PART SIX

The Flames of Rebellion

36 PRESTONPANS

Scotland, September 1745

Four days’ march found us on the crest of a hill near Calder. A sizable moor stretched out at the foot of the hill, but we set up camp within the shelter of the trees above. There were two small streams cutting through the moss-covered rock of the hillside, and the crisp weather of early fall made it seem much more like picnicking than a march to war.

But it was the seventeenth of September, and if my sketchy knowledge of Jacobite history was correct, war it would be, in a matter of days.

“Tell it to me again, Sassenach,” Jamie had said, for the dozenth time, as we made our way along the winding trails and dirt roads. I rode Donas, while Jamie walked alongside, but now slid down to walk beside him, to make conversation easier. While Donas and I had reached an understanding of sorts, he was the kind of horse that demanded your full concentration to ride; he was all too fond of scraping an unwary rider off by walking under low branches, for example.

“I told you before, I don’t know that much,” I said. “There was very little written about it in the history books, and I didn’t pay a great deal of attention at the time. All I can tell you is that the battle was fought – er, will be fought – near the town of Preston, and so it’s called the Battle of Prestonpans, though the Scots called – call – it the Battle of Gladsmuir, because of an old prophecy that the returning king will be victorious at Gladsmuir. Heaven knows where the real Gladsmuir is, if there is one.”

“Aye. And?”

I furrowed my brow, trying to recall every last scrap of information. I could conjure a mental picture of the small, tattered brown copy of A Child’s History of England, read by the flickering light of a kerosene lantern in a mud hut somewhere in Persia. Mentally flicking the pages, I could just recall the two-page section that was all the author had seen fit to devote to the second Jacobite Rising, known to historians as “the ’45.” And within that two-page section, the single paragraph dealing with the battle we were about to fight.

“The Scots win,” I said helpfully.

“Well, that’s the important point,” he agreed, a bit sarcastically, “but it would be a bit of help to know a little more.”

“If you wanted prophecy, you should have gotten a seer,” I snapped, then relented. “I’m sorry. It’s only that I don’t know much, and it’s very frustrating.”

“Aye, it is.” He reached down and took my hand, squeezing it as he smiled at me. “Dinna fash yourself, Sassenach. Ye canna say more than ye know, but tell me it all, just once more.”

“All right.” I squeezed back, and we walked on, hand in hand. “It was a remarkable victory,” I began, reading from my mental page, “because the Jacobites were so greatly outnumbered. They surprised General Cope’s army at dawn – they charged out of the rising sun, I remember that – and it was a rout. There were hundreds of casualties on the English side, and only a few from the Jacobite side – thirty men, that was it. Only thirty men killed.”

Jamie glanced behind us, at the straggling tail of the Lallybroch men, strung out as they walked along the road, chatting and singing in small groups. Thirty men was what we had brought from Lallybroch. It didn’t seem that small a number, looking at them. But I had seen the battlefields of Alsace-Lorraine, and the acres of meadowland converted to muddy boneyards by the burial of the thousands slain.

“Taken all in all,” I said, feeling faintly apologetic, “I’m afraid it was really rather… unimportant, historically speaking.”

Jamie blew out his breath through pursed lips, and looked down at me rather bleakly.

“Unimportant. Aye, well.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Not your fault, Sassenach.”

But I couldn’t help feeling that it was, somehow.

The men sat around the fire after their supper, lazily enjoying the feeling of full stomachs, exchanging stories and scratching. The scratching was endemic; close quarters and lack of hygiene made body lice so common as to excite no remark when one man detached a representative specimen from a fold of his plaid and tossed it into the fire. The louse flamed for an instant, one among the sparks of the fire, and then was gone.

The young man they called Kincaid – his name was Alexander, but there were so many Alexanders that most of them ended up being called by nicknames or middle names – seemed particularly afflicted with the scourge this evening. He dug viciously under one arm, into his curly brown hair, then – with a quick glance to see whether I was looking in his direction – at his crotch.

“Got ’em bad, have ye, lad?” Ross the smith observed sympathetically.

“Aye,” he answered, “the wee buggers are eatin’ me alive.”

“Bloody hell to get out of your cock hairs,” Wallace Fraser observed, scratching himself in sympathy. “Gives me the yeuk to watch ye, laddie.”

“D’ye ken the best way to rid yourself o’ the wee beasties?” Sorley McClure asked helpfully, and at Kincaid’s negative shake of the head, leaned forward and carefully pulled a flaming stick from the fire.

“Lift your kilt a moment, laddie, and I’ll smoke ’em out for ye,” he offered, to catcalls and jeers of laughter from the men.

“Bloody farmer,” Murtagh grumbled. “And what would ye know about it?”

“You know a better way?” Wallace raised thick brows skeptically, wrinkling the tanned skin of his balding forehead.

“O’ course.” He drew his dirk with a flourish. “The laddie’s a soldier now; let him do it like a soldier does.”

Kincaid’s open face was guileless and eager. “How’s that?”

“Weel, verra simple. Ye take your dirk, lift your plaidie, and shave off half the hairs on your crutch.” He raised the dirk warningly. “Only half, mind.”

“Half? Aye, well…” Kincaid looked doubtful, but was paying close attention. I could see the grins of anticipation broadening on the faces of the men around the fire, but no one was laughing yet.

“Then…” Murtagh gestured at Sorley and his stick. “Then, laddie, ye set the other half on fire, and when the beasties rush out, ye spear them wi’ your dirk.”

Kincaid blushed hotly enough to be seen even by firelight as the circle of men erupted in hoots and roars. There was a good deal of rude shoving as a couple of the men pretended to try the fire cure on each other, brandishing flaming billets of wood. Just as it seemed that the horseplay was getting out of hand, and likely to lead to blows in earnest, Jamie returned from hobbling the animals. He stepped into the circle, and tossed a stone bottle from under one arm to Kincaid. Another went to Murtagh, and the shoving died down.

“Ye’re fools, the lot o’ ye,” he declared. “The second best way to rid yourself of lice is to pour whisky on them and get them drunk. When they’ve fallen down snoring, then ye stand up and they’ll drop straight off.”

“Second best, eh?” said Ross. “And what’s the best way, sir, and I might ask?”

Jamie smiled indulgently round the circle, like a parent amused by the antics of his children.

“Why, let your wife pick them off ye, one by one.” He cocked an elbow and bowed to me, one eyebrow raised. “If you’d oblige me, my lady?”

While put forward as a joke, individual removal was in fact the only effective method of ridding oneself of lice. I fine-combed my own hair – all of it – morning and evening, washed it with yarrow whenever we paused near water deep enough to bathe in, and had so far avoided any serious infestations. Aware that I would remain louseless only so long as Jamie did, I administered the same treatment to him, whenever I could get him to sit still long enough.