Angol
November 1745. After victory at the Battle of Gladsmuir, Charles Edward Stuart rules Scotland as prince regent. Across the border, in England, the regiments of King George are massing, intent on dislodging the prince from his throne in Edinburgh. The newly formed army of Scottish Jacobites take the initiative in the war. They invade England. To disguise their lack of numbers and ensure surprise, the prince's army marches through the border hills in three fast-moving columns. Lord Kilmarnock's regiment of horse grenadiers are ordered to carry out the cavalry duties that the gentlemen regiments will not undertake. They find themselves escorting the baggage and artillery train through hostile country. If they cannot rendezvous with the Jacobite army as planned, the prince will have no capacity to fight the coming campaign. Lord Kilmarnock has only a hundred and fifty horsemen for the task at hand. It is not enough. "What ignoble wickedness is this?" Patrick pointed the muzzle of his piece towards the sack of caltrops by the ford. "It is the wickedness of war." "It is the madness of folly!" Patrick thrust his smoking carbine into its holster. He drew out his rapier and held the blade low. "A soldier should fight with honor." "Fight with honor! Is that why your gallant prince declines battle and flees into the mountains?" Vere's Ulster accent was heavy with contempt. The two men faced each other, a pistol shot apart. The grey gelding flared its nostrils and stamped its foot on the road. Patrick placed his hand on the animal's neck to calm its keenness. "Aye, we are retreating, true enough. But before we depart, I will see that the crows gorge themselves on your flesh!" "Test your mettle if you have the courage." The Irishman brandished his musket in the air causing sunlight to glint off the steel of the bayonet. "But before you face my fury, prepare yourself first to face the wrath of God." "There is surely enough room in hell for the both of us!"
