Unknown (79 page)

'The
Covenant has more than Argyll, John. He is uncrowned king, yes.
But do not forget that it has the best-trained professional army in
die two kingdoms. Even the man Cromwell has said as much. Sandy
Leslie's army. It is in England - but it could be brought home, and
quickly, if need be ...'

'Mercenaries,
in the main. At least, its officers, from Leslie downwards. Hired
men. Think you they would not quickly perceive who will pay them best
to fight for? When
you
sit
master in Edinburgh!'

'He
is right,' Graham of Gorthie agreed. 'Leslie and his like will not
support the losing side, ever. Show yourself master in Scotland, and
the aimy will not come back to challenge that master.'

'Perhaps,
friend. But before I am master, or make the King master, in Scotland,
I have three other armies to defeat. Four, it may be. Seaforth's at
Inverness. Burleigh's in Moray. It may be that they are now one.
Callander's in the Borders. And Baillie at Perth - though we know not
the size of the force he has there. Or may gather. And he is a
notable general.'

'But
another mercenary,
a
paid
soldier. As for Scaforth, he is a waverer. It has taken him years to
make up his mind to this. Argyll has been at him since
'39.
He
will melt away, with the Campbell prop and spur removed. And Burleigh
is
a
fool.
Callander is otherwise, but his is only the reserve army. And I do
not believe that he would fight
you,
if
he may avoid it. He used to be your own man, signed your Cumbernauld
paper.'

'Aye
- and he refused the chief command, after Argyll,' Madderty added.
'He will act cannily, will Callander. I say, strike from here swiftly
at Baillie, at Perth. Another fast march. He can have no large
numbers there yet. Then make straight for Edinburgh, dismiss the
Committee of Estates, and call a parliament in the King's name. I
swear you would have Scotland in your two hands in a week!'

'Aye!
Aye!'

'To
be sure. That is the way of it!'

"Strike
while the iron glows red
...
!'

It
was heady talk, and men rose to it.

James
Graham raised his hand. 'My friends - I think you forget one matter,
of some import. You would not do so if you were Highlandmen. Donald
here, who is one, will tell you, I think.'

Donald
Farquharson of Braemar,
a
quiet
modest man, beloved of all, who had joined Montrose soon after
Tippermuir, sighed. You must needs wait, I fear,' he said. 'Until,
let us say, the spring. The clans will now return to their own
lands.'

The
others stared at him.

'It
is true,' Ian Lom MacDonald assured. He was already turning over in
his mind the mighty fast stanzas of an epic to describe this day's
doings for all time to come. 'It is the way, the custom. You will not
hold them now.'

"You
see?' Montrose asked. "You have forgot that it was a Highland
army which won this fight for us. As only a Highland army could
have done. And Highland armies, when they have won a battle,
thereafter retire homewards with their booty. Such are the terms of
their fighting. Always. Even now we are already missing one-third of
our numbers, who have not come back from chasing the Campbells. We
shall not see them again, I think. All Argyll, Lorne and Cowal lie
open to their raiding. Think you any will march with me to Perth and
Edinburgh?'

There
was a shocked silence, and then some growling. Again the Graham
raised his hand.

'I
do
not blame them,' he declared. "Most of them joined us only to
fight the Campbells. All along I have known that They have fought,
and won. And never was there such booty, so much Campbell treasure. I
fear that when we leave Inverlochy, it will be with Colkitto's Irish
and Islesmen, the Athollmcn and those from Strathearn and Strathmore.
Little more than a thousand, all told. Shall I march on the Lowlands
with a thousand men?'

None
answered him, nor had to.

'It
is hard,' he went on. 'In a day or two, when Scotland learns of this
day's work, the land will lie all but open for us. Almost for the
taking, I believe. Only, I shall not have the wherewithal to take it
I would march on Edinburgh tomorrow, blithely. But I may not'

'God's
curse on them all! What then will you do?' Madderty demanded.

'I
think, march north again. Noth south. Send Seaforth back to his
northern glens, if we can. Then go talk again with Gordon. Aye, my
friends - well may you grimace! But young Gordon, and only Gordon,
has the answer to our problem. Perhaps Inverlochy will convince him
that his

King's
cause is not lost, is worth his support, whatever his father says.
Who knows - even Huntly might think again
...'

At
the heavy silence and downcast looks of his friends, James Graham
changed his tone of voice, his whole demeanour. Throwing up his head,
he smiled. 'Come gentlemen - not so sober! We should be rejoicing,
not glooming. I crave your pardon for drawing so long a face. We have
won a great victory — and thanks to those same Hielantmen! We
have struck a blow for King Charles today such as has not been struck
yet in all this long war. I go write the good news to him now. It
will, I swear, cheer His Grace mightily. Here at Inverlochy, they do
say, stood an ancient capital of our Pictish kings, from whom our
liege lord descends. It is an excellent omen. The King's cause
triumphs, at least in Scotland, and the King's chiefest enemy flees,
discredited before all. This is a day for cheer, not gloom. All who
made it possible, I thank from the bottom of my heart
...'

