Midnight Honor

mouth. “I vow, some days my head aches from the sound of the lash.”
    “As you say, however, they do look magnificent on the battlefield,” Lady Kilmarnock murmured.
    Hawley's lip twisted, but before he could address her comment, the butler was back, coughing anxiously into his hand.
    “Yes, Donald?” Lady Kilmarnock arched an eyebrow.
    “It is the courier, my lady. He is quite beside himself. He is threatening violence unless he is brought before the general at once.”
    “You see, m'dear?” Hawley spread his hands in a gesture of futility. “Self-aggrandizement. Oh, very well. Show him in, show him in.”
    The butler stepped aside and nodded disdainfully to a figure out in the hallway. A corporal hurried past, his hat under his arm, his hair and clothing shedding rainwater as he crossed to the general's side and, without waiting for leave, leaned over and murmured a few taut words in his ear.
    The general stopped chewing. “What? What's that you say?”
    The corporal bent forward again.
    “On the moor! Impossible! The morning report said they were twelve miles to the north and west.”
    “I assure you, sir, there is no mistake. They may have marched north and west, but only in order that they might circumvent Torwood and cross the river Carron at Dunipace. The rebels have taken Falkirk Moor, sir, and they look to hold it.”
    “Look to hold it? The devil you say!”
    Hawley scraped to his feet. He strode to the door without so much as a nod in Lady Kilmarnock's direction, his shouts echoing along the hallway, startling both Major Garner and Major Worsham as they were descending the staircase. Screaming obscenities, he called for his horse and guards. At the main door, one of his aides flung his cape around his shoulders, dislodging his wig. Another scrambled to pick itup, but the general was already gone, hatless and hairless out into the rain, his napkin still tucked into his collar.
    Back in the morning room Lady Kilmarnock lifted her cup and took a sip of hot chocolate. She closed her eyes a moment to savor the sweetness, then set about enjoying the rest of her meal.

Chapter Sixteen
    A ngus Moy arrived back in the Hanover camp in plenty of time to see General Henry Hawley riding hell-bent across the field, the large white square of what looked to be a dinner napkin flapping at his throat. Close on his heels were Majors Garner and Worsham, neither of whom brought his horse to a complete halt before they veered off in opposing directions to join their regiments.
    The entire camp was in an uproar with men running hither and yon, yelling for horses, for muskets, for saddles, fastening buttons and strapping on leather neck stocks as they ran past. Rain was adding to the confusion. The storm had descended with a fury, bringing high winds and torrents of freezing rain throughout the morning. As the layer of snow on the ground turned to ice, the slopes became ever more treacherous, slippery with dead grass and bramble.
    Earlier, MacGillivray's escort had left Angus a mile from the moor; it had taken him nearly two hours to struggle over the uneven terrain from there to the camp. Having been shocked by the sight of Highlanders pouring through the ravines and clambering up the slopes, he had been forced to periodically find cover while the men led by Lord George Murray had taken command of the high ground. Accomplishing the deed without firing a single shot, three regiments ofmen from Clan Donald had held the road open for the rest of the advancing Jacobite army to snake their way onto the moor, and by noon, with the Elector's troops still scrambling to button their stocks and find their ammunition loaves, Prince Charles was erecting his standard at the rear of the field. With the pipes skirling, the MacDonalds took their traditional place on the right of the battle line with their flanks protected by a morass of bogland. Occupying the far left were the Appin Stewarts and, in between, the Camerons, Frasers, MacPhersons, MacKenzies, and the lustily cheering men of Clan Chattan.
    The second line was made up of seven more battalions, including Lord Elcho's Lifeguards, and three of Lord George's Athol Brigade. Lord John Drummond's men formed up behind them in reserve. The only part of the master plan that had not gone according to dictates was the positioning of the heavy artillery. Led by the flamboyant Italian, Count Fanducci, the guns sank up to their axles in the mud as soon as they left the road, and