Chapter 32

 

The Lord President was listening intently. Sitting on the other side of a handsome desk at his comfortable lodgings in Musselburgh, Catto was telling him what had happened during the raid on Surgeons’ Hall and the Rankeillor house. Now he had moved on to an account of Daft Friday. Both events seemed now to have happened a long time ago. The Lord President had at last returned to Edinburgh. Catto had received a message from him this morning, requesting his urgent attendance. So much for having some breathing space.

He offered a sympathetic comment when he heard how Catto had faced down a hostile mob outside the guard-house. He shook his bewigged head when he heard how this distraction had helped the prisoners in his custody there make their escape.

Duncan Forbes habitually wore an old-fashioned full bottomed wig, its flaps of grey curls resting on his shoulders. As a boy, observing the long face framed by the long wig, Catto had always thought the esteemed Lord President looked not unlike a friendly and well-disposed horse. Although he could be ruthless too. A lesson Catto had learned through bitter experience.

The older man tapped the green leather cylinder lying between them on the desk. ‘You found this when you mounted the raid on Surgeons’ Hall, Bob?’

‘Indeed, sir. In this map case presumably designed to keep it in perfect condition so it could be taken to an engraver to make as many copies as required. Will you look at it now?’

Another nod of the head had him sliding the map out of its case. He pushed it along his host’s desk so he could unroll and spread it out. Unlike Patrick Rankeillor’s work-table, this desk was tidy. Aside from the map and its case, the only thing on it was an impressive highly-polished wooden inkstand. As the Lord President pushed it out of the way, the faceted glass and silver lids of its equally impressive inkwells sparkled in the low January sun streaming in through the window behind the desk. A temporary rainbow.

Catto glanced round the room. Following his gaze, his host gestured towards the tall pewter candlesticks on the mantelpiece. ‘Aye. Fetch those, lad.’

Weighing down the corners of the parchment with the candlesticks, Catto went round the desk to stand beside his host. Plagued by gout, unable to stand for long without pain, Culloden sat leaning over the table peering down at the map. Catto pointed out various features: Scotland’s main cities, towns, ports and roads, all neatly named and laid out.

He indicated the legend written over the German Ocean. It was a list of military garrisons in Scotland, with a note of how many soldiers occupied each. All were woefully under strength. Britain’s monarchy, politicians and army commanders had long since ceased to believe the exiled King James and his elder son Charles posed any real danger to the House of Hanover and the Protestant Succession.

He commented on that, eliciting a heartfelt sigh from Duncan Forbes. ‘Aye. This map and the intelligence you have gathered gives the lie to such a dangerously relaxed view of the situation. To cap it all, the rumour you spoke of when you dined with me on your first evening back in Scotland in November is no longer a rumour.’

Catto’s head snapped up. ‘There’s evidence the French are assembling a war fleet at Dunkirk?’

‘I understand ships have begun to gather at their naval base at Brest. From there it’s an easy sail along the Channel. I also understand the Young Pretender has left Rome. Although he and whoever is with him are doing their best to throw us off the scent, he is even now secretly making his way across Europe.’

‘Dear God,’ Catto breathed. ‘So now we know for sure the threat is real. It’s actually happening.’

For a moment, as the two men looked at each other, there was complete silence in the room. Even the sounds from the outside world, the hum of a conversation being held out into the street, a woman laughing, a dog barking, seemed to fade into the distance.

Culloden laid a hand on Catto’s arm. ‘We’ll not allow fear to swamp us, Bob. Nor panic either. We’ll stay calm and deal with what we have to deal with.’

Catto took a deep breath. ‘Assuredly, sir. Is there intelligence as to how they aim to proceed from Dunkirk?’

‘Nothing firm but there are two possibilities. As you previously suggested, what they are planning may be more in the nature of a coup d’état than an invasion. Enough French troops on those ships to sail quietly up the Thames under cover of darkness and seize control of London before its citizens have woken up the next morning.’

Catto nodded. ‘Relying on the London Jacobites and others around the country – in Scotland, the English North Country, Oxford and Wales, among other places – to rise in response. The other possibility?’

‘A landing in Essex and a march towards London, with a battle for control of the city shortly before they reach it. In either case, with their hope – perhaps their already elaborated plan – being for Jacobites in those other places and more to rise and seize control of their own areas. The rumour is that the Marshall de Saxe will lead the French troops who will set the match to the fuse. He is a formidable commander.’

‘So I have heard, sir. Even his enemies speak highly of him.’ He grimaced. ‘In a manner of speaking. He strikes fear into many breasts, of friend and foe alike. If the French fleet is getting ready, it looks like whichever plan of attack they propose is scheduled to happen sooner rather than later. Though the weather cannot be relied upon at this time of year.’

‘Which we shall have to hope might work in our favour.’

