had seen Achillea fighting often enough to appreciate the display in front of her. Nell, though, was a newcomer to this kind of thing. Achillea knew that she would become an experienced observer soon enough. She also promised herself that if it were humanly possible she would make sure that Nell was never in a position where she had to be anything more than an observer.
De Ros had fallen back and was now standing with his sword more or less horizontal although his unfamiliarity with its weight meant that the blade sloped downwards away from his hand. Scott had moved his sword to the vertical and started to move in. De Ros tried another slash at the vertical blade, hoping to knock it sideways and open a path to a slash at Scott's throat. If he had been holding a rapier, its speed and precision would probably have allowed the ploy to work but the heavy infantry sword was unsuited to such timing. By the time the swing had arrived, Scott had angled his sword to one side so that the swing was deflected downwards and, one again, de Ros was in the inferior position, his sword down towards the floor. He tried a wild swing at his opponent, hoping against hope that it might connect. Achillea shook her head. She had been watching very closely and had come to the conclusion that if she had been out there, either with sword or rapier, she would have slaughtered both men by now. "That's it. He's gone. When they start slashing like that, they're done."
This time Scott had turned his blade around the slash so as it passed to his right, putting his own sword in an overarm position and perfectly placed for a cut that slammed into de Ros's sword arm just underneath the shoulder. The dull, sickening thud of the impact seemed to hang in the air while Scott swung around from delivering the blow. It was apparent to everybody that the blow had been a critical one; de Ros had his shoulder laid open, exposing the upper bone of his arm. If that was not enough, the heavy sword had cut deeply into that bone, revealing marrow while shards of bone fragment were sticking out of the wound. De Ros staggered backwards from the impact and the blinding agony of the wound but that helped him not at all. Scott's backhand swing took him behind the knees. It lacked the force of the terrible blow to de Ros's shoulder but it was enough to cut through to the bone, severing the tendons and muscles in the knees. De Ros fell to the floor, his legs dragging and useless.
"Hold!" Grafton's voice cut across the room. Scott immediately stepped back and swung his sword to the vertical in a salute of acknowledgement to the Duke. De Ros was writhing on the floor, his legs useless, his sword-arm crippled, obviously completely incapable of continuing the duel. Indeed, to Achillea's practiced eyes, the shoulder wound alone was probably mortal. She didn’t know why people died from bone-shattering injuries like that but they often did. In this case the wound would certainly require amputation even if the victim survived. "Honor is satisfied, Captain Scott. Lady Isadora, the matter is settled in your favor."
The Baroness de Ros ran out on to the floor to kneel over her husband. Behind them the doors banged and Naamah hurried in. Her work on the wounded at Culloden was remembered well and it was believed that she could save those who would otherwise surely die. So, she had been brought with great urgency to the scene. Her reaction though, was unexpected. She approached the body, looked at it and drew sharply back.
"Keep away from him. And don’t get his blood on you. There is nothing anybody can do for him. You see those black marks on his legs? He's got the Black Lion. And so, very surely and certainly, have you, Baroness."
A shudder went around the room. The Black Lion was syphilis, the most dreaded of all the poxes. It meant madness and a slow, agonizing death for all those who contracted it. Sex with somebody who had it was the surest way of contracting the disease but contact with their blood or other body fluids could do the same. The most merciful thing to do was to let the Baron die on the floor, to spare him the terrible end that contracting the Black Lion inevitably meant.
“Is there nothing that can be done, My Lady.” Grafton was looking with horror at the crippled swordsmen on the floor. Even the Baroness had pulled back from her husband, her face stricken with terror at the realization the same death sentence had been passed on her. Around the rooms, ladies clasped their handkerchieves to their noses while quite a few of the men looked as it they would have liked to do the same.
“Take the swords, very carefully for to cut your hand on them and get that poisoned blood in the wound is to suffer the same fate. The blades must be boiled for at least three hours and the water thrown into the privies where it can do no harm. Mop the floor where there are bloodstains with boiling water and lye, as many times as possible. Then throw the mops and the water away.” Naamah pushed her hair back and looked at the Baron and Baroness. Baron, I believe your wounds are mortal and you have at most a few hours. Baroness, bearing in mind the fate that surely awaits you, you might consider going with him.”
“Before you do, please tell me what has happened here? And why?” The Duke of Cumberland had arrived and was demanding in a tone that was not to be denied.
