Though I only recently published my first American Revolution novel, All Ye That Pass By: Gone for a Soldier, I have had the aspiration for some time, and have gone through variations of drafts since I was twelve. When I was fourteen, I even contacted the Dysart Trust and the Kirkcaldy Civic Society in the Lowlands of Scotland to learn more about their native son, Major John Pitcairn, the intrepid British marine officer who famously shouted “Disperse, ye rebels!” on Lexington Green where the American Revolution began. In the process, I befriended Carol McNeill, a stalwart historical society volunteer, who I carried on a regular correspondence with through phone and internet. I came to see her as my long-lost Scottish aunt and consider her to be one of the major influences of my formative years.

Together, we discussed many aspects of the town of Dysart’s history, as well as Major Pitcairn’s lineage. His mother was related to medieval royalty, and his father served as a chaplain under the Duke of Marlborough in the Cameronian Regiment. With a strong connection to the Covenanters, recruits to this regiment would be given Bibles upon entry and sometimes sign them in their own blood. This fierce and formidable nature passed on to John, who joined the Marines at a tender age and went on to serve with them for some 30 years, until his heroic death in action at the Battle of Bunker Hill. In his heroism that helped lay the groundwork for the marines eventually becoming a standing force and being named “royal,” as he had always hoped for throughout his career.

Pitcairn’s personal attitude towards colonial complaints on the eve of revolution was markedly unsympathetic, and he advocated taking a firm hand with the rabble-rousers. But in spite of being brusque in many instances, he came to command the liking of the Bostonian civilians among whom he was stationed. As representative of martial law on North Square, Pitcairn helped settle disputes between soldiers and civilians and organized comitees that prevented a break-down of civic order during the British occupation. One citizen of Boston called him “an amazingly gentle man”, and insisted that that “he was perhaps the only British officer in Boston who commanded the trust and liking of the inhabitants.” Even Patriot partisans and propagandists, who decided he was “a good man in a bad cause.” Ever the son of a preacher, he remained a regular church-goer, and although he had a salty tongue, he would abstain from swearing on the Lord’s Day.

In an official capacity, Pitcairn made an impression on his marines through his hands-on leadership style. He was a strict disciplinarian and demanded excellence, but led by example and maintained the same high standards in his own comportment. Ever active, he received daily reports from his battalion commanders, personally oversaw drilling, struggled to ascertain needed supplies from the high command, accompanied the marines on long marches into the hostile countryside, and at one point even lived with his men in the barracks Pitcairn was certainly not a person to cross, although he was generally humane in his treatment of those under his command, using the punishment of flogging only as a last resort, and even then with some distaste. He was also occasionally willing to spare the life of deserters. They earned respect for their tough, tenacious commander and came to view him as something of a surrogate father and embodiment of their fighting spirit. In time, he did turn them into an effective fighting force.

Called “the best of husbands and fathers” by his intimates, Major Pitcairn tragically yet heroically fell into the arms of his marine son, William, when he was mortally wounded storming the rebel position at the Battle of Bunker Hill. Struck as many as four times in the chest (having already sustained two lesser wounds but refusing to retire), he died several hours later in Boston. His son William was seen wandering through a street after the battle, covered in blood. When someone approached to help him, he haltingly explained that it was not his blood but rather his father’s. “I have lost my father,” he murmured, close to tears. Some Marines nearby added, “We have all lost a father.” He truly had sealed his lifelong covenant as a gallant soldier and a faithful man in blood.

The following is an excerpt of Pitcairn’s first appearance in my novel Gone for a Soldier. He is attending a party in London where the protagonist, 18-year-old Edmund Southworth (alias Ned) has been taken by “Gentleman Johnny” Burgoyne. General Thomas Gage is also in attendance. I tried my best to stay as true to what we know of Pitcairn’s background and personality as I could, as well as representing Gage and the other historical characters in a believable manner, and I had a great deal of fun doing it! Major John Pitciarn, RIP.

