CHANGE OF COMMAND
Morgan strutted out of the Drovers’ Inn feeling like a man reborn. He’d fed Hannah the purloined bread and almonds—a meagre breakfast she’d eaten with relish. Preoccupied with memories of her moans of delight when he brought her to climax again, he failed to notice Abbott striding towards him until they were face to face.
Dismayed, Morgan came to attention and saluted.
“I feared your malady might keep you abed all day,” the general sneered. “Hartlock's artillery has arrived. Your men reported you were unwell.”
Morgan would have to thank his crew for their loyalty. He’d been so rapt in pleasuring Hannah he hadn’t heard the heavy guns and had completely forgotten being told of their arrival. He recalled a remark from the previous evening about the absence of Abbott's bed partner and thought it was probably true. Unlike him, his commander wasn’t acting like a man who’d spent the night with a beautiful woman. Satisfying bedsport certainly made a fellow feel all was well with the world.
“All is not well,” Abbott intoned, as if to purposely darken Morgan’s horizon.
A chill crept over his nape as the weak sun disappeared behind an ominous cloud. “Sir?”
The general beckoned him closer. “There’s a possibility we may change course,” he whispered. “But it’s hush-hush. Not decided yet.”
“Change course?” Morgan asked, set on edge by his superior’s unusual pallor.
“I’ll keep everyone informed once Hartlock authorizes the new route.” It was evident from his snarl he wasn’t happy about ceding command. “There’s rumored to be a gathering of rebel leaders planned for somewhere in the Grampians. We might be ideally placed to spring a trap. That’s all I can say. Get over to the Tolbooth and report to the major in charge of artillery.”
Morgan saluted and followed Abbott, disheartened by the unexpected news he would no longer be in sole charge of the cannon. He risked a glance back at the inn. Hannah appeared at the door and waved shyly.
He wondered if he should alert her to the change of course, but then she’d want to know the reason. His first loyalty was to the English army. Hers was to the rebellion.
Deciding it would be wiser not to return her wave, he turned away and strode off to the fields behind the Tolbooth.
~~~
Hannah’s thoughts went back to the fateful day on the cliff path when she’d mistakenly believed Morgan was waving. It seemed a memory to smile about now, except it served to underscore that this morning he didn’t return her wave. It was a small thing, but months of espionage had taught her to pay attention to details that might otherwise seem insignificant.
The few days she’d known Morgan had revealed a great deal about him and she sensed he was troubled. His shoulders were tense. Abbott was walking in the same direction. Had they conversed?
There seemed to be many more English soldiers milling around the Tolbooth down the street and she recalled Smythe’s news that Hartlock's troops had arrived. She’d been so enthralled by Morgan’s lovemaking, the sky could have fallen and she wouldn’t have noticed. Such inattention could prove deadly. Risky as it was to venture near the Tolbooth, she might learn something of value.
Avoiding the road, she went via the beach, forcing herself to stop periodically to pick up pebbles and toss them into the sea. She wandered past the prison, then doubled back to the road where she sat down at the edge of the sand, ostensibly to brush off her feet.
Her heart plummeted at the sight she beheld. Morgan’s cannon looked like a child’s plaything dwarfed by half a dozen heavy guns. The English had amassed enough firepower to destroy a city. They evidently intended to completely subdue the Highlands from Inverness.
But what troubled her the most was Morgan, standing to attention alongside his crew. The stern set of his jaw betrayed an outrage she assumed was caused by the tall officer barking at him. She’d never seen the man before. Evidently a superior. Morgan was no longer in charge of the artillery. She felt the blow to his pride, but the greater fear was what it might mean for the Royalist cause.
It was time for a meeting with her co-conspirators.
She headed away from the Tolbooth, walking briskly along the shore road to the civilian camp, intending to seek out Maggie and Solomon. Unlikely as it seemed, the two were apparently supporters of the king’s cause, but she still didn’t know the identity of the Royalist agents in Stonehyve itself. Mayhap there was more news of the gathering planned for Bouchmorale.
It was easy to locate Solomon’s busy wagon, but he didn’t seem pleased to see her, and a snarling Esther flounced off into her shelter without the usual shalom.
Hannah loitered, waiting for the Jew to finish bartering with a long line of soldiers. She approached him when the last one left with his sack of oatmeal. He raised a thin eyebrow. “Esther is not happy. A great deal more to wash,” he said cryptically.
She at first wondered if this was some sort of code she was unaware of, but then realized what he meant. “Sorry I am tardy, I will tend to my duties.”
