Patrick had seen this rescue as a way to curry favor with his uncle and as possible stepping-stone to further his military career and ambitions.
“What is the favor you ask of me, Uncle Jamie?”
“I want to see the Mackenzie lad hanged,” said Sir James, steely eyed as he watched his horses train on the track beside the house and blew smoke toward the window.
“It would be my pleasure,” replied Patrick. Since he had already planned on killing Alexander Mackenzie anyway, it would be no problem to see that done.
* * * *
Alex
“Alex, lad, yer gang to hae to lie low for a spell, or maybe even leave Scotland for a while and lat be the lass,” said John Mackenzie, Alex’s father, as he and Alex huddled together at the edge of a stream in a secluded area off the main road.
Alex had been talking to his father about the incident at Coldstream as he watered Hack at one of the outlaws’ meeting places. The band of Reivers to which the Mackenzies belonged had a number of secret meeting places that were hidden in the Scottish lowlands, away for the prying eyes of the authorities. There were a few other raiders milling about in a small group and some of them had ridden right out into the stream to water their horses.
“He’s is a baud one, and he’ll nae forget the fasherie,” continued John, referring to the confrontation with Patrick and Alex’s escape.
“Weel now, if it isn’t Lord March Hare mingling amongst the plain and common folk,” said a young Scot who walked up to John and Alex.
The interruption had come from one of Alex’s older brothers, Hugh, who had arrived unnoticed while Alex and his father were engaged in the conversation. The raiders were typically badly behaved in camp, and respect was seldom given and hard to earn. Hugh liked to inject a lot of “Weels” into his conversation with anyone, and especially with his comrades, as if he were an elderly Scot, even though he was only eighteen years old, two years older than Alex. Hugh was one of the fiercest raiders, or riders, as they called themselves, and commanded high respect among all the members of the outlaw band. Physically, Hugh was a giant who stood about three inches less than seven feet tall and was stronger than any man in the band or any man in the lowlands as far as he knew. He and Alex had been close as young lads and were still very close.
“What in the devil is a March Hare and what are you talking about?” asked Alex with a perplexed expression.
“It’s in every newspaper and written on posted bills nailed to every tree in the shire.”
Alex still had a puzzled look as Hugh went on, “Every soldier, reef, and constable in the territory is looking for ye Alex, lad.”
“What in blazes for? What did I do?”
“Ye have a knack for finding trouble, don’t ye ken, lad? You’re an outlaw, Alexander Mackenzie; a wanted man, or boy in yer case. The posted bills say ye are a horse thief and ye took a horse from Sir James Murray where ye worked. He has sworn out a warrant for yer arrest after ye lit out from his manor. The posted bills also say that yer a skinny wee runt who rides through the Marches as fast as a bonny hare,” added Hugh with a grin.
The arrest warrants didn’t really say anything about a hare; Hugh was making it up as he went along. And even the term “Marches” that Hugh was using to describe the area in the lowlands where they lived had been largely discouraged and replaced with “Shire”. The Marches and March Wardens had been abolished by King James I of Scotland and England in the 1600s, but Hugh liked to use the old terms for things. He was a kind of throwback who should have been born a hundred years earlier.
Hugh was just giving his younger brother a hard time, as he usually did. Also it was high time that Hugh pinned a nickname on Alex, and the “March Hare” was fairly suited to him. They all knew that Alex wasn’t a horse thief, but there was little they could do about it. The law was firmly on the side of the nobility, and the common folk had little recourse, and even less justice, in the lowlands, unless they took it into their own hands.
The nickname that Hugh had given Alex was a bit too appropriate and it had a double meaning. The saying “as wild as a March Hare” was centuries old. It had originated in Europe and described the behavior of male hares during their courtship rituals that usually occurred during mating season in the month of March each year. Male hares darted around, leaped into the air and generally cavorted around in order to attract the attention of female hares. The females attempted to fight them off before actually mating with them. Hares are normally shy and reclusive animals, so this unusual behavior led people to believe that hares went mad or wild in the month of March; hence the saying became “mad (or wild) as a March hare”. The other meaning, of course, was that hares in the March or Shire of Scotland were considered to be very fast and very wily creatures that were hard to catch.
