By My Sword Alone by David Black (ebook reader ink TXT) 📕

branding me disloyal and decreeing that forthwith I am banished from his majesty’s presence, properties and any territories he rules now, and those over which he might rule in the future.’

‘Ah …’ said the capitaine. And for a moment both men gazed at each other with great frankness, until, without the slightest hesitation, both of them spontaneously burst into gales of laughter.

The next day, head thick from all the wine and brandy, James was back on his horse at first light, and the Dzików marched out again to drill.

The letter from the Palazzo del Re had flung in his face all the same accusations Dorothea had, and in between watching his regiment blunder and learn as it thundered and wheeled across the grass-tufted sandy soil of the Westerplatte, he reflected through the dull throb in his head what it all made him feel.

The short answer, he concluded, was nothing.

Regardless of whether his friend Claude had been right, and a life of books was no future for a man like him, it was his choice to make, and James Stuart and his dynastic ambitions had no right to take it from him so arbitrarily. His deluded father and his enthusiasms in that direction had contributed, of course. But it was that man Stuart, and the despotism of his birth right, that had dragged them all into this mess of contest, dispute and disharmony, when all he, James Lindsay had wanted was to get on with his life.

He imagined himself a faculty member at Glasgow, or even Edinburgh – he did not fancy Aberdeen or St Andrews, the east being too cold and dark in the winter, and too far from truly polite society. His days would be spent reading and debating; other hours set aside for deep thought and other hours yet in writing them down. As the years passed, he reflected, maybe a chair; certainly tenure. Then marriage one day; a house and children. His own hearth and a sturdy kitchen table, covered with his notes, as he supped his coffee and marked them up while his children clamoured, mewling and puking over them; their cries, when not disturbing all thought, keeping him awake, especially when the pain of the previous night’s excesses lay upon him, like now. And how their discordant noise would form a hellish harmony with his wife’s endless scolding over how little money his bookish career was delivering … until he found himself laughing again like he had with Claude. His friend, whom he could rely on to never mewl or puke, or scold, and who was probably right on his choice of career.

Mainly because he realised now there was another truth to be acknowledged. Something that he had long suspected, but after their growing correspondence, he now knew, was that he would never be as clever as his friend Davy. The fact was, David Hume had a finer brain than he. It was not something he could find any jealousy in his heart over. Rather, he was proud to know such a man; relieved even, that he existed. That somewhere in the world, an intellect such as Davy’s was there to grapple with the big questions

That evening, the Dzików returning after drill, James followed his officers into the regimental lines. Poinatowski watched him dismount and lead his horse Estelle towards the farriers’ station. He called after him, ‘Excellency! May we pour you a flagon of our Polish beer after your day’s exertions?’

‘As long as there is a chance of others to follow it, captain, I am your man!’ James called back.

There was already a huge excitement abroad in the fields surrounding Weichselmünde fortress; the to-ing and fro-ing among blue-and-white striped tents of the French regimental streets and the dull canvas of the Polish militia lines; this newly cobbled army had an air of something pending about it. Close to 12,000 men were pressed into this small bubble of Baltic coast. Everywhere there was evidence of preparation. Even though James was sure none among them knew for what, or why.

The French had been here three days now, and James, as colonel of the army’s only heavy cavalry element, had not even been introduced to the major general who would now command it, let alone been informed of what might be expected of him. No posting of any chain of command had been made, nor any orders issued. The bustle of the encampment pressed these thoughts on James as he settled Estelle, even though he knew fretting over it all was pointless. They’d all learn soon enough. He walked back to the regiment’s mess tent, and only managed a step through the flap before Poinatowski thrust a wooden beaker, brimming with foaming beer, into his fist.

‘For your refreshment, excellency!’ said the grinning captain.

James had come here because he felt he had to tell his officers something about what was going on; the sudden arrival of the French, and all this military build-up.

He remembered all the ignorance and uncertainty that had preceded Glenshiel, and felt it was wrong to repeat the mistake. That he was almost as much in the dark as his own men however, seemed an even worse omen. What did he know? That this war had extended beyond their own narrow horizons. But then rumours running rife about the camp and all the conjecture that followed had already dealt with much of where they now stood in this war. Which was precisely why James now feared a repeat of what he’d witnessed on the evening of Glenshiel; whether he was going to see his dragoons just melt away, just as the Highland army had that evening, astride the road ’tween Eilean Donan and Inverness.

Maybe if he could give them some reason to fight, even an invented one, they would stand. Because, right now, he was thinking he could do with a reason to fight, himself.

He invited his officers to