The tale was a simple one, punctuated only by the weakening moans of the dying man on the floor. The person claiming to be the Baroness de Ros was really named Jane Kerr and the man posing as the Baron was her husband Henry Kerr. They had been lifelong Jacobites and had fled to Paris where Jane Kerr had worked as a coquette while Henry Kerr has become an assassin and footpad. While there, they had heard by chance that the de Ros title was in abeyance and adopted it for themselves, their aristocratic pretensions acting as good cover for their real professions. In Paris, the exiled community did not know any different and took their claims to nobility at their word. Eventually, they had been recruited by the Irish clique surrounding Charles Edward Stuart and promised that if they took part in the assassination of King George, their assumed titles would be called out of abeyance and granted to them once the Stuarts were back on the throne. When they had failed in that attempt, they had been given a second chance by being assigned to assassinate the Duke. The plan had been for Jane Kerr to seduce and murder him while he slept. Igrat had ruined that plan and so the scheme to stage a duel had been developed.
In the background, Parmenio was shaking his head. As a strategist, he could think of a dozen schemes more likely to succeed than the crazy plan the Kerrs had finally adopted. Then, he forced his mind back to business. “Captain Scott, you have done my family a great service by acting for my daughter at great personal risk to yourself. I would not insult you by offering you money, but perhaps my family can use its influence to help yours? Your Grace, Captain Scott has a son, William Scott, who has the makings of a fine officer and is the pride of his family. Yet, sadly, they do not have the funds available to buy a fitting commission for him. May I respectfully request that he receive one in a suitable regiment?”
“Of course. Captain Scott, I have been meaning to advance you in rank following your diligent work since Culloden. You will advance to Major and be assigned to the Royal Artillery where your engineering skills will be best used. I also have a Lieutenancy in Richbell’s 39th Regiment of Foot within my gift. This, I award to your son William and the Army will be much advantaged when he undoubtedly will serve the Crown with the same courage and loyalty as his father. The regiment is in Gibraltar now and will offer much opportunity to officers of his caliber.”
Scott’s saturnine countenance broke into an unexpectedly charming smile. “Your Grace, that is exceedingly generous of you and our family will forever be in your debt. Sir Stewart, we will also be in your debt for your very great kindness.”
There was the sound of the doors opening again and an officer brought Conrad in. In the background, Grafton had sent for a priest when it became apparent that Henry Kerr would not recover from his wounds. Naamah spoke quickly to him, cautioning him of Kerr’s condition, then stood back and watched him give the last rites to the dying man.
“Nammie, is the pox that bad? I’ve . . .” Nell looked very worried at Naamah’s words of warning.
“You were poxed when you joined us, Nell, but not with that. You had one of the milder poxes and one I am well able to cure. Also, this is the 18th century and we are much more enlightened about medical things than we were then. There is no cure for the Black Lion. It is rare now, fortunately, but once contracted it is death.” Naamah looked at the dying man and the wife who dared not touch him even though it was too late for that to make any difference. As she watched, Kerr spasmed and died.
“The French Pox.” Igrat shook her head. Her preferred lifestyle included knowledge of how to avoid sexually transmitted diseases, one being great care in selection of her partners. A single skin ulcer, no matter how mundane, was enough to make her reject a suitor. What the people acquainted with her family didn’t know was that they had seen the disease since it had arrived in Italy with the French Army some two hundred and fifty years earlier and they took avoiding it very seriously. “No matter what we did, they were both doomed, all this was for nothing.”
“For them, yes. I would say she has a couple of year at most and they would best be spent in a convent somewhere. The disease is already affecting their brains. Even if they had got their title, it wouldn’t have done them any good.” Naamah sighed gently. The knowledge that there were diseases she could not treat distressed her greatly. She had taken upon herself the duty of keeping the family healthy and, like every other duty she assumed, she took it gravely.
“Now, I wonder where the gold is.” Gusoyn had joined them and was watching while, with great care and avoidance of any contact, the body of Henry Kerr was removed. Jane Kerr was escorted from the room under arrest.
Naamah looked over at Conrad. “I think he knows.”
*Editorial notes.
Lieutenant William Scott, son of Caroline Frederick Scott was one of the British soldiers who died in the Black Hole of Calcutta in 1756.
The various sexually transmitted diseases were epidemic in court circles in the Restoration era. There is still some dispute about where syphilis came from but there is no doubt that it was spread by the French Army (actually mostly Spanish mercenaries) during the Italian campaign of 1495. It was much more virulent and infectious then than it is now. Voltaire summed the Italian Campaign up when he said “The French Army gained Naples, Genoa, and syphilis but in the peace treaty they returned Naples and Genoa”. By the mid-18th century, people knew that syphilis was spread by sexual contact and those who had it (or might have it) were pariahs. As we have seen here, the degree of infection danger had reached panic proportions with people believing that just touching a victim of the disease was enough to contract it. Paris was notorious as the center of syphilis infection (hence Igrat’s mention of the French Pox) and it has been suggested that Charles Edward Stuart’s rapid mental decline was due to his contracting the disease.