(To purchase the Gone for a Soldier, from which this excerpt comes, in paperback or Kindle format, please go here: https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B0D9QMCS6N)

***

“Troubles?” came a gruff Scottish burr from behind them. “Send me to America, and by the faith of my body, these damned rebel bastards will disperse before I can get my sword out of the scabbard!”

Edmund turned to see a middle-aged man with wide brown eyes and a self-confident half-grin, dressed in an officer’s uniform with an anchor decorating his moon-shaped gorget.

“Ah, Major Pitcairn, allow me to introduce you to General Burgoyne’s traveling companion, who happens to probably be a distant relation of mine,” Gage said, gesturing to Ned. “Mister Edmund Southworth, this is Major John Pitcairn of His Majesty’s Marines.”

Pitcairn shook Ned’s hand so vigorously that Ned felt the need to check afterwards to make sure it was still attached to his wrist. “Come to join the service, lad?”

Ned cast a quick glance over his shoulder to see if Gage was likely to give away his recusancy. But the general kept his face suitably unexpressive. They were cousins indeed.

“I…have thought upon it, sir,” Ned answered.

“There’s a time for thinking and a time for action,” Pitcairn declared. “When I was younger than you, I was out about my duty, and all the better for it. The only real downside was the government’s unfortunate habit of disbanding the Marines, only to reassemble them, every other week. They seem to think we’re good for nothing but slicing off pirate’s heads and mopping the floor with Jacobite gore!”

“I think I might pay to see you personally confront pirates,” Gage declared. “Or one of those dreadful reptilian monsters lurking in Scottish lakes, for that matter…”

“What, pay me?” Pitcairn checked. “I just want to make sure the compensation is flowing in the right direction…”

Gage barely managed to suppress a laugh. “You may have to check with the admiralty about such matters…”

“Ohhhh don’t you get me started on that bloody ungrateful lot…”

“Now, now, my dear Major,” Gage chided him. “You know how quick they can be to interpret everything as mutinous. But you’ve survived worse at Louisbourg, alongside Brave Wolfe.”

“Yes, bottling up the frogs in their own damn pond, while they were shooting poisoned bullets at us, the Gallic curs!” Pitcairn snorted. “But we taught them a thing or two not to be forgotten, if they lived to remember, that is. Men of vision should have realized then and there the necessity of maintaining the Marines at all times. Someday we’ll be called royal, as God is my witness, and a man of my age and experience will be able to hold his head high as a general, as would be the case if I settled for an army commission. Mark my words, we will be made a standing force, ever on call to forward the national interest with fire and sword.…”

“Even if you remain the harshest critic of your own recruits,” Gage chuckled.

“It’s true that the damn animals passed onto me are never the easiest to train, but they always submit to me in the end, one way or t’other, and when we’re finally put into action, we’ll make any bloody revolutionary who dares to rear his ugly head submit to us.” He jutted out his chin.

“What if the next batch of recruits are short of stature like the last batch?” Gage inquired. “I know you were rather perturbed over the prospect.”

Pitcairn groaned. “I admit to having been hurt and mortified by their appearance. It can be a nightmare trying to clothe them in a manner not resembling clowns. If I have to blast out one more bloody Frenchman’s brains for daring to call us petits grenadiers, God spare me…”He paused his lament and stretched out his hand as if to measure Ned. “You, lad, you’re not too terribly short. Forsake the army, if they’re the ones after you, and cast your lot in with us.”

“I…umm…” Ned stammered.

“This young man and I were just having a religious conversation,” Gage remarked, as he poured Pitcairn a brandy. “So tell me, Major, as the son of the esteemed Reverend David Pitcairn, do you consider yourself a Presbyterian or an Anglican? Your father may have been a Presbyterian moderator, yet you’ve taken the Test Act affirming the King as governor of the Church of England and have a history of attending services of both persuasions. Indeed, on multiple occasions, we’ve witnessed each other receive the Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper under the auspices of the Church of England, yet when you are across the border in your native land, I hear that you still receive communion under the auspices of the Church of Scotland.”