“You have news?” he asked softly as she prepared to leave.
Hannah felt she was teetering on a thin rope strung across a bottomless chasm. Stealing away the crown jewels had been easy compared to ascertaining whom to trust. Could she rely on Solomon and his shrew of a wife? Better to divulge something that wouldn’t jeopardise the cause, nor herself. “Captain Pendray is no longer in command of the artillery.”
He turned to busy himself with goods piled on a shelf behind him. “Is that all you learned?” he finally asked.
His question was puzzling. What else was there to learn from a gunnery captain? It struck her full force that she hadn’t given any thought to extracting information from Morgan. And it wasn’t because he didn’t make the army’s decisions—she cared for him as a person, a friend, a lover. She’d trusted him with her body, but couldn’t deny she hid secrets from him. Mayhap he had used her the same way. She tried desperately to recall if she’d said or done anything in the throes of passion that might betray the rebellion.
“Is there something ye’re nay telling me?” she whispered.
When he didn’t reply, she looked about, making sure they weren’t in danger of being overheard, then risked a test. “Mayhap I’ll ask Maggie.”
He exhaled impatiently. “There are rumors, that is all. And you won’t find Maggie Campbell. She has disappeared.”
~~~
Morgan took an instant dislike to Major F.F. Jenkinson. He recognised a career soldier when he saw one. Probably the third son of some wealthy English aristocrat, distantly related to Cromwell himself, he shouldn’t wonder. The man oozed entitlement. He hadn’t divulged what the double F stood for, but Morgan was confident his crew would soon supply an appropriate moniker.
He mused on several possibilities as the pompous idiot harped on and on about discipline. He risked a glance at his men standing rigidly to attention beside him. Their expressionless young faces gave away nothing. Wilcock would likely come up with the most creative names. It was always the quiet ones who had the keenest sense of humor.
“What say you, Pendray?” the fool asked, absurd handlebar moustache twitching.
I say you’ll not find a single thing to complain about when it comes to my crew, he thought proudly.
“I agree, sir,” he replied, hoping he’d given the appropriate response. At least he hadn’t said Aye, sir.
Jenkinson eyed him suspiciously, then grunted. “Welsh, eh?”
Might have known.
“Or mayhap a Lancastrian?”
Morgan bristled. Had the man no ear?
“Motley crew you’ve been landed with,” Jenkinson sneered, not even looking at the lads. “Not to worry, we’ll soon have them knocked into shape.”
To their credit, his men didn’t bat an eye. Morgan suddenly felt sorry for Major Jenkinson. His crew would take whatever the man dished out and then some.
“I want the wheels removed and the axle greased for starters,” Jenkinson barked, pointing to Morgan’s cannon. “Hardly worth the trouble for a saker, I’m sure you’ll agree, but there you are, what?”
“Sir,” he replied, resigned to the futility of mentioning they’d done just that the previous day. He’d bumped up against the Jenkinsons of the New Model Army before. Pointless to mention his reliable saker had reduced Dùn Fhoithear to little more than rubble. He inhaled deeply, sorry he’d dredged up the memory.
He watched the major stride off, wondering how a day that began with great promise could deteriorate so quickly. As he turned to his crew, one of his grandmother’s favorite sayings flitted into his head.
This too shall pass.
He came close to blurting it out loud, but that would be a serious breach of military discipline. It wouldn’t do to openly criticize a fellow officer, no matter how much of a boor he was. “All right. At ease. You heard the major. Let’s get it done.”
They set about preparing to carry out the redundant task without complaint, but he overheard various mumbled opinions of what F.F. stood for.
After a frustrating hour watching them, offering encouragement and biting his tongue every time the urge to utter some deprecating remark about the major welled up in his throat, he was almost relieved to see Abbott's adjutant hurrying towards him.
“Urgent officers’ meeting, sir,” the soldier explained after saluting. “Upstairs in the Tolbooth.”
He rolled down his shirtsleeves, retrieved his buffcoat and left his crew to finish their work, confident they were capable of completing the task without his supervision.
The room above the prison was crowded, the chatter deafening as new arrivals introduced themselves to Abbott's officers. Espying Jenkinson holding court, Morgan headed in the opposite direction and located a vacant chair. He was about to sit when a squat little man with a huge walrus moustache entered, Abbott in his wake. The racket came to an abrupt halt and chair legs scraped on wooden planking as everyone stood to attention.
This unimpressive individual was apparently the infamous General Hartlock.