Re: 1746 - Drummossie Moor
Chapter Twenty Six
The Manor House, Fort Augustus
"I hope we haven’t bought this place." Parmenio looked around at the small, but well-appointed manor house. The group had just moved in and the domestic staff, Parmenio discouraged the description 'servants' for long-lived members of the household, were sorting out the baggage and getting the rooms ready for their occupants.
"Well," Nell started a little hesitantly causing Parmenio's eyes to swivel in her direction. "In a manner of speaking, Igrat did."
"Do I want to know how?" Parmenio's voice had a stage weariness in it.
"The house was confiscated from a prominent Jacobite who was not only so unwise as to keep true to his beliefs after Culloden but was foolish enough to wax eloquent about them. All his properties and goods were taken by the Crown. William gave me this house as a 'grace and favor' and to show his faith and support in me." Igrat looked inordinately pleased with herself. A peerage, a handsome annual income and now a house were all marks that she was doing well.
"Did he transfer the title, ducks?" Nell asked, amusement and a degree of envy seeping out of her voice. She'd never managed the peerage for herself.
"No, the title remains with the Crown."
"Get him to change that. I told Charles that I always conveyed free of charge under him and he ought to convey free of charge to me. He took the point and transferred the title to me."
Gusoyn coughed delicately. "I believe, Nell, that the problem is that you were addressing the King who actually held title to the property. The Duke is only the King's second son and does not have the authority to permanently transfer title. He would have to ask the King and it is said that His Majesty is very careful with his funds and does not part with them lightly."
"It doesn’t matter much anyway, we'll only be here for another three or four weeks at the most." Parmenio looked pleased about that. The truth was, he wanted to get back to Avebury before he got hooked into the interminable war in Flanders. "The rebellion has collapsed, Highland resistance has ceased and Charles Edward Stuart is a hunted fugitive out there somewhere. It has finally dawned on the Clan Lairds that he wanted the Crown of England and Scotland for himself while they wanted an end to the Act of Union. It's too late of course, they've ruined themselves. Their creditors will take their estates and enclose the land. The old days of the clan system are gone and a damned good thing too."
"What will happen to the people up here?" Nell sounded distressed at the prospects,
"Some will stay on the land as farm workers, some will become workers in the new industries, some will leave. Probably most of them in the end. Some voluntary, some transportees."
"That is what happened to three of the four men Semiramis brought back. They stood trial this morning and were sentenced to deportation. The Duke sent a letter to the court, asking that they be given passage as voluntary migrants rather than deportees and the Court gave its consent." Nell looked much happier at that. The men being treated as voluntary migrants meant that they would receive better food and not be shackled for the long voyage. "What about the fourth man, that German?"
"Kratman, Nell? That is, I fear, somewhat indelicate."
"Oh, do tell. I saw him being brought in. He seemed a thoroughly nasty piece of work." Achillea was supervising the unpacking of the weaponry she had collected since she had come to Scotland. Pride of place was held by a full, double-handed Claymore with a beautifully-engraved hilt. She was already practicing with it and learning its peculiarities.
"He was. Disgusting apology for a man." Semiramis cut in from across the floor. "Tell us the sordid details, Gusoyn."
Gusoyn made a gesture of resignation. "Very well. He and the other three were imprisoned in a cell that contained a dozen Highlanders who had been brought in after resisting the patrols. One of them was badly injured and his wounds had become rotted after not being treated for several days. He died of the rot last night. An hour or two later, his friends woke up and found Kratman having intimate relations with his dead body. So they beat him to death. The magistrate ordered them deported as well and gave them voluntary migrant status when he was told the details. I believe he was somewhat sympathetic to their actions last night and allowed them to be considered a mitigating factor."
"So, the killer of Joy Thackeray and Judith Tomkins has been identified and punished." Naamah nodded in satisfaction. "That leaves us with the gold. I don’t think that Lillith would forgive us if we passed up an opportunity to bring that much gold back home."
"There are two possibilities. It took a long time for that wagon to reach the pick-up point. At some point the men driving it could have opened the crates and buried the gold meaning to come back later. In that situation, they probably realized it would be several hours before the frigates checked the cargo since getting away from the coast would be their top priority. The other is that the contents of the chests was switched at Inverness without those four knowing and they were sent off as decoys. The gold itself remained around Inverness somewhere so it could be picked up by a frigate coming in from the North Sea." Parmenio shrugged. "I don’t really like either of them. The first is dependent on an awful lot of good luck and the Jacobites don’t seem to have had that. The other, coming in from the North Sea in the face of Royal Navy patrols, doesn't seem likely."
"Good luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity." Achillea quoted Seneca absent-mindedly. "The Jacobites had the opportunities, they just never prepared for them."
"Oh they did," Parmenio objected. "But Charles Edward Stuart and his command clique were preparing for one thing, putting the Stuarts back on the throne. Meanwhile his army leadership was preparing for another, abolishing the Act of Union and separating Scotland from England. That dichotomy doomed the uprising. The first thing the Duke and I did was to sit down and decide exactly what we wanted to achieve. He wanted to put the uprising down and I wanted to make sure there wasn't another one."
