beneath the highlanders’ tartan plaid to make even the most robust of them shiver. The sombre weather lowered the mood within the Jacobite ranks as the army moved out on what it hoped would be another triumphant march.
One of William’s vassals, a bastard of the Pollock family, with which the Maxwells had been aligned down the centuries, drew his horse alongside his lord’s. They plodded slowly in the bedraggled column of Scots. ‘I don’t know how we’re doing it but we’re doing it, My Lord. The men believe we are touched by magic.’
William laughed aloud. ‘Nay, Pollock. We are told the Almighty works in mysterious ways. Remind the men that weare witnessing a demonstration of that and tell them to cleave to their faith. It is beyond me, too, how we’ve come this far with so little support, and with even our own commander dithering so much he might effectively be our enemy.’
Pollock grinned at the dark humour. ‘Perhaps, My Lord. But we will follow you into the very maw of the redcoats.’
William shook his head, hating the responsibility that burdened him day and night, and especially the sense of foreboding that seemed to build within him on this twenty-five-mile march to Preston through slick and treacherous mud.
‘Urge the men forward, Pollock. Rally our boys’ spirits with the reassurance that we shall take the city of Liverpool next.’
William arrived in Preston to the cheerful news that two troops of government dragoons had left the town on discovering the Scots were approaching. Whispers among the Jacobites quickly turned to open chatter, and ultimately into the belief that the King’s men would not be giving them any opposition.
‘Well, isn’t this a surprise!’ a fellow rider remarked, as they walked their horses unchallenged into the city centre.
William nodded. ‘I had no idea Preston possessed such fine buildings,’ he observed, noting the fine Town Hall and mansion-like residences of the local landed gentry.
‘I think at last the men can enjoy the spoils of their success.’
William wasn’t convinced it was time to celebrate just yet, but kept his own counsel on this. ‘This city must not be destroyed. I must talk to General Forster about instructing our men not to pillage too enthusiastically.’
But it soon appeared that there was no threat of this, as General Forster, a Tory politician who was in command of their smaller force, decided to spend the next couple of days relaxing and enjoying the delights of the town, and encouraged his men to do the same.
By the time the General had recovered from his convivialities and crossed the Ribble Bridge with his fellow nobles toreconnoitre the region, he was astonished to see government troops gathering in numbers.
While William had little faith in Forster, he trusted the man known as Old Borlum. William Mackintosh, the Laird of Borlum and uncle to the clan chief of Mackintosh, was in charge of two thousand of the most hardened and brave highland souls. It was his men who had inflicted most of the damage that had been giving the Jacobites cause for cheer until now.
William found himself drawn to Old Borlum, particularly as the older man had served with Louis XIV’s army and had visited the palace where he and Winifred had met, fallen in love and married. He passed up a night of revelry with his fellow lords in favour of a drink with the highland clan in a copse on an incline overlooking the English Army’s encampment.
‘The sumph! That man’s soft in his head,’ the older man said of Forster. ‘He’s as timid as Mar in making decisions. He should be protecting the bridge.’ Mackintosh growled as he stomped up to where William was sipping an unhappy wine. He pointed. ‘That’s our weakness, Maxwell! If they take the bridge, they have us.’
William nodded. Old Borlum was making sense. ‘We’ve had the men working on putting the town in a state of defence all afternoon as you instructed, Mackintosh. Lord Derwentwater
One of William’s vassals, a bastard of the Pollock family, with which the Maxwells had been aligned down the centuries, drew his horse alongside his lord’s. They plodded slowly in the bedraggled column of Scots. ‘I don’t know how we’re doing it but we’re doing it, My Lord. The men believe we are touched by magic.’
William laughed aloud. ‘Nay, Pollock. We are told the Almighty works in mysterious ways. Remind the men that weare witnessing a demonstration of that and tell them to cleave to their faith. It is beyond me, too, how we’ve come this far with so little support, and with even our own commander dithering so much he might effectively be our enemy.’
Pollock grinned at the dark humour. ‘Perhaps, My Lord. But we will follow you into the very maw of the redcoats.’
William shook his head, hating the responsibility that burdened him day and night, and especially the sense of foreboding that seemed to build within him on this twenty-five-mile march to Preston through slick and treacherous mud.
‘Urge the men forward, Pollock. Rally our boys’ spirits with the reassurance that we shall take the city of Liverpool next.’
William arrived in Preston to the cheerful news that two troops of government dragoons had left the town on discovering the Scots were approaching. Whispers among the Jacobites quickly turned to open chatter, and ultimately into the belief that the King’s men would not be giving them any opposition.
‘Well, isn’t this a surprise!’ a fellow rider remarked, as they walked their horses unchallenged into the city centre.
William nodded. ‘I had no idea Preston possessed such fine buildings,’ he observed, noting the fine Town Hall and mansion-like residences of the local landed gentry.
‘I think at last the men can enjoy the spoils of their success.’
William wasn’t convinced it was time to celebrate just yet, but kept his own counsel on this. ‘This city must not be destroyed. I must talk to General Forster about instructing our men not to pillage too enthusiastically.’
But it soon appeared that there was no threat of this, as General Forster, a Tory politician who was in command of their smaller force, decided to spend the next couple of days relaxing and enjoying the delights of the town, and encouraged his men to do the same.
By the time the General had recovered from his convivialities and crossed the Ribble Bridge with his fellow nobles toreconnoitre the region, he was astonished to see government troops gathering in numbers.
While William had little faith in Forster, he trusted the man known as Old Borlum. William Mackintosh, the Laird of Borlum and uncle to the clan chief of Mackintosh, was in charge of two thousand of the most hardened and brave highland souls. It was his men who had inflicted most of the damage that had been giving the Jacobites cause for cheer until now.
William found himself drawn to Old Borlum, particularly as the older man had served with Louis XIV’s army and had visited the palace where he and Winifred had met, fallen in love and married. He passed up a night of revelry with his fellow lords in favour of a drink with the highland clan in a copse on an incline overlooking the English Army’s encampment.
‘The sumph! That man’s soft in his head,’ the older man said of Forster. ‘He’s as timid as Mar in making decisions. He should be protecting the bridge.’ Mackintosh growled as he stomped up to where William was sipping an unhappy wine. He pointed. ‘That’s our weakness, Maxwell! If they take the bridge, they have us.’
William nodded. Old Borlum was making sense. ‘We’ve had the men working on putting the town in a state of defence all afternoon as you instructed, Mackintosh. Lord Derwentwater
Similar Books
