In 1745, Charles Edward Stuart, claimant prince to the
unified thrones of England and Scotland, leads one final uprising to seize the
crown for his father, James Edward Stuart. This is the third attempt by James’
followers, known as the Jacobites, to depose the ruling dynasty and restore the
House of Stuart.
Though most Jacobites come from the Scottish Highlands, English, Scots, Welsh,
and Irish alike fight for both sides, with few caring who occupies the throne.
For many Scots, it is a clan war, a chance to settle centuries’ old scores. For
others, it is a civil war, with red-jacketed soldiers compelled to fight their
plaid wearing fathers, brothers, or sons on the opposing side.
“The ’45,” as it is referred, is a dark chapter from a merciless age. The fate
of the burgeoning British Empire, and that of the Highland people, will be
settled in a crucible of cannon, musket, bayonet, and broadsword, all wrought
with ruthless fury. Many combatants and innocents alike shall grievously suffer
in its wake, with only the faintest glints of humanity. This is their story.
“They’re going to try and burn the sodding door,” Lewis
whispered with a disbelieving grin.
“I’ll sort that,” Molloy replied. “You give them a proper
reception once they light the barrels.”
The sergeant then hastened along the western rampart until
he found his lone sentry. He ordered the man to bring up water from the
kitchen, as much as he could carry. He then raced across the courtyard and gave
the same order to the other sentry before returning to the north wall.
Crouching low, he stared through one of the firing ports. He
could see the shapes of men shuffling around the barrels, which as best he
could tell were a couple of feet from the door. They scraped loudly across the
gravel. To his left, Molloy saw the two privates returning with a pair of water
buckets each. They hunkered low behind the parapet, near Corporal Lewis. The
young NCO held his musket ready as he saw the sparks coming from the enemy’s
flint and steel. A small fire soon started. It quickly grew, taking hold of
some dry straw and kindling.
“Now,” the corporal said calmly as he shouldered his weapon.
As eight muskets unleashed a close range salvo, they could
only clearly see the man who’d sparked the flames. The dense smoke clouded the
vision of the Redcoats, who hastily began to reload. From his position,
Sergeant Molloy could see the effects. The Jacobite visible in the burning
light was struck at least three times, through the guts and neck. Doubling
over, he pitched forward, nearly upsetting the other barrel. Molloy saw the
shape of another man clutching at his shoulder before stumbling away.
The sounds of musketry from at least two score of enemy
fighters flashed and echoed in the dark, peppering the ramparts.
“Easy, lads,” Molloy said. “They can’t hit a fucking thing
so long as you use the firing ports, and only when ready to fire.”
At Corporal Lewis’ command, all but one of the Redcoats
loosed another volley. This man complained about not being able to see a thing
and thus stood to peer over the rampart.
“God damn it, Private Thomas!” Sergeant Molloy snapped. “Get
your fucking head down—”
He was interrupted by an even more intense return of musket
fire from their enemies. Most shots smacked harmlessly into the wall or sailed
over the ramparts. One, however, struck the errant private in the head. He
stood rigid for a moment before his convulsing body tumbled into the courtyard
below.
“Tommy!” one of his mates cried out, starting to stand.
“Get back to your post!” Molloy snapped, rushing over to the
young man at a low crouch and cuffing him across the head. “There’s nothing you
can do for him. He’s dead because of his stupid negligence. Now keep your
fucking head down and reload your damn firelock!”
As the barrels started to blaze, the two privates bearing
water buckets upended these over the rampart, all the while keeping low behind
the defences. Within seconds, the fire was completely extinguished and the
Redcoats let out a cheer.
Molloy crept over to Corporal Lewis, who’d just finished
reloading his musket.
“You have this situation under control,” the sergeant said.
He nodded to the water bearers. “I’ll take these two and head for the south
wall.”
In the distance, the Jacobite musketry continued, albeit in
diminished numbers, with no coordination.
“They won’t be getting in this way,” Lewis confirmed before
issuing the command for his men to fire once more.
He knew their chances of hitting their enemy in the dark
were slim. Still, this gave his soldiers, especially the newest ones who’d only
been with the army a few months, a chance to practice their musketry drills
while under fire.
Sergeant Molloy ordered the water bearers to follow him,
along with two more privates, before descending the steps and crossing over to
the south rampart at a brisk walk. This left Corporal Lewis with five men to
hold the rear entrance. Their enemy may have numbered in the hundreds, yet
their one attempt at breaching the rear entrance had proven as pathetic as it
was foolish.
The crack of musket shots came from the three men dispersed
along the south rampart. Upon ascending the steps, Molloy could just make out
an enemy combatant lying face down along the steep path leading into the fort.
“They’re trying to bring up a ladder, Sergeant,” one of the
men explained. This was an older private in his late twenties, who Molloy
trusted to keep his mates from shooting at mere shadows.
“Only one ladder,” the sergeant replied, shaking his head in
amusement.
“What’s more, the path is too steep,” the private said.
“They can’t even carry the damn thing up to the wall! And with the rain soaking
the grassy slopes on the flanks, it’s too damned slippery. They won’t be coming
up that way.”
“Splendid,” Molloy said.
His four accompanying soldiers took up positions at various
firing ports. He then ordered them to reload but wait for his command to fire.
He then checked his watch. It was nearly 3:30 in the morning. While the sun
would not rise for nearlyan hour, the faint glow of predawn now made it easy to
spot their enemy. He counted at least a hundred gathered in a column about a
hundred yards away. It was they who bore the lone ladder. Pops of musket fire
from frustrated Jacobites came from both these men and several clusters along
the western base of the hill.
Molloy ordered a volley fired at the ladder group, as they
were closest. While waiting for the smoke to clear, and his men to reload their
muskets, he hastened over to the eastern wall, where he saw not a single enemy
fighter. Returning to his men, they fired another pair of volleys. Several
Jacobites had fallen, only to be abandoned by their companions, who fled back
down the path to return to their camp.
It was then that the sergeant stood. He ordered his men to
remain hidden, lest they give away their true strength to the enemy.
“Three cheers for His Majesty, King George!” Molloy shouted,
removing his hat.
James Mace is an author, historian, and life-long
storyteller. He began writing as a hobby in the early 2000s, penning physical
fitness articles for a bodybuilding website and a magazine called Hardcore
Muscle.
James wrote the initial draft of his first novel, Soldier of
Rome: The Legionary, as a cathartic means of escapism while serving in Iraq
from 2004 to 2005. He has since released thirty-seven books, including fifteen
Ancient History best-sellers, and five South African History best-sellers. His
works currently span his two favourite eras: Ancient Rome and the British
Empire.
Outside of writing historical novels, James is a Research
Historian and Script Writer for the channel, Redcoat History. He maintains a
blog called The Buffed Historian, sharing random fitness articles and other
tales from across history. His hobbies include weightlifting, road cycling,
foothills hikes, travelling across the globe, live theatre, video games, and
sitting down for a game of Dungeons & Dragons with friends.
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