sir, is that we are neither trained nor equipped to meet a disciplined army on their terms. Indeed, battles have been fought on open plains before—battles between evenly matched forces who respect and adhere to the standard codes of warfare. They fire their cannon at each other, then, after their cavalries have made their gallant and impressive contributions, march their infantry out in precision lines, five ranks deep. Have you ever encountered a solid wall of musketfire? A wall that moves slowly, incessantly forward, with the front rank discharging their weapons, falling back to reload at a relatively leisurely pace, while the other four ranks advance and fire in turn? Our army has no cannon, no cavalry to speak of, and pitifully few men who even know how to fire a musket, let alone possess one to carry into battle. Our ranks are comprised of shepherds and tacksmen, many of whom will take to the field armed with only a knife or scythe, or a rusted clai’ mór that has lain buried in the ground for the past thirty years. Any weapons they do come by will be taken from their own dead—the chiefs, lairds, and officers of the clans who, by right of honor and tradition, occupy the front ranks and who, by that same code of honor and tradition, prefer to test their courage and mettle by the blade of a broadsword rather than the more modern efficiency of a pistol. But in order to test that courage and mettle, gentlemen, those same chiefs, lairds, and officers will have to charge across an open field facing cannonfire and sharpshooters, across a distance that they cannot possibly hope to survive, should God grant them wings! And once the chiefs and leaders of the clans have fallen, I have no doubt the shepherds and tacksmen will continue the charge bravely and courageously—but to what end? Even supposing they survive the wall of unrelenting fire, without leaders what will they be fighting for?”
A round of grimly supportive ayes came from the chiefs, none of whom would consider altering the composition of the ranks, but all of whom could recognize the logic of Lord George’s observations.
“Our strength has always been our ability tae strike hard an’ fast,” said the crusty old MacDonald of Keppoch, “tae fall doon out O’ the hills an’ glens an’ raid our enemies afore they raid us. We’re nae match f’ae cannon an’ fancy Sassenach musketry, but I’ve yet tae see a neat, straight line O’ English sojers hold their water against a Heeland charge when it comes at them out O’ thin air. We need hills. We need cover. We need room tae wield our swords an’ cut them tae mince afore they ken we’re on them.”
“I must agree,” Lochiel said worriedly. “Put our men on an open field, wi’ nae cover an’ nae chance tae fight the way God intended men tae fight, an’ aye, we’d see a slaughter.”
The prince endured the tense silence that followed the chiefs’ remarks, knowing they were speaking through experience, knowing he could only lose more credibility in arguing openly with his general. He ignored a whining whisper from O’Sullivan and laid the problem squarely in Lord George’s lap. “Well then, General, how do you suggest we go about ridding ourselves of General Cope’s presence? Is there something we are not seeing, perhaps? Some way to use the moorland to our advantage?”
Lord George, relieved to have been presented with an opportunity to salve his prince’s damaged pride, quickly agreed. “My thought exactly, Highness. As I recall, this afternoon you suggested scouting the moor more closely with an eye to finding some way to utilize what is, in all probability, a blind spot.”
“Why yes … yes, I did,” the prince said, not recalling having done so at all.
“Donald?” Lord George turned his angular face toward the chief of Clan Cameron. “I believe your men undertook the task. Is there any possibility of moving an army through that morass?”
Lochiel resisted the urge to glance