Alex was all of that; he was madly in love with Elizabeth Murray, and he was very wily and very fast on foot and on horseback. So, as it turned out, the nickname stuck, and it wasn’t long before everyone was calling him the March Hare.
Alex was pretty skinny, he had to admit, and he did ride like the wind. He was also very fleet of foot; he had outrun everyone he had ever raced, whether the distance was long or short. He weighed about ten stone and stood slightly less than six feet tall. Alex had green eyes and blond hair with a reddish cast. He wore it combed straight back from his forehead and over his ears, but it mostly fell forward into his eyes when he wasn’t riding. He was constantly brushing his hair back out of his eyes with his left hand.
He carried a seventy-five caliber musket that looked a lot like the Brown Bess carried by the British Army. Alex had named his musket “Slayer”. The Brown Bess musket had first been issued as the standard rifle of the British Army about ten years earlier. Alex told everyone that he had purchased his musket, but he had really acquired it while he was riding with his outlaw band.
Muskets were normally a smooth bore rifle, but Alex had jammed a musket ball in his original barrel and couldn’t knock it loose. So he finally took his musket to a Scottish gunsmith who had examined the jam and told him that it was impossible to clear, and that the barrel would have to be replaced. Alex still remembered the conversation with the gunsmith about the new barrel.
“Can you build me a new barrel?” asked Alex.
“Aye, I could lad, if I had a strip of gun steel long enough to make you a proper barrel for a rifle like this one,” replied the gunsmith.
“What have you got right now?”
“The only steel strips I have in stock right now are too short. Would ye be willing to make do with a shorter barrel?”
Alex knew that a shorter barrel meant reduced range, as well as reduced accuracy.
“Nae,” replied Alex. “How long would I have to wait for the longer strips of steel?”
“It could be several weeks. Good gun barrel steel is in very short supply right now.”
“Are there any other alternatives?”
“Not that I ken,” replied the gunsmith.
“Could you nae weld two short strips together to make one strip long enough for a proper barrel?”
“I could lad, but the weld would run perpendicular to the length of the barrel creating a weak spot that might not stand up to the muzzle blast when the rifle was fired.”
“But don’t you have to weld the barrel anyway?”
“I do lad, but the normal weld runs lengthwise along the barrel, which spreads out the weak spot all along the entire length of the barrel.”
“What if you took the two strips of steel and welded them together to make one extra-long strip of barrel steel and then forge them in a spiral around the barrel mandrel, just like the red stripes of a barber pole wrap around the tube? That way the weld of the two strips of steel would run nearly lengthwise along the length of the barrel.”
“I have never been asked to forge a barrel in that manner, but I suppose that it could be done,” replied the gunsmith.
Alex had insisted, offering to pay additional
for it, and the gunsmith had finally agreed to make it. One unexpected benefit of making a musket barrel in this fashion, which Alex and the gunsmith had not known would happen, was that the weld line inside the barrel formed a spiral groove rather than a straight groove. This spiral groove caused the musket ball to spin as it traveled down the length of the barrel when it was fired. The musket ball continued to spin after it left the barrel on its way to the target.
Most smooth bore muskets were accurate up to a range of about a hundred yards but Alex’s musket was accurate to a range of almost three hundred yards. This was true because of the increased stability of the spinning musket ball that it fired through the longer than normal barrel. Alex had also worked with the gunsmith to add a rear slot sight and a front bead to his rifle, providing him a better aiming mechanism than just sighting along the barrel.
Along with the musket, Alex carried a wicked dirk, and sometimes a sword. The transition from swords to firearms was already well underway and fewer and fewer of the riders were depending on swords these days. But Alex was as deadly with a knife, dirk, and sword as he was with his rifle.