"The gold?" Naamah asked pointedly.
"Conrad's in Inverness right now. If anyone can find out what happened to it he can."
House of Andrew Fraser, Suttler, North Kessock.
"Rocks, you say?" Andrew Fraser's eyes twinkled. "It could of course be a miracle; the Good Lord deciding that the Highlands have seen enough of war and taking away the wherewithal for the fools to continue in a lost cause."
"That is a possible explanation." Conrad conceded. Actually, it was one he rather liked. "However, on hearing that the chests were filled with rocks, another thought occurred to me. Everything we heard concerning that gold and where it might be headed came from the Baggage Train. Specifically, Mr. Fraser, it came from you. Including the warning about an assassination attempt to be made upon the Duke of Cumberland. A warning which turned out to be true and for which I must say that those who desire peace in the Highlands and Lowlands are most grateful. Had the Duke been assassinated, I am told the consequences would have been horrifying."
"Aye, that is what we thought when we heard of it. The Jacobites are quick to claim that the Unionists were savage in their actions after Culloden. Had the Duke been killed, they would have seen what real savagery was like. I have seen the Duke is much liked by his men. All the assassins were caught?"
"They are. The primary assassin was killed in the attempt, his wife committed suicide soon after when she hanged herself." Very convenient that, Conrad thought. I wonder who hanged her. "The third member of the group died in custody, killed by other prisoners. It is the general belief that he would have silenced the two assassins given the chance. But, now it is the missing gold that we seek to explain."
"I do not see how I can help there, Father."
"I think you can. There was too much that was convenient in your story of the four men, one of whom just happened to get drunk and tell of their interest in Akraig. If it would help, consider this conversation to be under the seal of the confessional. That is why I came here alone, without Major Hughes."
Fraser looked at Conrad and his eyes twinkled again as he made up his mind. "All right, Father, I will take you at your word on that. When Judith Tomkins was killed so terribly, we knew it was not one of us. Oh, I will not pretend that we are saints on the Baggage train, far from it. Killings in a fight over business or trade, for certain. It is a rough place, the baggage train, where the weak do not survive. Judith Tomkins was not long for this world, everybody knew that. The gin had rotted her brain and was doing the same to the rest of her. If anybody wanted her gone, they had only to wait for a few weeks or months and she would have died of the drink and that would be that. To torture and murder her like that, no, it was not one of us. That meant it had to be strangers and there were few enough candidates for that. The four men, they stood out to us in ways they did not to you.
"So, one night, they were surrounded and dragged off for a trial, a baggage train trial. We were all there, every one of us and we all had killing in our hearts for what they had done to Judith. But, Father, we are not cold-blooded killers like them. We will kill defending ourselves or in a fight but it is not in our hearts to kill the way they did. So, instead, we very carefully and in much detail what the punishment for treason was. We explained exactly what hanging, drawing and quartering involved and how many hours it might take them to die. Then we told them to leave and never come back. They already had a map that took them to Akraig and we let them know what the rest of the jewels Judith had stolen looked like. While we did that, some of our people opened the chests, took the gold and replaced the coins with stone. We have men here who can open a chest like that with just a smile and a cheerful whistle.
"So, off they went, thinking they had escaped and when you and the Major arrived, we sent you after them. That's all there is."
"What happened to the gold?"
"Each of the unmarried girls got a wedding dowry, enough to make sure they would be respectable and not go down the wrong path. Then, the baggage train shared the rest, equal shares for every man, woman, and child. Times are changing fast, Father, things are changing and a good bit of gold put away can be the saving of a family. By the time your cavalry had finished chasing around in Akraig, we had dispersed all over the country and you will never find us."
"I don’t want to." Conrad was quite firm on that. "But I can truthfully say there is no trace of that gold in Inverness?"
"There might be a coin or two in a tavern, perhaps. But, everybody has gone. My wife and I gave our shares to my son and his wife to get them started off well. I will not tell you where they are but it is far from here."
"Your secrets are, as I said, safe with me." Conrad was severe, after all, he had placed his honor as priest on remaining silent. "But even if I had not placed this conversation under the seal, that would still be so. To be candid, Mr. Fraser, I think what you did with that gold is the best thing that could possibly have happened to it."
Fraser laughed at that. "Aye, had it gone to France or to London, no good would have come of it. I will tell you this, Father. My son has an idea. The war with France has made brandy scarce and very costly and rum is not to all people's taste. He thinks a well-made malt whisky properly aged and carefully monitored would be welcomed here, and perhaps in London as well. So firmly does he believe that, he is investing his gold in a distillery. Now be off with you Father. And take care, those of the True Faith still cannot be sure of safety."
