SURRENDER
The biting wind returned with a vengeance around mid-morning the next day. Morgan tightened his shoulders, regretting he’d left his cape in the tent. The heavy ox-hide buffcoat under his cuirass that normally provided good protection from the weather wasn’t warding off the chill. His toes were frozen in the leather bucket-top boots, though it was the month of May and he’d donned his woollen stockings. He fervently hoped the siege would be over well before winter arrived. He hadn’t packed his longues jambes in his trunk, foolishly expecting Scotland to be milder than Wales.
He scowled at the hundred or so musketeers huddled around smoldering campfires further down the slope. The cannon had rendered them redundant. They often snuck off to the civilian camp, the married men to rut with wives, the unmarried to be relieved of their meagre pay. It wasn’t unusual for them to be drunk when they returned. They wouldn’t be needed again until the castle capitulated, though occasionally Abbott called for a round of random fire at the battlements. Morgan doubted the men inside the high walls were foolhardy enough to expose themselves to snipers.
Despite his best intentions to keep his thoughts off the young woman who’d visited his dreams, he looked back to the empty cliff path and swallowed his disappointment. Mayhap she only came now and again to the rocky shore. Whatever she’d been collecting certainly filled the basket. He’d probably be back in Edinburgh the next time she wandered up the path.
All the more reason to seek her out, though the commander insisted the men stick together whenever they marched to Stonehyve or Dunnottar to commandeer livestock. Some of the women were related to the stubborn defenders of Dùn Fhoithear and made no effort to hide the naked hatred in their hooded eyes. He hoped the pretty lass’s husband wasn’t within the walls.
A loud cry interrupted his musings.
They’re comin’ out.
“Reposition the gun,” General Abbott shouted. “I want it trained on the gate.”
His gut in knots, Morgan ran to obey, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other securing the helmet he despised. Not a religious man, he nevertheless prayed his commander didn’t intend to massacre the soldiers who were apparently about to surrender. If such an order came he’d have no choice but to obey or be shot for insubordination.
From the worried looks on the faces of his gunners as they shifted and reloaded the cannon, he suspected they too feared the worst would be expected of them. Satisfied the gun was properly aimed, he reluctantly raised his arm.
Roused from their indolent fire-gazing, the musketeers slung bandoliers of powder apostles across their bodies and hurried to load as they fell in behind the cannon.
Morgan had felt chilled, but now ice flowed through his veins as they waited. A minute turned into five. The blood drained from his numbed fingers. His raised arm ached like the devil.
They emerged, twenty men at most, led by an elderly nobleman he assumed was Lord Ogilvy. They marched out as if on regimental parade, their plaids filthy but properly draped, blue bonnets jaunty atop heads held high. A polished sword hung from a belt slung across every chest, and muskets rested on broad shoulders. A large shot-pouch hung at the apex of bare legs. Emaciated limbs and gaunt, bearded faces betrayed the deprivation they’d suffered, but proud defiance glinted in every eye, and not one so much as glanced at the awesome firepower aimed at them.
Morgan couldn’t keep his arm raised for much longer, but if he dropped it the ashen-faced Smythe might mistake his action for the signal to fire. He tried to take his mind off the situation by recalling a tale he’d heard of some battle or other when the Scots had discarded their plaids and rushed at the enemy naked from the waist down.
For some unfathomable reason, this ludicrous image brought on thoughts of the raven-haired girl he’d seen on the path the previous day, and his manhood stirred again. She’d hate him if she knew he was responsible for the senseless murder of her countrymen.
He shook away the absurd notion. This desolate place and these fiercely proud Scots had robbed him of his wits. He had no interest in a peasant wench, despite his body’s reaction, although it might be worth seeking her out in Stonehyve, if only to satisfy his curiosity about the possible uses of seaweed. Or mayhap she lived in Dunnottar. He scoffed at his foolishness. They’d be even less welcome in either village now the fortress had fallen. And once the crown jewels were destroyed…
His gut clenched. He didn’t relish scouring the castle for the royal treasure and doubted these stubborn Scots would reveal its whereabouts, even under torture. The whole business sickened him. Dùn Fhoithear was of strategic value, but that wasn’t the main reason for the siege. Mayhap when the cursed Scottish campaign was over he’d resign his commission and go back to Wales, though his homeland held naught but bitter memories.
“Gunners at ease,” Abbott yelled hoarsely.
Morgan frantically waved both arms over his head, inhaling deeply to steady his thudding heart.
The general turned his attention to the Highlanders. “Lord Ogilvy, instruct your men to throw down their weapons,” he commanded.
The Scot smirked. “The muskets are nay loaded. We ran out o’ shot a month since.”
Abbott bristled. “Nevertheless. Swords and daggers too, if you please.”