Chapter 22

Madeleine raced into Farraline, her sweat-lathered horse almost crashing into a large group of English soldiers standing in formation near the intersection of the road and the village’s main street. She frantically dodged the outstretched hands attempting to yank her from the saddle and kicked her horse onward.

They careened along the main street, surrounded on every side by chaotic confusion. Everywhere Madeleine looked people were running. Soldiers waved lighted torches above their heads, and men, women, and children bolted from their smoke-filled cottages. Terrified screams, shrieks, and raucous laughter rent the air.

Finally Madeleine’s horse would go no further, rearing in fright and wildly flailing its hooves despite Madeleine’s frenzied urging. She clutched at the horse’s coarse mane until she could slide off the saddle, then began to run dazedly through the village.

She coughed and wheezed, her lungs burning from the acrid smoke, her chest heaving painfully. Her eyes stung and tears spilled down her cheeks. She stumbled and fell heavily to her knees but dragged herself back up and ran on, her stricken mind barely comprehending the devastation before her.

The cottages at the south end of Farraline were completely engulfed, rolling orange flames pouring from every blackened window and yawning door. Several dozen English soldiers were methodically setting fire to the thatched roofs of another row of cottages while officers on horseback guided their progress.

Once again screams filled the air as villagers abandoned their homes at the last possible moment, forced out by the soldiers’ warning shouts and the thick, billowing smoke. Madeleine spied Flora Chrystie, her tiny daughter in her arms, and her three boys fleeing to the safety of the moor with their neighbors.

“Stop it, I tell ye!” Madeleine yelled hoarsely, overcome by blind rage. “Stop!” She dashed toward the nearest mounted redcoat, catching him from behind. Before the startled officer knew what had hit him, she had grabbed his wide belt and pulled him with all her might from his horse. She bent over and wrenched his pistol from his belt, clutching it with her tied hands.

“Ye devil!” she cried, pointing the muzzle shakily at his ashen face. Her finger grazed the trigger, and she closed her eyes.

“Madeleine, you can’t stop it this way!”

Garrett’s anxious voice seared into her consciousness, and she whirled around just as he dismounted from his heaving horse a few feet away from her. His eyes were the color of slate, boring into hers as if demanding she acknowledge the desperate plea written there.

“Put down the pistol, Madeleine,” he said urgently. “I’ll never be able to help you if you shoot someone.”

“No,” Madeleine said numbly, shaking her head. She took a step toward him. “Ye lied, Garrett. I believed ye, trusted ye—”

“You can still trust me, Maddie,” he interjected, holding out his hands. “Everything I told you was the truth. I knew nothing of this. You must believe me.”

“No,” she breathed fiercely, aiming the muzzle at his chest. “I thought ye were different, Garrett, but ye’re the same as the rest of yer kind—”

Suddenly she felt a sharp, sickening blow to the back of her head, and her words died on her lips. She staggered, blackness washing over her. The last thing she saw before crumpling to the ground was Garrett rushing toward her.

“That’ll teach the bastard,” the young lieutenant grunted, patting the polished butt of his musket. He prodded Madeleine’s prone body with his toe. “He’s lucky I didn’t put a ball right between his shoulder blades instead. He surely deserved it, pointing a gun in my face—”

“Get away from her!” Garrett snarled, falling to his knees. He pushed off her black cap and cradled her head gently, relieved to see there was no swelling or bleeding. Her breathing was shallow but even, another good sign. At worst when she woke up she’d have a terrible headache.

Garrett gathered Madeleine into his arms and stood up quickly, his eyes ablaze. “I’m Captain Marshall, assigned to this valley by General Henry Hawley. Who’s in command here? Who gave you the order to burn this village?”

“Why, General Hawley,” the officer blurted, stunned. “He’s personally leading our regiment.” He peered at Madeleine’s face, streaked with tears and soot. “If I’d known she was a woman, captain, I wouldn’t have hit her so hard.”

Garrett ignored the man’s curious stare, his jaw tightening. He recalled the terse message he had received the day before from Colonel Wolfe and cursed his own carelessness in not taking the warning more seriously.

It was clear General Hawley had made good on his threat to take immediate action, far sooner than Garrett would ever have expected. Colonel Wolfe must have told Hawley that he suspected Black Jack’s activities were centered around Farraline. Garrett had told his colonel as much in a message he had sent to Fort Augustus several weeks ago.

“Where’s the general?” Garrett asked gruffly

“Right over there, captain, near that stone church,” the lieutenant replied, pointing toward the north end of Farraline.

Garrett grimaced. He must have ridden right past Hawley in his haste to overtake Madeleine. He would have caught up with her sooner if not for Hawley’s blasted soldiers blocking the road. At least it would have spared her the cruel blow to her head.