Army Headquarters, Fort Augustus
"So there is no trace of the gold in Inverness?" The Duke of Cumberland sounded disappointed.
"I can honestly say, Your Grace, that I have been unable to locate a single coin there." Conrad looked incredibly sincere and that made Parmenio narrow his eyes.
"A great pity. With that gold we could have offset the cost of this campaign and greatly damaged the standing of Louis XV." Cumberland shook his head in regret.
"With respect, Your Grace, I think the latter would be beyond our reach. All it would show is that King Louis was subsidizing the Stuart pretenders and that is fair enough. We do the same with our allies after all." Parmenio sighed slightly. He had hoped to appropriate the treasure for his family. "As for the rest, they have established plausible deniability so even if we found the gold, it would be of little worth other than its value as specie."
"You are right, of course. I suppose the gold must be hidden somewhere around Loch Akraig. I imagine somebody will find it one of these days and good luck to them. Now, I can hand this beastly business over to my successor and get back to some proper soldiering."
Epilogue
Due to a stay in London and Avebury that lasted through 1746, the Duke of Cumberland took no part in the Flanders campaign that year. During his absence, the French made huge advances capturing Brussels and defeating the Allies at Rocoux. In 1747, Cumberland returned to the Continent accompanied by Igrat. There, he again opposed the still-victorious Marshal Saxe and, without Parmenio's expertise to guide him, received a heavy defeat at the Battle of Lauffeld, near Maastricht, on 2 July 1747. This and the fall of Bergen-op-Zoom compelled the two sides to the negotiating table and in 1748 the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle was concluded and Cumberland returned home, Igrat still by his side.
Chianti was killed in action at Lauffeld, his last act before expiring being to kick a Frenchman.
The Avebury group split in 1755 with the majority leaving England for the Americas while a small group remained in England and became the Piccadilly Circus, named after their first headquarters in London. Igrat remained with the Duke of Cumberland until his death in 1765 whereupon she left for the Americas and rejoined her family.
Every year, thousands of treasure-hunters scour the hills around Loch Akraig looking for the fabled Loch Akraig Treasure. They have, of course never found it.
The Manor House, Fort Augustus
"I hope we haven’t bought this place." Parmenio looked around at the small, but well-appointed manor house. The group had just moved in and the domestic staff, Parmenio discouraged the description 'servants' for long-lived members of the household, were sorting out the baggage and getting the rooms ready for their occupants.
"Well," Nell started a little hesitantly causing Parmenio's eyes to swivel in her direction. "In a manner of speaking, Igrat did."
"Do I want to know how?" Parmenio's voice had a stage weariness in it.
"The house was confiscated from a prominent Jacobite who was not only so unwise as to keep true to his beliefs after Culloden but was foolish enough to wax eloquent about them. All his properties and goods were taken by the Crown. William gave me this house as a 'grace and favor' and to show his faith and support in me." Igrat looked inordinately pleased with herself. A peerage, a handsome annual income and now a house were all marks that she was doing well.
"Did he transfer the title, ducks?" Nell asked, amusement and a degree of envy seeping out of her voice. She'd never managed the peerage for herself.
"No, the title remains with the Crown."
"Get him to change that. I told Charles that I always conveyed free of charge under him and he ought to convey free of charge to me. He took the point and transferred the title to me."
Gusoyn coughed delicately. "I believe, Nell, that the problem is that you were addressing the King who actually held title to the property. The Duke is only the King's second son and does not have the authority to permanently transfer title. He would have to ask the King and it is said that His Majesty is very careful with his funds and does not part with them lightly."
"It doesn’t matter much anyway, we'll only be here for another three or four weeks at the most." Parmenio looked pleased about that. The truth was, he wanted to get back to Avebury before he got hooked into the interminable war in Flanders. "The rebellion has collapsed, Highland resistance has ceased and Charles Edward Stuart is a hunted fugitive out there somewhere. It has finally dawned on the Clan Lairds that he wanted the Crown of England and Scotland for himself while they wanted an end to the Act of Union. It's too late of course, they've ruined themselves. Their creditors will take their estates and enclose the land. The old days of the clan system are gone and a damned good thing too."
"What will happen to the people up here?" Nell sounded distressed at the prospects,
"Some will stay on the land as farm workers, some will become workers in the new industries, some will leave. Probably most of them in the end. Some voluntary, some transportees."
"That is what happened to three of the four men Semiramis brought back. They stood trial this morning and were sentenced to deportation. The Duke sent a letter to the court, asking that they be given passage as voluntary migrants rather than deportees and the Court gave its consent." Nell looked much happier at that. The men being treated as voluntary migrants meant that they would receive better food and not be shackled for the long voyage. "What about the fourth man, that German?"
