Midnight Honor

a Sunday, and if it suited the prince, Monday morning should do nicely.
    “I don't suppose it would do any harm now to tell you our men were rousted two hours ago,” Cameron continued. “The rest will be in their boots as soon as the sun is up. By noon Lord George will have the high ground as well as the weather gauge.”
    Angus felt a second chill trickle down his spine, this one far more ominous. If half the prince's army had left camp during the night and the other half was taking to the road before too long, it would set the stage for another surprise attack like the one at Prestonpans, when the Jacobite army had circled around behind the Elector's troops and launched their attack from the primordial ooze of a seemingly impassable swamp.
    Hawley had vowed not to make that particular mistake again and, to guard against it, had camped with the choppy waters of the firth at his back and a sodden moor on his flank. But he had grievously underestimated his enemy's ability to rebound from a disheartening retreat that might well have demoralized any other army.
    “If you actually do prevail at Falkirk,” Angus said, “have you given any thought to what Cumberland's reaction will be? Despite your efforts to stymie him with nonexistent French fleets and Dutch treaties, he will be returning from London with over five thousand Hessian soldiers, all of whom
are
huge ugly brutes who sharpen their bayonets with their teeth.”
    Alexander Cameron's dark eyes glittered. “So Cumberland is in London, is he? We were wondering where he had gotten to, and since none of our people could seem to find him, we were worried he might have been creeping up on us by way of Rutherglen.”
    Angus's brow folded sharply.
    “Moreover, if he is bringing five thousand troops back with him—and I thank you for the advance warning—it should put him at least two weeks out of the hunt. As to his reaction should Lord George Murray prevail yet again, I would say he would be pissed. Aluinn?”
    “Aye,” MacKail agreed amiably. “Pissed. John?”
    MacGillivray nodded. “Aye, proper pissed.”
    Angus stared, realizing Cameron had effortlessly extracted exactly the kind of information he had so boldly declared he would not give them. Great care had been taken not to divulge the Duke of Cumberland's whereabouts, and the news of the Hessians had been delivered orally by courier with nothing trusted to paper.
    “No need to fall on your sword,” MacKail said, reading the look on Angus's face. “Alex does that to everyone. It's a knack. When you have been with him as long as I have, in fact, you expect to walk away scratching your head at least once a day.”
    “Yes, well, I would rather not be around long enough to test your theory, if it is all the same to you.”
    “Aye.” Cameron shifted, squinting up at the sky. “I can smell rain in the air. You had best be on your horse and away from here before the weather turns.”
    Angus followed his glance and saw that what he thought had just been a reluctant dawn was in reality a low, dark ceiling of cloud hovering over the tops of the fir trees. The wind was beginning to gust as well, snatching at the wings of his cloak, driving the dampness straight down the nape of his neck.
    “I'll show him the way,” MacGillivray said. “I've an escort of MacKintosh men waiting.”
    “We'll say good-bye here, then.” Alexander Cameronstraightened, and without the smallest trace of malice or mockery extended his hand. “I wish you Godspeed and good health, MacKintosh. It is a true pity you have chosen to take your stand on the wrong side of the field, but I bear you no personal ill will. Oh, and by the way, if you are looking for General Hawley upon your return, I'm afraid he might have overslept this morning. Since we knew he detested camp cots and damp canvas so much, we persuaded the Lady Kilmarnock to offer the hospitality of Callendar House for the comfort of him and his senior officers. They threw a little party in his honor last night, and the wine may have gone to his head.”
    “I've seen Hawley drink a quart of whisky without batting an eye,” Angus commented.
    “Laced with opiates?”
    Angus shook his head. “May I ask why you did not just poison him?”
    “That wouldn't have been sporting, now, would it?”
    Angus laughed despite himself and clasped Cameron's outstretched hand, reminded once again that he was trusting Anne's safety and well-being to the hands of these reckless madmen.