But
when he turned away, that brilliant smile was gone.

3°

Tire
great
Gordon castle of
Bo
g
of
Gight was set
amongst
the spreading and desolate sea-marshes and tide-lands of Speymouth,
its tall gaunt tower a scowling plaything for the winds that
howled and swept across these level wastes, with the boom of the
great seas on the long sand-bar three miles distant like the muted
roll of artillery in some endless battle, and the sad scream of
seabirds and marsh-fowl serving for the cries of the dying. James
Graham, only too well aware of that background of ominous sound, as
he was the more immediately obsessed with the grievous sound of his
son's difficult breathing, knew a great fear, almost despair. Not a
man to be oppressed by conditions or atmosphere or omens,
however strong his emotions and vivid his
imagination,, he nevertheless knew a hatred for Bog of Gight and
wished that he might never have come here. Wished more than that, God
knew...

There
was wicked pride speaking in that, wearily he told himself there by
the bedside, in the high tower room round which the sea-winds sobbed.
He hated Bog of Gight partly because he had once before come to it on
a begging mission, seeking aid of Gordon, and had been rebuffed. And
now, victor as he was acclaimed, had come again, on the same sorry
mission, a beggar, a suppliant - and dreading further rebuff. He had
heard that the Lord Gordon, that young man whom once he had felt he
could love, was here, at the second greatest of the Gordon castles,
the sceat from which Huntly took his odd but time-honoured title of
Gudeman of the Bog. It was a humiliating posture for any man of
spirit, he told himself, the more so for the King's Lieutenant and
winner of so many battles - to be soliciting, beseeching a young man
barely out of his teens. But die basic situation had not changed,
victories or none. To conquer the Lowlands for King Charles, he
required cavalry, much cavalry. And Gordon was the only major source
of cavalry north of Tay. Now, with Invcrlochy behind him, and
Scotland ringing with his deeds and wondering what the great
Montrose would do next, he was back cap-in-hand at Bog of Gight - to
find the Lord Gordon departed for Strathbogie only two days before.

They
had marched northwards from Inverlochy and Lochaber in consistently
bad weather, driving rain and biting winds. And Seaforth, hearing
that they were coming, and what they had done to Argyll, had turned
and marched away from Inverness, north-westwards into the remote
hills and fastnesses of his own Kintail and Gairloch. Balfour of
Burleigh's force was said to lie hiding in Banff and Moray, and they
had turned south by east seeking him. They had taken die towns which
he had so lately occupied, Nairn and Forres and Elgin - but found
none to fight. And there, to the surprise of all, they had been
joined by the Laird of Grant, with 300 men, fifty of them horsed, the
first cavalry Montrose had had for long. This was an encouraging
first-fruit of Inverlochy's victory, and a good augury, for James
Grant of Freuchie was a notoriously careful character, and had joined
the Covenanters as early as 1638 and never
wavered in his canny support - indeed was one of the Committee
appointed to try all 'malignants' in the North. Moreover, he was
married to Huntly s favourite niece. A proud head of a proud line,
his grandfather had refused James the Sixth's suggestion that he
should make him Lord Strathspey, by demanding who then would be Laird
o' Grant? Meantime he had been left in command at Elgin, capital
of Moray.

It
had been with no lightened heart, however, that Montrose halted
at Bog of Gight, and sent only messengers on after the Lord Gordon,
to Strathbogie. He stopped because Johnnie could go no farther. The
boy had been ailing all the way from Lochaber - that terrible
hill-march from Kilchumin to Inverlochy having been just too much for
him, after earlier privations. And ever since, he had been shrinking
and fading before his father's eyes. Desperately anxious, James
Graham had watched him, sought to shield him and protect him in all
those winter rains; would indeed have left him behind in some warm
house had he dared trust his son to a stranger, in a potentially
hostile land. He had even thought of sending him, in Black Pate's
care, back to his mother at Old Montrose; but the fever-stricken,
dark-eyed boy had pleaded, with tears, not to be parted from his
beloved father and hero. Now he lay in this tower-room, in warm
bedding and with a great log-fire blazing cheerfully; but still he
shivered and was racked with coughing, cold sweat on his young white
brow. James Graham was almost beside himself. In the next chamber the
Earl of Airlic lay in bed, in not much better shape. Campaigning with
Montrose was not for such as these. The old man, hit by the
death of his youngest son, and sorely concerned at lack of all news
of his eldest, the Lord Ogilvy, imprisoned by Argyll at Edinburgh
when last heard of, had travelled latterly in a litter slung between
two Highland garrons.