“I’m a damned Protestant,” Pitcairn grunted, then raised his glass in a short salute. “If the King is the governor of the Church in England as well as a member of the Kirk in Scotland, according to the national settlement, my stance should be enough for any good Briton. Though I must say your King Henry was a damn greedy fellow…”

“No comment,” Gage sighed, and Ned couldn’t help but smirk.

“A bit of a loon too. Went through, what, six or seven wives? That’s a man just looking for trouble, if you ask me. One is quite enough…”

“You just nurse a grudge against King Henry because your relation Andrew Pitcairn and seven of his sons were slain at the Battle of Flodden,” Gage declared. “You blame us Englishmen for hammering the Scots again…”

“Perhaps I do,” Pitcairn admitted. “Family loyalty is precious to me. But there are other points of contention as well.”

“Such as?”

“The stuff that makes a real reformer,” the major replied. “Our man, John Knox, unlike King Henry, did not enrich himself by way of religious upheaval. He said, ‘None have I corrupted, none have I defrauded; merchandise have I not made.’ And he had no headless wives to haunt him either!”

“Well, no, but perhaps a monstrous regiment of women, and royal ones at that…”

“It was Mary Stuart that got under his skin,” Pitcairn specified. “She was Romish, through and through, and probably blew up one husband to move on to another…”

“But Knox even angered Queen Elizabeth in the south, a Protestant sovereign who might have been a source of succor for him, saying female rulers should be cast down,” Gage said.

“He didn’t mince words, I’ll give you that,” Pitcairn conceded. “But then again…”

“Neither do you.”

“Neither do I,” the major admitted. “That being said, Knox departed this veil of tears with his grieving wife by his bedside, reading Scripture to him as a good helpmate should. Also, like my father, I have managed to endure married life without any lethal explosions cutting short the experience. On top of that, my father was in the service of Good Queen Anne, so clearly, all’s well that ends well with the women.”

“So you people somehow charmed Queen Anne into forgetting your founder’s sentiments?”

“Oh, we can be the most charming folk alive when we want to be. Comes with being among the elect, you know!”

Edmund could see how much Pitcairn was enjoying himself, and found his daring sense of humor to be infectious. Ned giggled, and Pitcairn flashed a glance at him, resting his hand on his hip. “Who knows? We might even bother to pull the less fortunate folk of this island on board the ark on the day of the deluge, if you treat us right!”

“Well, if anyone could redeem us, your father was surely the man,” Gage said. “He will always be remembered not only for his piety but also for his gallantry as a chaplain in the Cameronian regiment.”

“Aye, alongside Marlborough on the continent,” Pitcairn confirmed. “He saw action at Blenheim.”

Gage turned to Ned. “The Cameronians are the inheritors of the Covenanters, you know. Altogether brazen folks, who refused to accept anything deemed too Papist from King Charles before the Civil War. When he tried to force them to accept his high liturgical tastes in the name of the Church of England, they signed their names to a covenant in Greyfriars Kirkyard…”

“And signed Bibles in blood,” Pitcairn finished, pouring some wine into his brandy.

“Good God, do the Cameronians still expect that sort of thing when it comes to the Bibles they give each new recruit?” Gage queried.

“Not expected,” Pitcairn said, stirring his brand and wine with his finger. “But not unexpected either.”

“Intense, that,” Gage chuckled.

“Nothing else will do for us, I’m afraid,” Pitcairn replied. “My father said it was our purpose to stand along the pathways of this world, crying, ‘Stay, passenger, read what we have written with our right hand!’”

“Your names,” Ned murmured. “That is what is written there, in your blood…”

Pitcairn smiled approvingly and nodded. “It’s just like in the Book of Life, on the Last Day. My father taught me that the devil is kept at bay by the man who puts the flow of his life upon the Word of God. That is the covenant, pure and simple, between God and man, sealed in blood. God’s blood. Our blood. That is everything in the end, aye, our last word upon any subject.”

