AFTERMATH
Hannah ached to rush headlong into the midst of the confusion at the junction and demand to know if Morgan was safe. Common sense prevailed as she came to a breathless halt at the bridge. He’d done everything in his power not to implicate her in the eyes of his superiors. She mustn’t draw suspicion on herself now.
Leaning against the stone wall, she steadied her breathing, glad to discover the crofter’s bairns and their dog had run down the hill after her. She hoped they looked like a local family curious about what was going on. She grasped the scruff of the excited dog’s neck to prevent him running across the bridge, otherwise he’d likely end up with a musket ball in his skull.
From what she could see, it appeared the Highlanders had surrendered their weapons and were being herded into a line flanked by musketeers. Her heart broke. She felt keenly the pain of defeat and could only hope a forced hunger march to some English prison wouldn’t be their fate.
“Do ye see Major Morgan?” Wee Davie asked.
She blinked away the tears. In the short time he’d lain in their home, Morgan had endeared himself to these bairns. “Nay,” she replied, wishing the frantic dog would cease its barking. “I dinna see him.”
Not made privy to the discussions, she nevertheless doubted if even Morgan and her uncle knew what would happen after the surrender. The English army hadn’t done an about turn, so it seemed they intended to march to Bouchmorale. When she’d contemplated walking there, she reckoned it would take at least two hours. Did Morgan have stamina for such a journey? Should she follow?
She craned her neck to look down the road. There was no sign of any camp followers. Mayhap Solomon and his fellow sutlers had been forced to remain in Beannchar. Morgan had assured her Esther was unharmed, but…
As the dust settled, she espied her uncle, still mounted and looking dignified, shoulders back, spine rigid. She thanked God he hadn’t been obliged to march on foot with his men.
A pulse thudded in her ears when she saw Morgan seated on his horse next to the earl, and directly in front of them Abbott and another man. Hope and pride swelled in her heart as the four men led the column away from the junction. Morgan glanced to the bridge. She raised her hand in recognition, knowing he couldn’t return her wave.
Calling on all the angels and saints to protect him, she let go of the dog, relieved when the animal bounded back to the cottage. The excited bairns followed. Their mother stayed by her side for a few more moments. “He’s strong,” she whispered. “Dinna fret.”
Hannah was left alone to watch the English army and their prisoners march out of sight.
When she deemed it safe, she walked to the junction and looked back in the direction of Beannchar. She felt as empty and desolate as the tree-lined road.
Her spirits lifted when she thought she heard the sound of distant wagon wheels and the jingle of harness.
~~~
After two hours in the saddle, Morgan dismounted in the grassy field in front of the hunting lodge, but couldn’t let go of the pommel. For the first time since the amputation, he felt feverish and doubted his legs would sustain him. He should have brought some of Sheelagh’s tonic with him, or mayhap another swig of whisky would do the trick.
What he really needed was Hannah. Five minutes with her in his arms and he’d feel better, just knowing she was safe. He’d fretted more about her than the ramifications of what had transpired at the Gairn.
Hartlock barked orders. Men armed with muskets and pistols ran here and there, some into the lodge.
Glenheath dismounted and was escorted away.
Morgan clung to the pommel with his uninjured hand, which by now had cramped after holding the reins tightly for too long. He shuddered when Abbott slapped him heartily on the back. “I don’t know how you managed it, but the Commonwealth owes you a debt of gratitude, Pendray. Your bravery won’t go unrewarded.”
He was tempted to claim the only reward he wanted right then and there, but a salute was required; if he let go of the pommel…
The general steadied him as he faltered. “Let’s get you inside and I’ll send for Peabody.”
“Nay,” Morgan blurted out. “I prefer the doctor who carried out the operation.” No point revealing his life had been saved by a blacksmith. “Murtagh’s his name. He’s among the prisoners.”
Abbott gaped. “A Scot?”
“Aye,” he replied.
The general arched a brow. “Very well, I’ll see he’s located and sent to you. We’ll talk when you’re recovered.”
Thirst raged in Morgan’s throat. His head throbbed. He breathed more easily when Smythe and Atherton appeared to assist him into the lodge.
~~~
When the first donkeys came in sight, Hannah hid in the trees, hoping the badgers’ sett wasn’t nearby. The lack of a dust cloud led her to believe the civilian contingent following the army had dwindled in size. There was no guarantee Solomon and Esther would be among them. Few wagons were suited to mountain terrain.
Six heavily laden donkeys passed by, goaded by a man mounted on a seventh who held a long whip. He’d been with the camp at Dùn Fhoithear.
Five minutes later, bedraggled women on foot followed, carrying or chivvying mucky-faced bairns. Lizzie and her brood were among them. She was tempted to hurry out of hiding and mingle with the army wives, but thought better of it. Lizzie wasn’t necessarily to be trusted. But then who was? These people had no knowledge of what had transpired at the bridge.
Half a dozen bleating sheep came next, shepherded by a lad she didn’t know. Was he part of the convoy or just tagging along for safety?
A bevy of sullen women trudged by, burdened with heavy knapsacks—fellow laundresses and some of the whores who’d been at the burn when Pritchard threatened her, but she didn’t see Maggie among them. She knew the hardships of that life and was thankful she could now be free of it, unlike these women fated to follow other armies, endure other campaigns.
She wanted to jump up and down like a wee girl when Solomon’s wagon came in sight last of all. As he approached, she remained hidden, but he slowed almost to a stop, as if he knew she was there. He nodded when she emerged from the trees, but didn’t look at her.
She climbed aboard the back of the wagon. Swallowing tears of relief, she went down on all fours, gasping for breath, digging her fingernails into the planked floor as Solomon set his horse in motion.
It came to her when she could breathe again that she wasn’t alone. She tumbled to a sitting position and stared at a sneering Maggie Campbell who sat cross-legged not two feet away. One eye glared. The other was completely swollen shut and of a color Hannah couldn’t quite describe.
“Ye’ve been beaten,” she whispered.
“Was it the bruises gave it away,” Maggie snarled, her voice loaded with sarcasm, “or mayhap the missing teeth?”
“How did ye escape?” Hannah asked.
Maggie hesitated, but then replied, “Dinna fash, I didna betray ye, though ’tis yer fault…”
Hannah was about to protest, but another voice interjected. “Enough. We’ve no choice but to travel together.”
The stern voice was familiar, but the person who’d spoken was a scowling bald woman.
“Esther?”
Solomon’s wife ran a hand over the dark stubble. “The explosion scorched every hair on my head. Had to shave it off.”
Hannah could only imagine how terrifying Medusa must have looked with her monstrous hair afire. “I’m sorry,” she said, biting her bottom lip.
“Do ye nay think it improves her looks?” Maggie asked with a sly grin, avoiding Esther’s stony glare.
Hannah declined to answer. “The rebels have surrendered,” she announced instead.
“Good,” Maggie hissed.
“Hush,” Esther demanded. “Guard your tongue, hussy, lest I cut it out.”
Maggie scowled but didn’t retort.
“Are they taking them to Bouchmorale?” Esther asked Hannah.
“Aye,” she whispered, uncertain as to whether she was among friends or enemies.