"Kratman, Nell? That is, I fear, somewhat indelicate."
"Oh, do tell. I saw him being brought in. He seemed a thoroughly nasty piece of work." Achillea was supervising the unpacking of the weaponry she had collected since she had come to Scotland. Pride of place was held by a full, double-handed Claymore with a beautifully-engraved hilt. She was already practicing with it and learning its peculiarities.
"He was. Disgusting apology for a man." Semiramis cut in from across the floor. "Tell us the sordid details, Gusoyn."
Gusoyn made a gesture of resignation. "Very well. He and the other three were imprisoned in a cell that contained a dozen Highlanders who had been brought in after resisting the patrols. One of them was badly injured and his wounds had become rotted after not being treated for several days. He died of the rot last night. An hour or two later, his friends woke up and found Kratman having intimate relations with his dead body. So they beat him to death. The magistrate ordered them deported as well and gave them voluntary migrant status when he was told the details. I believe he was somewhat sympathetic to their actions last night and allowed them to be considered a mitigating factor."
"So, the killer of Joy Thackeray and Judith Tomkins has been identified and punished." Naamah nodded in satisfaction. "That leaves us with the gold. I don’t think that Lillith would forgive us if we passed up an opportunity to bring that much gold back home."
"There are two possibilities. It took a long time for that wagon to reach the pick-up point. At some point the men driving it could have opened the crates and buried the gold meaning to come back later. In that situation, they probably realized it would be several hours before the frigates checked the cargo since getting away from the coast would be their top priority. The other is that the contents of the chests was switched at Inverness without those four knowing and they were sent off as decoys. The gold itself remained around Inverness somewhere so it could be picked up by a frigate coming in from the North Sea." Parmenio shrugged. "I don’t really like either of them. The first is dependent on an awful lot of good luck and the Jacobites don’t seem to have had that. The other, coming in from the North Sea in the face of Royal Navy patrols, doesn't seem likely."
"Good luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity." Achillea quoted Seneca absent-mindedly. "The Jacobites had the opportunities, they just never prepared for them."
"Oh they did," Parmenio objected. "But Charles Edward Stuart and his command clique were preparing for one thing, putting the Stuarts back on the throne. Meanwhile his army leadership was preparing for another, abolishing the Act of Union and separating Scotland from England. That dichotomy doomed the uprising. The first thing the Duke and I did was to sit down and decide exactly what we wanted to achieve. He wanted to put the uprising down and I wanted to make sure there wasn't another one."
"The gold?" Naamah asked pointedly.
"Conrad's in Inverness right now. If anyone can find out what happened to it he can."
House of Andrew Fraser, Suttler, North Kessock.
"Rocks, you say?" Andrew Fraser's eyes twinkled. "It could of course be a miracle; the Good Lord deciding that the Highlands have seen enough of war and taking away the wherewithal for the fools to continue in a lost cause."
"That is a possible explanation." Conrad conceded. Actually, it was one he rather liked. "However, on hearing that the chests were filled with rocks, another thought occurred to me. Everything we heard concerning that gold and where it might be headed came from the Baggage Train. Specifically, Mr. Fraser, it came from you. Including the warning about an assassination attempt to be made upon the Duke of Cumberland. A warning which turned out to be true and for which I must say that those who desire peace in the Highlands and Lowlands are most grateful. Had the Duke been assassinated, I am told the consequences would have been horrifying."
"Aye, that is what we thought when we heard of it. The Jacobites are quick to claim that the Unionists were savage in their actions after Culloden. Had the Duke been killed, they would have seen what real savagery was like. I have seen the Duke is much liked by his men. All the assassins were caught?"
"They are. The primary assassin was killed in the attempt, his wife committed suicide soon after when she hanged herself." Very convenient that, Conrad thought. I wonder who hanged her. "The third member of the group died in custody, killed by other prisoners. It is the general belief that he would have silenced the two assassins given the chance. But, now it is the missing gold that we seek to explain."
"I do not see how I can help there, Father."
"I think you can. There was too much that was convenient in your story of the four men, one of whom just happened to get drunk and tell of their interest in Akraig. If it would help, consider this conversation to be under the seal of the confessional. That is why I came here alone, without Major Hughes."
Fraser looked at Conrad and his eyes twinkled again as he made up his mind. "All right, Father, I will take you at your word on that. When Judith Tomkins was killed so terribly, we knew it was not one of us. Oh, I will not pretend that we are saints on the Baggage train, far from it. Killings in a fight over business or trade, for certain. It is a rough place, the baggage train, where the weak do not survive. Judith Tomkins was not long for this world, everybody knew that. The gin had rotted her brain and was doing the same to the rest of her. If anybody wanted her gone, they had only to wait for a few weeks or months and she would have died of the drink and that would be that. To torture and murder her like that, no, it was not one of us. That meant it had to be strangers and there were few enough candidates for that. The four men, they stood out to us in ways they did not to you.