‘Indeed. Although an imminent attack would also seem to be indicated by the presence of John Roy Stuart in Scotland,’ Catto said in the driest of tones, as always disliking the sound of his own voice saying that name.

The Lord President looked up at him. ‘You have my sympathy, Bob. It must have been a shock coming face-to-face with your father like that.’

‘I do not think of him as such, sir. But yes, it was something of a shock. Did you know he was in Scotland?’ He hoped he was keeping any note of accusation out of his voice. Even if honesty compelled him to admit Duncan Forbes had warned him John Roy Stuart might fetch up here. He had wanted Catto for this mission precisely because of his connections, those passionately unwanted links to the Jacobite Cause.

Culloden held up his hands in a gesture of denial. ‘No. Although it does not surprise me that he is here. He has the ear of the Old Pretender and is, I believe, even closer to the Young Gentleman.’

‘Yes,’ Catto said, fancying he could taste bitterness on his tongue.

‘What did you get out of Patrick Rankeillor?’

‘An agreement of what I stated to be my idea of their plans.’

‘Which you arrived at how, exactly?’

Because Kirsty Rankeillor’s so expressive face told me I had it right. Doing his utmost to keep her out of this, he wasn’t going to tell the Lord President that.

‘There are only so many possibilities, sir. It also seems to me the French will be willing to help but only in a limited way. They are much more invested in the fighting currently raging in Flanders and elsewhere.’

‘Indeed.’ Culloden tapped one finger against his lips. ‘After I got your letter and verbal message, I sent a dispatch by a Royal Navy vessel from Inverness to London, advising them to be on the alert. The information you have gathered also allowed me to reinforce the message that we need to be on our guard here in Scotland. I have people looking out for John Roy in the north.’

‘Have there been any sightings or reports of him?’

‘Nothing more than the odd rumour and a few scoundrels trying to claim a reward for some scrap of useless and possibly made-up piece of information. I lingered there for as long as I did in the hope of hearing some reliable intelligence of his whereabouts. But he’s a wily one. As I know I do not need to tell you.’’

‘I regret very much I let him slip through my fingers here in Edinburgh, sir. I trust you know how very much I regret it!’

‘Aye, Bob, I do.’ Culloden laid his hand briefly on Catto’s arm. ‘Be assured of that. I ken fine you would have held on to him if you could. In one way that makes me gey sad. My own Jock and I have had our quarrels but he is a great joy to me. I to him in return, I believe.’ The long face lit up. ‘Sometimes he even tells me so.’

A loving, if sometimes strict, father figure to his extended family, Duncan Forbes himself was a widower, devoted to his only child.

‘There’s no need for you to feel any sorrow on my account, sir.’

‘No need, Bob?’ Culloden’s eyes searched his young visitor’s face.

‘None whatsoever,’ Catto said firmly. ‘You think the French will not move without the presence of Charles Stuart?’

‘They need that legitimacy. To show they are not a foreign power invading another sovereign nation but allies helping restore the rightful king of that nation. As they see it.’ Culloden gave another of his wintry smiles. ‘I suspect James has already supplied his elder son with letters patent, making Charles his regent.’

‘Aye. That would seem to be logical. France’s foreign policy has long favoured the ousting of a Protestant king from the British throne in favour of a Catholic Stuart. It is also in France’s interest to weaken the British army in Europe by forcing the transfer of troops from the continent to deal with rebellion at home.’

‘Which is why we must do our damnedest to prevent such a rebellion from coming to pass.’

‘Amen to that, sir,’ came the sombre response.

The older man bent his head again to the map. ‘A fine piece of work. Who was the cartographer, Rankeillor’s daughter?’

Catto groaned inwardly. He could hardly deny such a direct question, especially when Kirsty Rankeillor had told him the Lord President knew she was a talented artist, had seen other maps she had drawn. ‘Yes. Miss Rankeillor drew it.’

‘The young lady admitted as much?’

‘Aye. She did.’ Rankeillor’s daughter. Miss Rankeillor. The young lady. Now Kirsty. The girl who had melted his frozen heart. The girl he sought to protect with every bone in his body and every drop of his blood. Fear seized him, clutching at his heart with the sinister fingers of a skeleton in a macabre print of death and its horrors.

Oh Kirsty, how I wish you had not involved yourself in any of this folly. And, oh dear God, it’s really happening. What I did not believe would ever come to pass. What I did not want to believe would ever come to pass. Armed and bloody rebellion sweeping towards Scotland.

‘Is she an active participant in the plot, d’ye think? She and Patrick have aye been close.’

‘I do not believe so. Her father has sought to shield her from any plotting. If you will look more closely, I think you will agree the information on garrisons was added by a different hand. I suspect that of James Buchan of Balnamoon, the professor’s erstwhile apprentice.’