He glanced down at Madeleine’s face, so pale beneath what little black soot remained. Once again she had thought nothing for her own safety, trying in vain to stop what was happening to Farraline. Garrett had to get to General Hawley at once if he was to save the rest of the village from the torch. He looked steadily at the lieutenant.

“Tell your men, and those of the other officers as well, to stay their torches until further orders are received from General Hawley,” he commanded.

“I can’t do that, Captain Marshall,” the lieutenant objected. “Our orders are to keep going until there’s nothing left standing—”

“I said stay your torches,” Garrett said ominously. “I’ve news for the general that will undoubtedly reverse his orders. If one more cottage is burned, lieutenant, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

The young officer swallowed hard, clearly daunted by Garrett’s murderous expression. He nodded.

“Good. Get on with it.” Garrett watched as the lieutenant hurried over to the other mounted officers, who each in turn glanced guardedly at him. They began to call off their men.

Garrett waited no longer. He turned and strode toward the church, hugging Madeleine to his chest.

Each step was excruciating as his mind waged a final battle with his raging emotions, his soul demanding that he find a way to hold on to his dream. How he longed at that moment simply to ride out of Farraline with Madeleine safe in his arms, leaving this horrible dilemma far behind them.

Yet Garrett knew he could not. If there was one thing he understood about Mistress Madeleine Fraser, however painful for him, it was that she would sacrifice everything, even her life, for her kinsmen.

By turning Madeleine over to General Hawley as Black Jack, Garrett would be helping her people. To do otherwise would only earn him her hatred. It was bad enough she already believed he had lied to her. Her screams still echoed in his ears, her words twisted cruelly into his heart… I hate ye… I hate ye …

God, he could not think of it! He had to believe there was another way he could save Madeleine from Hawley’s wrath. He had to believe he had not lost his dream forever—

“Welcome, Captain Marshall,” a loud voice rang out, shattering his tormented thoughts. “So now I see how you’ve been wasting your time. A wench in trousers, no less.”

Garrett’s eyes narrowed at his supreme commander, who was sitting astride a gleaming white stallion that seemed dwarfed by the man’s ponderous weight. Illuminated by the towering flames, Hawley’s massive bulk cast a grotesque shadow on the church’s stone walls.

“General Hawley,” Garrett said curtly, stopping in front of the general and his plumed retinue of high-ranking officers.

A quick glance told him his only ally, Colonel Wolfe, was not among them. He would have to fight this out alone. He drew a deep breath and was about to speak when Sergeant Fletcher suddenly rode up to the church, followed by the rest of his soldiers and their sullen prisoners.

Sergeant Fletcher dismounted and rushed over to his side. “You caught her, captain,” he blurted with relief.

“Caught whom?” General Hawley inquired, his shrewd, heavy-lidded eyes swiftly assessing the scene before him.

“Black Jack,” Garrett stated clearly. He nodded toward the trussed Highlanders flanked by his soldiers. “And the five men who’ve been riding with her.”

General Hawley quickly masked his astonishment and adopted a look of studied amusement. “Surely, you jest, Captain Marshall.” He pointed to Madeleine with the feathered end of his horsewhip. “Are you telling me that this woman is the brigand who’s been attacking my supply trains?”

“Yes, I am, general,” Garrett replied evenly. “We captured Black Jack and her kinsmen an hour ago, after discovering the location of their meeting place. They would have been in your custody by tomorrow night.

He paused, glancing pointedly over his shoulder. “This matter could have been resolved peacefully, as we had planned.”

“Do I detect a hint of criticism in your tone, captain?” General Hawley asked sharply, anger shaking his voice. “If so, you’d do well to keep it to yourself. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Garrett said.

General Hawley snorted with derision. “Your humanitarian effort has cost the Crown a great deal of money replacing the food supplies continually stolen by this blackguard.” He waved his horsewhip toward the burning cottages. “If I’d done this a month ago as I had planned—before Colonel Wolfe interfered, Black Jack and her men” —he spat— “would have hanged by and saved us quite a bit of trouble.” He leaned forward in his saddle. “Not to mention the soldiers who’ve been shot by these six bastards. I should have swept through this valley with fire and bayonet until these Highlanders served up Black Jack on a silver platter!”

Garrett had no response to this long tirade, which seemed to irritate General Hawley all the more.

“Does this woman…this Black Jack, have a name?” he asked, staring at Madeleine with evident distaste.

“Madeleine Fraser, mistress of Farraline,” he answered. “Her father was a baronet, Sir Hugh Fraser, who died at Culloden.”

“How fascinating,” General Hawley said. “A baronet’s daughter. Then she must have lands, an estate nearby? They will be forfeited to the Crown, of course, for her vicious acts of treason. That should put some gold coin back into the king’s coffers.”