Morgan sat, as did every other man present when the new commander narrowed his eyes, scanned the room, then gave a perfunctory wave of his hand. A peculiar premonition crept up Morgan’s spine that the new commander-in-chief’s reputation as a ruthless man wasn’t wide of the mark.
“Welcome, welcome,” Hartlock mumbled into his bushy moustache. “I trust everyone has been introduced to their new compatriots.”
There was no response from the assembly, but he apparently hadn’t expected any. He launched into a tirade about the necessity of military discipline and the expectation that every man would do his duty for Cromwell and Parliament. Morgan had heard it all many times, and likely wasn’t the only one, judging by the eyelids drooping around him. Were they all as tired of hearing it as he was?
Only Jenkinson greeted the end of the speech with a loud, Hear, hear!
Morgan frowned until the man seated next to him leaned over and explained the expression was the current rage among Parliamentarians.
“On to a serious matter of immediate concern,” Hartlock intoned. “A Royalist spy has fallen into our hands.”
Morgan’s heart stopped.
“She was operating among the civilians following General Abbott's army and is now in a cell below.”
Abbott paled.
Morgan clamped a hand on his twitching knee—to no avail. He feared he might retch at the thought of Hannah being arrested, imprisoned, and no doubt tortured.
“A whore, it would seem,” Hartlock spat, “just what one might expect of a supporter of a dissolute so-called monarch.”
Abbott seemed to shrink in stature. Two things occurred to Morgan’s near-paralyzed brain. He’d never heard Abbott utter a single defamatory word against the Royalists. They were the enemy he sought to defeat and that was that.
But another, more important memory fluttered just out of reach, something about Abbott's doxy.
Christ!
Hope loosened the knot in Morgan’s gut. He knew for a fact that if Abbott had been bedding a spy, it certainly wasn’t Hannah.
Mayhap his beloved was still free—they’d dance again, make love over and over. He stilled his tapping foot after a disdainful glance from his neighbor. But he itched to leave, to make sure she was safe, to warn her.
Seized by a momentary dizziness, he leaned forward to rest his forearms on his knees, aware he was venturing into dangerous territory.
“Abbott will explain,” Hartlock hissed.
Sweat trickled down Morgan’s spine. Abbott wasn’t his favorite person, but the newly arrived commander hadn’t even shown the respect of using his rank. He was the superior officer only by virtue of being married to Cromwell’s niece.
Abbott cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “As General Hartlock has informed you,” he declared without a trace of emotion, “a spy is being interrogated.”
Morgan wondered if he’d perhaps rushed to judgement, but an almost imperceptible tic played at the corner of the general’s mouth.
“Her treachery came to light as a result of the prompt action of a musketeer who overheard her passing information to another spy. He came to me immediately.”
This revelation prompted several questions from the assembly.
Two spies, sir?
A musketeer, sir?
Who is she, sir?
The voices quieted when Abbott raised a hand. The man was in an awkward position, yet to Morgan’s eye he displayed more dignity than the beady-eyed Hartlock.
“In answer to your questions. We do not yet know the identity of the second spy. The musketeer feared detection and remained hidden before he could ascertain who the second person was. His name is Pritchard, by the way, and I’m sure you’ll agree the man deserves a promotion for his service.”
Jenkinson shouted hear hear again though the general had addressed the latter remark to the two musketeer captains of Morgan’s acquaintance. They seemed stunned and shaken by the unexpected news. Bile burned Morgan’s throat. Pritchard—the surly brute who’d intended to rape Hannah.
“As for the identity of the spy…”
For the first time, Abbott faltered. “…her name is Maggie Campbell.”
Morgan felt like he’d been tossed into a vat of boiling oil. The married general and the foul-mouthed whore with the impressive tits? His grandmother would condemn them both to eternal fire and brimstone.
But then an uncomfortable possibility dawned on him. Maggie Campbell had hoodwinked the mighty Abbott. Had Morgan also allowed himself to be lulled into trusting an enemy agent?
He shook away the notion. Hannah wasn’t Maggie Campbell. And where was the proof of all this? He wouldn’t trust Pritchard as far as he could throw him.
“Mistress Campbell is proving uncooperative, but Pritchard overheard enough of the exchange to persuade us we must change our course,” Hartlock added. “On the morrow we head for the Grampians. Have your men, horses and equipment ready at dawn. Dismissed.”
Morgan remained seated until most of the others had left, fearing his legs might buckle if he attempted to stand. Indecisiveness had never been one of his many flaws, but he truly had no idea what to do next.