Like a sacrament, Ned thought, though he dared not say it. An outward and visible sign of an inward and invisible grace.

“Once hunted by kings, then put into the service of kings,” Gage observed. “Quite an accomplishment for your people, Pitcairn.”

“Aye, when the rights of the Kirk were restored under William and Mary, we responded with the fiercest loyalty to the crown, and have done so ever since,” Pitcairn said. “But my father had greater hurdles to overcome than any past lack of royal patronage.”

“In what way?” Edmund asked.

Gage shot Ned a look as if cautioning him not to press the subject, but it was too late.

“He nearly killed himself trying to get our bloody roof fixed, because the damn committee in Dysart were too filthy cheap to cover the cost of either repairs or extensions for the manse next to Saint Serf’s church,” Pitcairn declared. “It was nigh uninhabitable, vermin-riddled, drafty, and leaking all over the damn place when it rained! I remember listening to mice gallivanting about all night and then having to ring out my soggy clothes in the morning! God’s bones! Five children and a maid in one room, that was how I grew up! No wonder I turned out like this! Pirates, Jacobites, and Frogs are nothing after being stuffed into a hole like bloody rabbits, and I was the youngest of the litter…”

“Oh…dear…” Ned managed awkwardly.

“Had to be christened the day I was born, and you know why?” Pitcairn pressed.

“Your father was a minister who could take care of the matter himself, and this auspicious birth occurred next door to the church to which he was assigned?” Gage offered.

“Besides that, though,” Pitcairn huffed. “It was December, along the Firth of Forth, in that miserable, medieval hovel! They thought I might not last the night!”

“Having experienced the chill of Scotland even in the spring, I sympathize with your plight coming into the world in an even more inhospitable northern season,” Gage commiserated.

“Indeed. The only thing that stood between me and an infant’s casket was…”

“Was being who you are,” Gage finished.

“Aye, was being who I am,” Pitcairn confirmed. “Perhaps it prepared me for my calling. A soldier must scorn the effects of heat or cold when going about his duty, and I was already trained to do just that from my infancy. What doesn’t kill you makes you strong and all that.”

“The reaper does seem rather intimidated by you,” Gage teased.

“Well, the reaper should have done us all a favor and paid a visit to the church committee,” Pitcairn decided. “No matter how cramped the manse was, my father always had to leave a room open for any guest who might stop by, because he was just the generous sort. Same with tea, you know. He wouldn’t keep more than a pound in the house without handing it out in charity to parishioners down on their luck, saying the house could not bear the excess.”

“Oh, well, he couldn’t have foreseen that a handful of Bostonian maniacs would cause a shortage,” Gage said. “Otherwise, he could have set up a nice little side business…”

“Should have too, but you know, he was a good man, God love him, for he loved God well. The damn committee may have given him hell, but surely he’s in heaven now, and I’ve made sure he’ll be remembered with all due reverence here on earth. His children will forever cherish him, even if he had too many of us to remain fully sane…”

“Then you had ten,” Gage remarked. “I am still trying to figure out how you managed it, being away from hearth and home so often.”

“I have an internal clock that sends me back to the nest for mating season,” Pitcairn declared, tapping his temple. “But your Lady Margaret has proven to be just as fertile as my dear Betty. And here you are today, with ten of your own. We play, we pay.”

“You’re right,” Gage conceded. “Someone should shoot us. I suppose I’ve just grown accustomed to bringing her along with me wherever I go. Then…things happen.”

“Is she still upset about the prospect of leaving the sickly young one behind when you go back to Boston?” Pitcairn asked sympathetically.

“Yes,” Gage admitted, “but it can’t be helped. He is…frail. A sea voyage might…” The general shook his head. “He is safer here.”

Pitcairn nodded. “You know, Betty and I are not unfamiliar with such things. Been through it ourselves, twice, and hope to God not to go through it again. I think…you are right to take precautions.”