"So, one night, they were surrounded and dragged off for a trial, a baggage train trial. We were all there, every one of us and we all had killing in our hearts for what they had done to Judith. But, Father, we are not cold-blooded killers like them. We will kill defending ourselves or in a fight but it is not in our hearts to kill the way they did. So, instead, we very carefully and in much detail what the punishment for treason was. We explained exactly what hanging, drawing and quartering involved and how many hours it might take them to die. Then we told them to leave and never come back. They already had a map that took them to Akraig and we let them know what the rest of the jewels Judith had stolen looked like. While we did that, some of our people opened the chests, took the gold and replaced the coins with stone. We have men here who can open a chest like that with just a smile and a cheerful whistle.
"So, off they went, thinking they had escaped and when you and the Major arrived, we sent you after them. That's all there is."
"What happened to the gold?"
"Each of the unmarried girls got a wedding dowry, enough to make sure they would be respectable and not go down the wrong path. Then, the baggage train shared the rest, equal shares for every man, woman, and child. Times are changing fast, Father, things are changing and a good bit of gold put away can be the saving of a family. By the time your cavalry had finished chasing around in Akraig, we had dispersed all over the country and you will never find us."
"I don’t want to." Conrad was quite firm on that. "But I can truthfully say there is no trace of that gold in Inverness?"
"There might be a coin or two in a tavern, perhaps. But, everybody has gone. My wife and I gave our shares to my son and his wife to get them started off well. I will not tell you where they are but it is far from here."
"Your secrets are, as I said, safe with me." Conrad was severe, after all, he had placed his honor as priest on remaining silent. "But even if I had not placed this conversation under the seal, that would still be so. To be candid, Mr. Fraser, I think what you did with that gold is the best thing that could possibly have happened to it."
Fraser laughed at that. "Aye, had it gone to France or to London, no good would have come of it. I will tell you this, Father. My son has an idea. The war with France has made brandy scarce and very costly and rum is not to all people's taste. He thinks a well-made malt whisky properly aged and carefully monitored would be welcomed here, and perhaps in London as well. So firmly does he believe that, he is investing his gold in a distillery. Now be off with you Father. And take care, those of the True Faith still cannot be sure of safety."
Army Headquarters, Fort Augustus
"So there is no trace of the gold in Inverness?" The Duke of Cumberland sounded disappointed.
"I can honestly say, Your Grace, that I have been unable to locate a single coin there." Conrad looked incredibly sincere and that made Parmenio narrow his eyes.
"A great pity. With that gold we could have offset the cost of this campaign and greatly damaged the standing of Louis XV." Cumberland shook his head in regret.
"With respect, Your Grace, I think the latter would be beyond our reach. All it would show is that King Louis was subsidizing the Stuart pretenders and that is fair enough. We do the same with our allies after all." Parmenio sighed slightly. He had hoped to appropriate the treasure for his family. "As for the rest, they have established plausible deniability so even if we found the gold, it would be of little worth other than its value as specie."
"You are right, of course. I suppose the gold must be hidden somewhere around Loch Akraig. I imagine somebody will find it one of these days and good luck to them. Now, I can hand this beastly business over to my successor and get back to some proper soldiering."
Epilogue
Due to a stay in London and Avebury that lasted through 1746, the Duke of Cumberland took no part in the Flanders campaign that year. During his absence, the French made huge advances capturing Brussels and defeating the Allies at Rocoux. In 1747, Cumberland returned to the Continent accompanied by Igrat. There, he again opposed the still-victorious Marshal Saxe and, without Parmenio's expertise to guide him, received a heavy defeat at the Battle of Lauffeld, near Maastricht, on 2 July 1747. This and the fall of Bergen-op-Zoom compelled the two sides to the negotiating table and in 1748 the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle was concluded and Cumberland returned home, Igrat still by his side.
Chianti was killed in action at Lauffeld, his last act before expiring being to kick a Frenchman.
The Avebury group split in 1755 with the majority leaving England for the Americas while a small group remained in England and became the Piccadilly Circus, named after their first headquarters in London. Igrat remained with the Duke of Cumberland until his death in 1765 whereupon she left for the Americas and rejoined her family.
Every year, thousands of treasure-hunters scour the hills around Loch Akraig looking for the fabled Loch Akraig Treasure. They have, of course never found it.
Re: 1746 - Drummossie Moor
Igrat and Chianti
Igrat's route
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Belushi TD
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Re: 1746 - Drummossie Moor
I am always amused when I read the name of one of the villains in this story. I was aware of bad blood between Kratman and Stuart back in the day. However, I either never knew or have forgotten the details. Something about how Kratman had joined the board for a while and had managed to piss Stuart off to the point where he got banned, but I don't know any details. Anyone out there remember?
