Midnight Honor

clansmen had been away from their farms since the previous July; they needed to assure themselves that their families had not starved and would not starve if the war dragged on through another long summer. Despite the snow and frigid winds that kept the prince hemmed in at Falkirk the latter two weeks of January, at the first sign of a thaw, fields would still have to be plowed, crops planted.
    That was the trouble with raising an army of farmers and shepherds. As brave and loyal and valiant as they might be, if they had no land, no homes, no crops, no herds to go home to, what was the point of fighting at all? The chiefs would demand their rents and tithes regardless if they won or lost, and while the grand castles at Achnacarry and Blair Atholl might suffer from a lack of wheat for fresh
uisque
, they had stood for centuries and would stand for centuries more, supportedby the sweat and toil of the common tacksmen. In the feudal system, it was the crofters who would starve from the lack of bread, and when they could not pay their rents, they would find their meager sod cottages torn down or burned and the land taken over for cattle.
    The prince turned belligerent. He had forbidden Lord George to pursue the English farther than Linlithgow, but when he heard Hawley had escaped to Edinburgh, he did an about-face and laid the blame squarely on Murray's head. To make matters worse, news arrived in the Jacobite camp on the last day of January that Cumberland had left London and marched his army to Edinburgh in near record time. He had brought reinforcements of cavalry and infantry, as well as a fresh artillery train to replace the heavy guns lost at Falkirk— guns that took a week to haul and position to best advantage around Stirling, and that fired no more than two rounds apiece before they were blown off their carriages by the superior firepower of the English gunners on the walls.
    Lord George, with his last nerve snapped, ordered the ineffectual siege to be abandoned and dragged the remaining cannon to the nearest cliff, where he had them spiked and rolled over into the churning waters of the firth.
    The prince did not take either the news of his cousin's arrival or the departure of the artillery well. He ranted against Lord George, believing now more than ever that his general was determined to sabotage his every effort to win back the throne. He raged and banged his head against a wall until he staggered like a drunkard, at which time he retired to his wagon with two bottles of whisky and became one. With the prince mired in self-pity, it was decided to once again split the army into two divisions, the prince being escorted by the majority of regiments through the high mountainous passes that cut through the Jacobite territories of Blair Atholl, Dalnacardoch, and Dalwhinnie. Lord George would travel a more circuitous route by way of Aberdeen, hopefully to draw off any pursuit Cumberland might be mounting. The two divisions would reunite at Inverness, where they could then set about routing the government forces garrisoned at Fort George.
    “Might I play devil's advocate a moment,” said AngusMoy, “and ask what the prince will be able to do with Inverness even if he does take it?”
    The question was practical and forthright, greeted by the silence of a grim circle of men that included Alexander Cameron, Aluinn MacKail, and John MacGillivray. Angus had been surprised by the invitation to join the others at the tavern, but he had had his own reasons for obliging.
    “The entire coastline is under a tight blockade,” he continued, “and unless I've missed something in the thousands of dispatches I've read over the past months, the prince has no navy. Not one single ship. Loudoun, on the other hand, has fresh supplies delivered every day—meat, fish, vegetables, fruit, even tuns of French brandy confiscated by the revenue ships in the Channel. Their lead shot comes in barrels; they do not have to make their own in the field. If a musket fails or misfires, there is another in common stores to replace it. I have seen their warehouses; they want for nothing, whereas I have seen some of your men walking in the snow with rags wrapped round their feet.”
    Cameron's dark eyes assessed the two Highlanders seated across the table. Big John MacGillivray was a genuine throwback to a Viking warrior: Nothing seemed to slow him down. He had been wounded in three places on Falkirk moor, but had barely acknowledged his