Alex’s father John was a shoemaker by trade and training. He still maintained a small cobbler’s shop in the rear of their small house in Hathkirk, where he made shoes and boots for family and friends when he wasn’t raiding. John had made his sons each a pair of boots with a special knife sheath built into the rear of the upper leather boot shaft where it couldn’t be easily seen under long trousers. But shoemaking was no longer the family’s primary source of income; they prospered by raiding the English side of the lowlands.
Alex’s mother had been named Anne, but she had been killed during a conflict when Alex was a baby. This all happened before John became an outlaw and was the primary reason he turned to raiding. A large group of British raiders had swept into their small Scottish village during the night to loot and pillage. Anne objected to the looting and was shot, and John now limped slightly as a result of the confrontation with the outlaws. A small painting of Anne still hung in the front room of their house. When Alex was very young, he often sat and gazed at the picture on the wall and wondered what his mother had been like.
It took John several months to recover his health, both physically and emotionally, after the raid that killed his wife. He found that he didn’t have much interest in shoemaking anymore and was consumed by the desire for revenge. In retaliation for the raid and its consequences, John had formed a small band of Scottish outlaws who operated along the border. He had avenged the death of his wife many times over during raids against the English across the border. John was a natural leader of what he called the last band of Reivers. He possessed a cunning mind that all his sons had inherited and he planned his raids meticulously. His band of outlaws was ruthless to the English that they raided.
John’s hatred of the English had rubbed off on his sons. They admired John greatly and wanted to please him. They would gladly die for him if the opportunity presented itself.
“Och, that tears it; it’s all gang agley” said Alex’s father. “Ye are going to hae to set aff from Scotland for a wee bit, Alex, laddie.”
“Where should I go?”
“Ireland,” said John. “Ye can find wark at the Plantation of Ulster and get back on yer feet there. Ye might hae t’ stay in Ireland quite a spell until this all blows oer.”
“How am I going to get there?”
“Weel,” Hugh chimed in, “the distance from Scotland to Ireland is less than fourteen miles at the closest point. We can probably swim o’er there, just like swimming across a loch,” said Hugh with a grin and a gleam in his eye.
“We?” said Alex. “Who invited you along?”
“Ye don’t think Robber and I would let ye go o’er the Sheuch alane, do ye, laddie?” replied Hugh.
* * * *
* * * *
Robert and Hugh
“Robber, do ye think this skinny wee March Hare can bear to be away from his bonny wee lassie for a few months?” asked Hugh of his older brother Robert, while looking at and grinning at Alex, trying to get a rise out of him.
Robert just nodded and kicked his horse into a little faster gait.
Where Hugh was a talker, Robert was an introvert who was usually silent and stoic. He didn’t waste words, but he was wicked smart and both of his younger brothers respected him greatly. If there was a crisis, Robert was usually the one who came up with a plan or solved the problem. The dark haired Robert was the brains, the leader and the one they depended on, and Hugh was the muscle. Alex, well, they didn’t really know what Alex was yet, other than their younger brother who now had a warrant out for his arrest in the lowlands of Scotland.
The three brothers were riding side-by-side west along the Wigtown Road from Dumfries to Stranraer in the southwest of Scotland on their way to Portpatrick where they intended to take an ocean ferry to Ireland. They had decided, after some conversation with their father, that it would be best for all three brothers to leave Scotland for a while. They had packed up what few belongings they could carry on their horses and ridden west from the lowlands across Scotland.
The ferry ran an ocean route from Portpatrick on the Scottish coast to Donaghadee in Ireland. This twenty-one mile crossing could take as little as two hours under sail with a fair wind, but often “The Sheuch” as the strait between Scotland and Ireland was called by the Scots, became a longer and more perilous passage. This narrow strait was well known for turbulent waters. It was exposed to the southwesterly gales of the Irish Sea as well as the fury of the North Atlantic Ocean.
It was a fine spring day, and the weather was dry and hot. The wind was blowing gently out of the southwest as the three brothers rode down the shaded trail.
“Robber, how much will it cost us to cross the Sheuch on the ocean ferry?” asked Hugh as they rode into the outskirts of Portpatrick.
“It doesn’t really matter,” answered Robert.
