Mine Is the Night A Novel

Seventy-Three

The resolve to conquer is half the battle

in love as well as war.

GEORGE STILLMAN HILLARD



ith Dickson by his side, Jack trotted across the Ettrick bridge, fighting the urge to look back. However much he longed to bid Elisabeth farewell, he and Dickson could not tarry in Selkirk. Not if they were to arrive in the capital at noontide on Thursday, giving him sufficient time to shave, dress like an admiral, and sail into battle.

He’d sent a hired messenger ahead to make sure the governor was in residence yet with strict orders not to inform the man of their imminent arrival. Jack intended to use the element of surprise to his advantage. Having once offered a cool welcome to General Lord Mark Kerr at Bell Hill, Jack could only imagine the icy reception he would find at Edinburgh Castle if Lord Mark knew he was coming.

Still, for Elisabeth Kerr, he would do whatever was required.

He’d not told her Lord Mark would be the one acting on the king’s behalf, knowing it would only add to her fears. He could still hear the plaintive note in her voice, still see her downcast expression. Might the king withhold his mercy?

Not if God is with us, Bess.

Before leaving Bell Hill, Jack had taken Mrs. Pringle and Roberts into his confidence, explaining the reason for his journey north. “I care little whether or not Lord Mark finds her worthy, but I would know your thoughts,” he’d said. “Will you honor her as Lady Buchanan? Or will she remain a dressmaker in your eyes?”

Their response was swift and heartening. “Your lordship has chosen well,” Roberts said emphatically, while Mrs. Pringle beamed. “You already know of my regard for her, milord.” Jack was certain the rest of the household would follow their good example.

Only Lord Mark needed convincing.

“Mind your mount, sir,” Dickson called out when a large brown hare darted across Janvier’s path. “Mrs. Tudhope would happily throw that one in a pot.”

Jack calmed his horse with ease, grateful for any benign subject to occupy his thoughts. “I recall a decent plate of hare soup when we last supped at the Middleton Inn. We shall see what they have to offer us come Wednesday eve, aye?”


“Venison and pheasant,” Middleton’s cook said proudly, ladling a second helping of game soup onto Jack’s plate.

He could barely hear the woman above the din, or taste her soup with the pungent aroma of tallow candles filling his nostrils. One stage out from Edinburgh, the Middleton Inn welcomed travelers from all levels of society to sup and drink in the low-ceilinged room with its broad, soot-stained beams and sanded floor.

“I found your messenger,” Dickson announced, steering a gangly young man into the chair across from Jack. “Waiting for us, as requested, though he was hanging round that large bowl by the hearth. The one with the hot whisky punch.”

Jack frowned at the lad. “You’ll not be paid unless you’ve done your duty.”

“Oh, I have, milord.” His eyes were a bit glassy, but his words were sober enough. “Went to the castle this morn and learned from one o’ the dragoons that the governor is at hame ’til Friday.”

“Good,” Jack told him. “What else did you hear?”

“Meikle ado about Lords Balmerino and Kilmarnock. They were Jacobites, ye ken, beheaded in the Tower o’ London for treason.”

Jack grimaced, having read a detailed report in The Gentleman’s Magazine. “That will do,” he told the lad, then drew a handful of coins from his purse.

While the messenger stumbled off toward the punch bowl, Dickson resumed his seat, a troubled expression on his face. “Is your lady still loyal to the Jacobites, milord, or is she all for the king now? ’Tis the one question the general is sure to ask.”

“Aye.” Jack picked up his soup spoon, though he’d lost his appetite. “When he does, I’ll be ready with an answer.”


With a blustery wind roaring down the High Street, Jack walked uphill toward Edinburgh Castle, the paving stones slick beneath his boots. On the day of the Common Riding, his heavy admiral’s uniform had been an encumbrance. But with October upon them, the dark blue wool coat, as well as the scarlet waistcoat beneath it, provided much-needed warmth.

Dickson had spent two hours grooming him. “Like a thoroughbred, milord,” he’d said.

Jack had offered no protest, knowing he would need every advantage his military standing might offer. His mission was twofold that noontide. The first would require gold; the second, humility. Though Lord Mark had a reputation as a duelist, Jack had no intention of touching his sword.

They passed beneath the portcullis of the castle with little resistance, the dragoons easily spotting his rank and deferring to him accordingly. Climbing the cobbled road round to the left, past the cart sheds, they were directed toward the governor’s house, clearly the newest building in the castle compound.

“Fine prospect,” Dickson commented, nodding at the splendid view of the capital and the North Sea beyond it.

“Aye,” Jack agreed, giving it a cursory glance. On the way down, when he held two signed agreements in hand, he might admire the scenery. But not now.

Judging by the number of dormers and chimneys poking through the slate roof three stories above, the governor’s residence housed a full complement of officers, deputies, constables, and the like. Jack approached the center entrance, shoulders squared, head high, all the while reminding himself he’d need more than his own strength to see him through. “The LORD strong and mighty,” he said under his breath, “the LORD mighty in battle.”

“Praying, milord?” Dickson asked.

“Always,” Jack replied, then lifted the brass knocker. A moment later they were ushered into the entrance hall where they found enough weaponry mounted on the walls to give any visitor pause.

The lieutenant who greeted them was polite but wary. “Is General Kerr expecting you, sir?”

“He is not,” Jack informed him, “though he’ll know my name. Tell him Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan wishes to meet with him. At once.”