Hunching his shoulders, Culloden leant further forward, and winced. He muttered a curse. ‘Appreciate your young joints while you have them, Bob. I see what you mean about the different hand. Now, help me over to the fireside and we’ll continue our conversation over a glass of claret. If you will fetch the decanter and the glasses from the sideboard after you have seen me into my armchair.’

‘Allow me first to put the map away, sir.’ Bloody hell, he had just lied to the Lord President. Previously he had thought that would be like lying to God. Yet he had done so without a blush or a stuttered word. Then again, he had already lied by omission. He had made no mention of Kirsty Rankeillor having been in the supper room at the Assembly Rooms or at the guard-house when Jamie Buchan and John Roy Stuart had escaped.

She had been at the heart of the plot. Firstly to discreetly transport Mr Fox up to the Assembly Rooms, there to meet Cosmo Liddell, whose wealth might potentially help fund an armed rebellion of the Scottish Jacobites. Secondly, to smuggle the man out of Edinburgh and down to Leith to take ship for the Highlands. Catto’s mouth tightened. Where even now he would likely be exercising his silver tongue to persuade fools and dreamers to risk life, limb and family for the sake of the sodding House of Stuart.

So be it. He had kept her out of it. He hoped. He allowed the Lord President to take his arm as they moved to the fireside. It was only the middle of the afternoon, a bit early to be starting on the claret, especially with a long evening stretching out before them. As he had expected, Culloden had insisted he stay overnight.

He felt a twinge of unease, hoping everything had gone as planned in the transfer of Geordie, Alice and Joshua to Colinton. Archie Liddell’s mother would have a full house tonight. Whereas it would only be the two Rankeillors and one of the little maidservants at Infirmary Street.

He wished he could take his leave of the Lord President now. He’d come out to Musselburgh on Tam, one of the horses for hire from the stables at The White Horse, leaving the garron at a nearby change house to be fed, watered and given a stall for the night. If only he could collect the beast before today was very much older. He could ride the few miles back to Edinburgh, throw Tam’s reins to Donald Livingstone’s son Michael, scramble over a few walls and knock on the back door at Infirmary Street. Stay there for a while. Reassure her.

How the Devil he was going to do that he did not know. Not now he knew there really was a rebellion in the offing. Like pent-up marsh gas, the genie was about to shoot up out of the bottle, cackling madly as it cast its foul stink over everything, turning blue skies grey, staining green grass red with blood.

He did not doubt they could fight it off. He could not allow himself to think otherwise. Oh God, but neither did he believe there could be a peaceful coup d’état and a bloodless transition back to a Stuart monarchy. The very idea was ludicrous. As he had told Kirsty Rankeillor, those who hold the reins of power do not easily surrender them. Couple that with the passion and the desperation of their Jacobite opponents and who knew what the damage to the civilian population might be? Or who might get caught in the crossfire?

Even if he could head back to Edinburgh now – which he could not – there were other compelling reasons why he had to stay here. Despite the profoundly unsettling news he’d just heard, another crucial subject had yet to be raised. Not tomorrow but this evening. Before much more claret had been drunk.

 

The house was very quiet. Her father was through in the library, looking over his lecture notes for the next term. Quashing any unspoken fears he might not be in the position to deliver those lectures, Christian was sitting now at the kitchen table with Mary, helping her form her letters, hoping the distraction would stop them both from worrying. She’d brought the wee lantern through from the lobby to give them as much light as possible on the sheets of paper.

‘Very good, Mary,’ she said, as the girl finished copying her own name below where Christian had written it out. ‘Tibby’s name next?’

Mary nodded. ‘Aye. She’ll be jealous when she comes hame and finds oot I’ve had another lesson— Oh! What was that?’

Christian had heard it too, a noise coming from the direction of the lobby at the back door. ‘I’ll go and see.’

Mary was already on her feet, lifting the wee lantern as she spoke. ‘I’ll come wi’ ye, Miss Kirsty.’

The relief when they found Lucy the cat sitting on the floor of the back lobby looking up at them was palpable. ‘Oh,’ Christian said, ‘those big eyes are too innocent! She must have been up to something.’

Mary looked around. ‘Here it is. Yon wee brass bowl that sits on the windowsill. She’s knocked it onto the floor, I’m thinking.’ Bending over, she picked the bowl up and turned it in her hand. ‘It’s no’ bashed.’

‘Och well then, no harm done.’ Stooping, Christian picked up the cat. ‘On you go, Mary.’ Pausing for a moment, she stood looking through the window to the shadows and darkness beyond.

She couldn’t quite suppress a shiver, then chided herself. What was she so scared of? Apart from the obvious, she thought wryly. But did she really fear Charlotte Liddell would burst into the house and start shrieking about her property? The horrible Charlotte was so high and mighty – not to mention so stupid – she wouldn’t even know where to find the back door of a house.

 

Outside, one shadow seemed to detach itself from the others, moving stealthily away from the building towards the outhouses.