Garrett bit his tongue. It enraged him to hear General Hawley accuse Madeleine of vicious acts! “Yes,” he replied. “She has an estate, Mhor Manor, where my men and I have been billeting since our arrival in Strathherrick.”

There was an ominous silence, broken only by the crackling flames in the distance. When General Hawley finally spoke, his fleshy face was bright red with anger.

“Do you mean to say, Captain Marshall, that while you were quartered under her roof, Mistress Fraser continued to carry out her raids with no interference from you or your men?”

Garrett stared back at him stonily. “Certainly we would have captured her sooner, general, if we had detected her activities.” He chose his next words with care, aware that Madeleine’s kinsmen were within earshot. Madeleine would learn of Glenis’s assistance from his lips alone. “I have discovered there is a secret tunnel beneath Mhor Manor. That was how Mistress Fraser was able to pass unnoticed from the house and continue her raids despite our presence.”

“A secret tunnel!” General Hawley snorted. “These Highlanders are the craftiest lot.” He flicked his horsewhip impatiently. “I would see this Mhor Manor,” he stated. “I assume it will adequately accommodate my commanding officers and myself? Most of the manor houses still standing in the Highlands are hollow shells, not fit for beasts.”

Garrett felt bile rising in his throat. To think that Hawley might sleep in the bed where only last night he and Madeleine had slept. “The house is well appointed,” he heard himself answer woodenly.

“Good. I assume there is a stable where the prisoners may be housed?”

Garrett stared at him incredulously. He glanced at Madeleine, still unconscious in his arms, and back to the general. “Mistress Fraser has been injured,” he said. “She needs care, as does one of her kinsmen, who was shot during the ambush. The stable is drafty and it leaks, hardly the place—”

“Captain Marshall!” General Hawley roared, cutting him off. “If I did not know better, I might accuse you of harboring some affection for these Jacobite dogs. Surely you don’t expect me to sleep under the same roof with them.” He abruptly turned his attention to the stiffly erect soldier at Garrett’s side. “Your name, sergeant,” he demanded.

“Sergeant Fletcher, sir!” he answered briskly.

“Well, Sergeant Fletcher. Take this prisoner from Captain Marshall and see that she and her surly kinsmen are locked up in the stable under full guard,” he commanded, then added dryly, “I’ll have one of my surgeons sent over to attend to their wounds. I’d like a full complement of criminals to face the king’s justice, if possible.” His eyes shifted to Garrett. “Meanwhile, the good captain will kindly accompany my officers and myself to Mhor Manor where we’ll discuss his notable accomplishment over a glass of wine or two.”

General Hawley kicked his horse with his brightly polished boots. The animal was clearly straining as it walked past them, then stopped once again in the road. “Captain Marshall?” the general said without turning his head.

Sergeant Fletcher turned to Garrett. “I should take her, captain,” he said anxiously. “I’ll see to it that she’s well tended, with warm blankets and the like. She did the same for you once…” His voice trailed off, and he looked momentarily flustered.

Garrett could empathize with his sergeant’s confusion. He reluctantly handed Madeleine over to him, his hand brushing against her cheek. “Thank you, Fletcher.”

He turned and mounted his bay, which had been brought to him by one of his soldiers. He drew up alongside General Hawley, who was staring toward the south end of the village, glints of fire reflected in his hooded eyes.

Garrett felt a chill cut through him at the pleased smile on the general’s face. “General Hawley, I took the liberty of ordering your men to stay their torches, seeing that I’ve captured Black Jack—”

“So I’ve just been informed,” General Hawley interrupted bluntly, without taking his gaze from the burning cottages. A long, uncomfortable silence settled between them until the general spoke up excitedly. “Look there.” He pointed with his horsewhip. “What a magnificent sight.”

Garrett followed his gaze to a cottage only fifty feet away, one of the last to have been torched before he called a halt to the destruction. A ball of flame shot up high into the inky black sky as the roof suddenly gave way, crashing into the fire-gutted interior with a roaring whoosh.

“I would like to see that happen to every cottage in the Highlands,” General Hawley said acidly. “These Jacobite bastards will never survive the winter without roofs over their treasonous heads. When they’re freezing and starving to death, they’ll wish a thousand times I hadn’t spared their miserable lives tonight.” He looked sharply at Garrett. “My order stands, Captain Marshall. Farraline is to be burned to the ground as a warning to any other villages in Strathherrick who might harbor an enemy of the Crown.” He dug his boots into his stallion’s flanks. “I’ve acquired quite a thirst from this night’s work, captain. Lead on.”

Garrett felt as if he had been slammed violently in the chest. He could scarcely breathe, and he could not think. He could only act.

Gripped by stark despair he urged his bay into a trot, riding side by side with a man from whom he could expect no pity.

Behind them the night once again resounded with screams as General Hawley’s soldiers set about their task with renewed vengeance, cottage after cottage falling to the twisting flames.