“Several of the children who have stronger constitutions and are not enrolled in school here will be accompanying us back across the water,” Gage said. “That should assuage Margaret somewhat. The bulk of our offspring were born in the New World, so to their minds, it’s a matter of going home.”

“Ah, they’re bound to be little trouble-makers then, General,” Pitcairn twitted.

“Oh, they are, I assure you. In fact, they may need an exorcism to cast out some of that Yankee unruliness! Speaking of which…Pitcairn, you really must tell Youth Southworth here the story of Saint Serf and the devil. He’s just the sort to appreciate such a pious yarn.”

“I would, yes,” Ned confirmed.

“Well, legend has it that the holy hermit came to Dysart, on the steps of the salt sea, and vowed to be the salt of the earth,” Pitcairn began. “His intention was to commune with God and be the true salt of the earth. But Satan got wind of his presence and showed up in person to disrupt Serf’s devotions. Of course Serf would have none of it, so he wrestled the devil inside the cave that had served as his cell. He won, too. Then he went on to save Princess Theneva whose cousin had brought her full with child against her will. Her father had set her adrift in a boat out of shame, but a school of fish guided her to shore where Serf took her in and raised her child. The boy was Saint Mungo, the patron of Glasgow. But Serf remained the patron of Dysart, and for centuries, the townsmen thought praying to him would ward off English pirate raids.” Pitcairn squinted at Gage.

“I’m not apologizing,” Gage declared. “Your people did the same to us.”

“Well, we held our own in terms of defense as well as offense. The church still has a fine tower as a vantage point, with very neat slits for the arrows. You’re welcome to take a tour if you care to come back up our way again.” He made a gesture as if holding a crossbow.

“It’s not one of my personal aspirations,” Gage said.

“Not even as a pilgrim, General? I thought your family used to like that sort of thing,” Pitcairn joked. “All sorts of folk used to come out on pilgrimage back in the day. They would leave seashells in the walls of the church, paying tribute to some Papist statue or other, long gone, though the niche is still there, alongside a carving of lilies.”

Ned swallowed hard. “The niche…it must have been for…”

“The Lady,” Gage mumbled.

“Aye, most likely. But as I said, the building is properly reformed now. Most of the Romish bits and pieces were pulled down long before my time.” He smirked. “When we were children, my siblings and I used to throw stones at one of the broken ornaments left over on the arch outside. It was great fun.”

Gage clicked his tongue. “Little vandals!”

“Little Covenanters!” Pitcairn laughed. “We used to muck about in the caves where Saint Serf was supposed to have dwelt. Our nanny said we shouldn’t, that it was still haunted by Satan’s visit, but we were not the sort to be intimidated, even if we did sense a strange presence down there every so often. The caves were used for a wine cellar by then. We would pretend the bottles held the devil’s blood, and swish it around while chanting rhymes to ward off any lingering demons. Now I suppose I’ll have to content myself with stirring damn Yankee blood instead. The seditious kind, you understand. I have no quarrel with loyal sorts nor those in the households of fellow kingsmen!”

“Well, you are rather too colorful in your language to be a saint, even if you would happily wrestle Satan himself, so perhaps your decision to focus on subduing earthly rebels is for the best,” Gage remarked.

Pitcairn made a half-grin. “God’s blood, General, but this is any old damn Thursday! I don’t swear like this on the sabbath!”

“No, no, you don’t,” Gage admitted. “How, pray tell, do you manage it?”

“It’s a damn skill,” Pitcairn beamed. “I have impeccable self-control!”

“For one day a week only?”

“Yes, well, it’s the Lord’s Day,” Pitcairn replied, with a sincerity that Ned found endearing. “Besides, I’m not fool enough to present myself at the Lord’s Table to receive the Lord’s Supper with a dirty mouth. My father would roll over in his grave. So I go on a fast from language from the time the sun rises ‘til it sets.”

“And you never forget yourself?”