“Why is that?”
“Because we don’t have any money,” said Robert flatly.
Robert led them through the little village port of Portpatrick and almost all the way to the coast, where he turned south and rode toward the cattle pens.
When they reined their horses by the pens and stopped, Hugh said, “Robber, I think that the passenger ferry boat is north of here up by the docks,” pointing back up the coast where the piers jutted out into the water.
Robert didn’t reply but scanned the area around the cattle pens looking for someone who was in charge or someone who might know something. He spied a likely candidate in a short while, dismounted, and walked over to the elderly Scot.
Robert had hatched a plan to get them across to Ireland before they had entered Portpatrick. He had let his nose guide them to the cattle pens. He could actually smell the cattle odor before he had ridden into the small port village and had come up with the idea as soon as he smelled them.
There were two ways to cross the Sheuch. One way was to sail over riding in the hold of a packet vessel, which was the preferred way. The other more economical way was to sail aboard the cattle boats and ride with the cattle.
“Guid Sir, would ye be looking to hire drovers?” Robert asked.
“Nae, laddie, not here,” replied the old Scot, “but drovers be needed o’er the Sheuch, do ye ken?”
“Aye, I do. We three lads are looking to cross over and hire out as drovers. Do ye have any interest in the other side, Sir?”
“Aye lad, I own the pens on this side and on the Irish side as well as a cattle station o’er there. If ye three will agree to sign on with me as drovers, I’ll take you across for nil. The cattle boat is on its way back now and we’ll be unloading and heading back out as soon as she arrives. If ye three lads will bide a bit, ye can help unload the cattle.”
“Aye, we’ll be happy take the jobs and here’s my hand on it,” said Robert reaching out his hand and shaking hands with the old Scot.
“My name is Robert Mackenzie and those
are my two brothers, Hugh and Alex,” he said pointing at Hugh and Alex who were still sitting on horseback.
“I’m Angus MacDonald,” replied the old Scot. “Yer wages be sixpence a week each plus room and board. If ye lads will round up a few calves that have gotten out of the pens and wandered o’er by the burn there, I would be much obliged.”
“Aye, Sir, we’d be happy to do it,” replied Robert.
Robert nodded to Angus, remounted his horse, and led off toward the wayward calves near the small stream that ran into the ocean nearby.
“Robber, how’d ye get the idea that we know anything about cattle?” Hugh said with a grin.
“You’ve stolen enough of them to know something about them, haven’t you?” replied Robert.
Hugh and Alex laughed as they rode out in search of the wayward cattle.
* * * *
Alex
“Weel, I ken we didn’t have t’ swim the Sheuch after all,” said Hugh as he, Robert, and Alex sat on the gunwale of the cattle boat behind the cattle pens, sailing on the empty ferry leaving Portpatrick and heading out into the Sheuch.
As usual, Robert just nodded.
The three brothers had rounded up the strays and helped unload the Irish cattle from the ferry as soon as it had arrived. As soon as the cattle ferry was empty, they walked their horses up to the fenced funnel leading to the gangplank and up to the ferry’s cattle pens. When they got up on the ferry, they led their horses into the cattle pens, where they tied them to the rails with the reins.
The cattle ferry was not carrying cattle back to Ireland. Northern Ireland was very sparsely populated in 1770. Its total population was much smaller than the population of Scotland and England. The importation of cattle from Ireland to Scotland was a staple of the Irish economy and an important food source for Scotland and England.
The cattle ferry was actually a packet vessel that had been modified specifically to carry cattle. Cattle pens had been built along both sides of the main deck, with high rails toward the sea and toward the interior of the craft to keep the cattle in a confined space. A narrow center aisle ran almost the entire length of the vessel and was used for the seamen, drovers and a few passengers. Ventilation was very important in moving cattle by sea. Toxic methane gasses produced by the cattle could build up in the stagnant air as a ship sailed along with the breeze. These concentrated gases could kill the cattle. Cattle boats were usually designed to be open-air so that cattle could get as much fresh air as possible during the trip.