This is also the story in which I was Tuckerized! YAY ME!
Belushi TD
This is also the story in which I was Tuckerized! YAY ME!
Belushi TD
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Craiglxviii
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Re: 1746 - Drummossie Moor
I vaguely remember it was something about Sealion.Belushi TD wrote: ↑Thu Mar 30, 2023 1:14 am I am always amused when I read the name of one of the villains in this story. I was aware of bad blood between Kratman and Stuart back in the day. However, I either never knew or have forgotten the details. Something about how Kratman had joined the board for a while and had managed to piss Stuart off to the point where he got banned, but I don't know any details. Anyone out there remember?
This is also the story in which I was Tuckerized! YAY ME!
Belushi TD
Kratman is alive and well and still active on Quora, double-teaming with superanglophobe Walt Miller.
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Simon Darkshade
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Re: 1746 - Drummossie Moor
As I recall, another chap posed a scenario or question, then the TK fellow chipped in with a quite optimistic rendering of what German paras could do, leading to Stuart responding with the logistics stick.
I further seem to recall that the TK bloke was, whilst not being outright rude, seeming a bit superior and condescending; there may have been an appeal to his own experience as authority. The argument resulted in Stuart crushing him with facts.
My recollection, whilst pretty good, doesn’t seem to extend to anything outright nasty from the chap, at least not so nasty as to completely merit a character named after him be a necrophile who is beaten to death in an online story some time afterwards.
I further seem to recall that the TK bloke was, whilst not being outright rude, seeming a bit superior and condescending; there may have been an appeal to his own experience as authority. The argument resulted in Stuart crushing him with facts.
My recollection, whilst pretty good, doesn’t seem to extend to anything outright nasty from the chap, at least not so nasty as to completely merit a character named after him be a necrophile who is beaten to death in an online story some time afterwards.
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Craiglxviii
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Re: 1746 - Drummossie Moor
He’s certainly quite nasty nowadays Simon! I ran into him last year in a discussion on Quora. Quite the unpleasant self-righteous type.Simon Darkshade wrote: ↑Thu Mar 30, 2023 3:44 pm As I recall, another chap posed a scenario or question, then the TK fellow chipped in with a quite optimistic rendering of what German paras could do, leading to Stuart responding with the logistics stick.
I further seem to recall that the TK bloke was, whilst not being outright rude, seeming a bit superior and condescending; there may have been an appeal to his own experience as authority. The argument resulted in Stuart crushing him with facts.
My recollection, whilst pretty good, doesn’t seem to extend to anything outright nasty from the chap, at least not so nasty as to completely merit a character named after him be a necrophile who is beaten to death in an online story some time afterwards.
Not disagreeing with anything you wrote btw, as I think it may have predated me.
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Simon Darkshade
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Re: 1746 - Drummossie Moor
Interesting. Being personally nasty, self righteous and generally unpleasant are all one thing, but I’m not quite sure what level, if any, approaches the threshold (if there even was one) of justifying the characterisation here. If the fictional character had merely shot his mouth off and been beaten to death, we probably wouldn’t be having this conversation.
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Kendog52361
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Re: 1746 - Drummossie Moor
Personally, I think I joined the Old, Old Board after all of that went down, since I didn't even get into the TBO-Verse until the previous Board, with the story dealing with Alexander's Generals. That being said, the thing I noticed on a previous re-reading of the story, was one of the, I can't recall off-hand whether it was Namie or Lilith, but they seemed to have a slight premonition of Angel, and her future role in Conrad's life, as his "live in bodyguard".
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Belushi TD
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Re: 1746 - Drummossie Moor
Yeah, I think this happened prior to late 2004 or so, when I started lurking about the same time that TK started to make himself a name as an author.
I have to agree with SImon though. It seems... excessive to have Tuckerized him this way, assuming that's what happened.
Its entirely possible that there's more to the story that we don't know. I seem to recall that there was bad blood between Baen's forum and HPCA, to the extent that Stuart believed that our board was the subject of DOS attacks from people on their board, and that's what led to the first time membership was restricted, in order to prevent bots, spam and porn being posted.
Belushi TD
I have to agree with SImon though. It seems... excessive to have Tuckerized him this way, assuming that's what happened.
Its entirely possible that there's more to the story that we don't know. I seem to recall that there was bad blood between Baen's forum and HPCA, to the extent that Stuart believed that our board was the subject of DOS attacks from people on their board, and that's what led to the first time membership was restricted, in order to prevent bots, spam and porn being posted.
Belushi TD
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Simon Darkshade
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Re: 1746 - Drummossie Moor
The thread on Sealion was started by a poster named Madoc or madoc and, to my recollection, occurred in ~2009, after I had joined and begun posting and after the publication of Caliphate.