“My son makes that impossible. You see, if I swear before darkness falls on Sunday evening, I lose money to him. But I never lose. So he has to pay me instead.”

“A man of pure principle,” Gage chuckled. “Just not enough to win Colonel Gardiner’s approval, I’m afraid.”

Pitcairn nearly spit out a mouthful of brandy. “God’s wounds!”

“There you go again,” Gage sighed. “He’d have you standing on pointed logs for that!”

“Well, back then, my tongue was even saltier!” Pitcairn laughed. “I went straight from the manse into the Marines, and my mouth went straight from fair to foul! I just made the mistake of showing off my newfound skill around the wrong man! Ate me alive, he did!”

“Was this the same Colonel Gardiner who distinguished himself during the last Jacobite rebellion?” Ned queried.

“Aye, that he was, a fellow Lowland Scot,” Pitcairn confirmed. “He served as Sir John Cope’s second-in-command when the damn Highland rebels took Edinburgh for the Young Pretender. Didn’t think much of Cope’s handling of the situation, but was resolved to fight or die for the security of his country.”

“Cope, to my understanding, was a cautious but conscientious man who felt that he lacked support as a commander in Scotland because he was an Englishman,” Gage stated. “He had a particularly unsatisfactory experience with two Edinburgh volunteers he sent out as scouts, only for them to stop off at a tavern mid-mission for a meal of oysters and sherry. They proceeded to drink themselves into a state of unwarranted euphoria and get themselves captured by a young attorney’s clerk with Jacobite sympathies.”

“To be fair, they were hardly older than the clerk themselves, recruited directly out of the university to deal with the crisis,” Pitcairn recalled. “But I agree they deserved to be boxed about the ears. And Gardiner would have been the first man to do it. He was made of steel as surely as his sword and faced down the Highland Charge at Prestonpans without flinching. Even when Cope himself had fled the field, Gardiner stayed and rallied the survivors.”

“Cope did exhort his men to hold fast and behave like Britons, but they would not heed him,” Gage said. “They abandoned him rather than the other way around. There was little to be done for it…”

“Except to die fighting,” Pitcaurn declared. “The rebels took Gardiner down, but not before he received five bloody wounds in his body, the last one by a Lochaber ax! Still lived for many hours afterwards! Now that’s a damn proper way for a soldier to go…”

“No need to emulate it too closely,” Gage cautioned.

“Of course not! We should strive to do one better in the wound count!”

Gage rolled his eyes again. “Lest we falsely believe he had a death wish, it should be noted that Gardiner had complained about his horse being skittish before the battle. One cannot help but wonder whether his refusal to retreat was completely his own idea…”

“Seven hells! There’s no way that Gardiner would have willingly gone off with Cope to bring news of their own defeat,” Pitcairn countered. “He stayed because it suited his ferocity. Like my father, he took part in Marlborough’s campaigns. We Scots and Englishmen were just upon the brink of union by way of parliament. But I say that our unity was forged first and foremost amongst soldiers bleeding common blood. And Gardiner bled. Got shot in the mouth at Ramillies and was nearly bludgeoned to death by some scavenger knave. But a nun from a nearby convent intervened and nursed him back to health. He was only fifteen at the time, and to her credit, she treated him with maternal tenderness. She even tried to make a Papist out of him, but he had enough sense to refuse, though at the time, he hardly thought of God in any respect.”

“Until his vision,” Gage remarked, somewhat sarcastically.

“I spent little enough time with Gardiner, and I know some men called him mad,” Pitcairn said. “But my father knew him better and believed God had touched his lips with hot coals, granting him the gift of holy violence to pursue the goal of lasting glory. That’s enough for me.”

“And his burnt lips also caused him to see things?” Gage surmised.

“There has been precedent,” Pitcairn reminded him.

“What sorts of things did he see?” Ned asked, increasingly intrigued.

“Well, by the time the vision came to him, Gardiner was all grown up and leading a dissolute life,” Pitcairn related. “One night, as he waited in his chamber to rendezvous with a married woman, he started to flip through a book from his pious mother to pass the time. The Christian Soldier by the Puritan divine Thomas Watson, I believe it was. As he read, he saw a strange light fall upon the open page. He turned his head, thinking the candle upon the table had flared, but then saw another thing.” Pitcairn held out his hand, as if to indicate a mystery in their midst. “Yes, he claimed that he saw nothing less than Christ upon the cross, stretched out in His suffering, and he heard a voice, or what he thought was a voice, demanding, ‘O sinner, did I suffer all this for thee, and are these the returns?’ After that night, Gardiner abandoned his former way of life. He became devout, so much so, his friends questioned if a fall from his horse some time before had left him addled in the head.”

“Plausible,” Gage said.

“But not probable,” Pitcairn retorted. “Not to my mind. From the night of his visitation to the day of his death, he kept up the practice of praying and reading scripture in the wee hours of the morning, even during campaigns. And his fury over swearing…well, if one had seen God, it’s damn hard to lay the blame on him for that, even one such as myself. What he saw changed him, aye, in truth. And the manner in which the man fought testifies to something beyond himself. It’s as Thomas Watson said, ‘A Christian fights the Lord’s battles; he is Christ’s ensign-bearer. Now, what though he endures hard fate, and the bullets fly about? He fights for a crown!’”

“I have no desire to profane the sacred, believe me, but it seems strange in these latter days for God to simply show Himself in all His glory to one sinner, yet not others,” Gage remarked.

Pitcairn shrugged. “The Lord knows what He is about.”

“Yes, but I mean, you and I, we’re church-going men, and we’ve not seen anything like that. Or have you?”

“Hell, no,” Pitcairn chortled.

“There, that’s my point. It smacks of enthusiasm on Gardiner’s part, flights of fancy…”

“But He knows what He is about,” Pitcairn repeated, pointing upward. “If it were good for such a man as you, or even such a man as me, to see God before Judgment Day, well, we would. And if not, we won’t, and we’ll wait. It’s as simple as that.”

“Is it?”

“I think so,” Pitcairn said. “But whether you believe in Gardiner’s vision or not, none could fault the man’s guts nor his integrity. It’s what made his friendships last, even with those who thought him daft. Aye, the man even gained favor with the royal family. It made his cruel fate all the harder for so many to bear, especially how his servant found him, nearly stripped naked by those Highland barbarians, and crumpled in agony under a thorn tree.”

“Still alive, with five wounds?” Ned gasped.

Pitcairn nodded. “He was carted off to a nearby church manse where he was nursed by two young Jacobite ladies until he succumbed. His own home, a stone’s throw away, had also been converted into a hospital. Bloody tragic, those times, with him leaving behind a wife and five children. You know, he settled down right well with her after his past dalliances. They suffered through smallpox killing a number of their brood. Broke something inside him, I think. The illness, mixed with the grief, certainly broke his health. But his heart never lost its courage. His faith would not yield even when his breath did. When my father heard of his fall, he quoted Knox, ‘Live in Christ, die in Christ, and the flesh need not fear death.’ That’s the measure of a man, he said, that the spirit conquers flesh.”

“You don’t measure too badly yourself,” Gage said, with a slight smile.

Pitcairn smiled in return and made a roof shape with his hands. “Above the door of the manse where I was born, an inscription reads, ‘My hope is in the Lord.’ And so, for all my bloody sins, I am sworn to praise the Lord of Hosts who made souls like me to fill the ranks of fighting men, on land and sea.”

Pitcairn glanced across the room to where Burgoyne stood, leaning against a column, chatting it up with a young lady friend of the Duchess of Devonshire who looked positively enraptured with her wide doe eyes.

“Hell’s teeth, if that isn’t Gentleman Johnny, trying to get at it again. He’s giving that lass no space to breathe.”

“That noxious perfume he’s wearing is likely compromising her judgment,” Gage remarked. “She has only just made her coming out, you know, so this sort of experience is new to her.”

“Now, then, she can’t be much older than my youngest daughter Janet,” Pitcairn said in distaste. “Soon he’ll sweet-talk his way into slipping his hand down her bodice, or worse, her hand down his breeches!”

“That has been known to happen,” Gage sighed.

“This will never do. She bloody well needs rescuing.” With that, Pitcairn was off.

Gage gave Edmund a bemused look. “Every young lady should have a belligerent Scottish marine on hand, stuffed to the gills with paternal instinct, to save her from the wolves. He’s quite a decent sort, once you get used to him.”

“He seems like it,” Ned concurred.

“He’s akin to heavily salted oatmeal. Once you get used to the flavor, it’s actually hearty fare, and even good for you. Just make sure to have plenty of water on hand to wash it down.”

“Just not saltwater,” Ned laughed.

“Well, no,” Gage agreed. “Though that’s probably the kind his people would try to sell us if we ever found ourselves in his neck of the woods. His own tongue certainly seems to have been dipped in it, in more ways than one. As you may have noticed, his accent can at times compromise his diction.”

“I have not had any great difficulty understanding him thus far,” Ned replied.

“Yes, well, you’re not terribly far from the Scotch border, so perhaps you have an edge on us southerners. But then again, you’ve never heard him when he’s truly animated.”

“He seemed more than a bit animated to me…”

“Trust me, it can always get worse. At that point, his years stationed in England, which have moderated his burr somewhat, melt away like snow in the sun.”

“Thank you for the warning.”

“You should, you should thank me,” Gage said, wagging a finger. “I’ll even throw in a bit of advice for good measure. If you can’t understand what he’s saying, you have two options. The first is to ask him to repeat himself, which I would not recommend. It will only cause him to grow more animated. The second is to do what I do, which is to hang on every fifth word and pretend.”

“Quite a precise method.”

“Well, I’ve been at it for a while,” Gage chuckled.

They overheard Pitcairn talking loudly from across the room, asking the girl where her mother was as Burgoyne attempted to circumvent the situation by inviting the pretty young thing out for a stroll in the garden.

“So, would you like to lay a little bet on who will win out?” Gage asked.

“In a duel?” Ned inquired cheekily.

“They really do wave their respective pistols around too much when their blood starts to boil,” Gage exhaled. “But I am convinced they will remain mindful of their professional reputations…”

“You are?”

“No.”

“Oh…”

“And…Pitcairn’s won.”

“I think he’s proven his point about the marines being indispensable,” Ned remarked, observing Burgoyne throwing up his hands in despair as Pitcairn escorted the young lady back to her mother across the room.

“I am under the impression that even our dear Burgoyne understands why the Romans needed to build Hadrian’s Wall and does not wish to contradict their wisdom,” Gage said. “Pitcairn and his fellow North Britons only appear to have two moods: a friendly sort of angry, and…angry, pure and simple. The latter tends to shorten lifespans.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Avellina Balestri is a Catholic author and editor based in the historic borderlands of Maryland and Pennsylvania. Her stories, poems, and essays have been featured in over thirty print and online publications. In addition to her American Revolution trilogy All Ye That Pass By, she published two books: Saplings of Sherwood, the first book in a Robin Hood retelling series, and Pendragon’s Shield, a collection of poetry. She is the Editor-in-Chief of Fellowship & Fairydust, a magazine inspiring faith & creativity and exploring the arts through a spiritual lens. Under its auspices, she has hosted two literary conferences, at Oxford University and Cambridge University respectively. She also had the honor of representing the state of Maryland at The Sons of the American Revolution National Orations Contest. Avellina believes that the Trinitarian divine dance and Incarnational indwelling mystery are reflected in all things good, true, and beautiful, and that the image of God is wondrously woven into every human heart. These themes are at the forefront of the stories she chooses to tell.

For more information about the author and her various projects, please visit the following websites:

www.fellowshipandfairydust.com

www.avellinabalestri.com