Son of the Sword

by J. Ardian Lee

  Seumas returned without Ramsay, and the band packed up and returned to Glen Dochart.

  It was just as well the ransom plan fell through, for they weren’t back long when they were told to collect their gear again, all of them. All the retainers who wished to fight were invited to join Rob as recruits for the forces of King James VIII. They were headed for Glen Gyle, Rob’s ancestral home, where his chieftain would send out the fiery cross to muster troops from Clan Gregor for the cause. About half of Rob’s outlaws gathered. They struck out westward, carrying their weapons and their rations, and Dylan went with them.

  Sinann appeared, hopping and running beside him as he walked. “You’re going! You’re truly going!”

  Dylan’s smile was lopsided, and he said with a bit of irony, “Look sharp, there, Tink. We’re in the army now.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Dylan found himself less than enchanted with his new status as a soldier. His pay was cut in half to threepence a day, and the daily ration was three loaves of bread. If he wanted meat he had to buy it or shoot it himself. He had appropriated one of the pistols taken from the Sassunaich the previous month, but thought of it as a waste of effort and expense to load and fire. And he wasn’t much of a shot in any case. He only kept the pistol and a few powder loads and balls, for the sake of appearing well armed. Poaching was frowned upon but not punished, so whenever somebody else shot something large enough to share, Dylan bought in. Also, as always before, he ate vegetables and wild greens, though he took a terrible ribbing from the other men for it. Never mind that he wanted to keep his teeth. Having no cultural qualms over eating food fit only for poor folks, he figured that, since vegetables were food, if they were available he should eat them.

  Like most of the other men, Dylan had a bonnet made, a floppy blue hat that fit snugly at the band and lay on his head like a deflated balloon. The color identified him as a member of the Jacobite army. His sark was ragged and his kilt had seen better days, but he had a bright, shiny new hat.

  “It suits you,” said Sinann.

  He adjusted it on his head. “It’s all right. Wouldn’t want anyone to mistake me for an Englishman.” He didn’t care much for hats in general, but he did find that the wool kept his head warm at least.

  Sinann laughed. “Have you seen your reflection lately, lad? You’re a Highlander to the core of ye, and just from the look in your eye nae man would mistake you for a soft Hanoverian.”

  Dylan couldn’t help smiling at that.

  Life in Glen Gyle, among the men mustered by Rob Roy and his nephew, Gregor Ghlun Dhubh, consisted mostly of waiting. Then Rob was called to Perth and given the duty of transporting money for arms to Breadalbane. He took with him a small contingent of his best men, including Alasdair Roy, Seumas Glas, Alasdair Og, and Dilean Mac a’Chlaidheimh. They were well chosen for the job. Having been raiders themselves, they were well equipped to make sure the money made it safely to its destination.

  Riding five of the best mounts in Gregor Ghlun Dhubh’s stable, they crossed through Glen Dochart to Perth without incident.

  Having successfully completed their first mission, Rob and his contingent became couriers for dispatches between the new Jacobite leader, the Earl of Mar, and his General, Alexander Gordon of Auchintoul. King James was expected to land near Dumbarton on the Clyde estuary near the western coast. Dylan was not impressed. While everyone around him waited in breathless anticipation of the grand entrance, he kept his irritated silence, for he knew the King would not arrive. Not in time to save his own cause, anyway.

  During a stop in Stirling, the recipient of Rob’s communiqué had gossip about chieftains who had entered the fray. Dylan was disappointed to hear that Iain Mór had mustered men for the fight. This was not good news, though it was also not unexpected, given Iain’s hatred for the Sassunaich. But, as a northern chief outside the line of fire, he could well afford to let the western families take the brunt of the conflict. And Dylan wished he would. Many of the MacGregors, MacDonalds, Camerons, Macleans, MacDougals, and Stewarts had not sided with the Crown. The larger part of Clan Matheson, particularly the Sutherland chiefs, were Loyalists and would survive, but Dylan feared horribly for the southern Mathesons of Glen Ciorram after the uprising.

  By October Rob and his bodyguard were back in Perth, having crossed and recrossed the upper Lowlands and southern Highlands several times on their errands. Spending days and weeks on end in the saddle, Dylan grew accustomed to his mount. Riding became more than just a skill that came easy—it was second nature to him. He acquired a pair of woolen trews to protect his legs, but found them itchy and binding on his upper thighs. So he gave them up after a week. He wished for a pair of long johns, and sometimes wondered idly if cotton would find its way to Scotland during his lifetime.

  The Jacobite army grew as Mar recruited more chieftains. Then Rob and his men joined up with Gordon’s troops to assault Inverary in an effort to gain control over the seaward approach to the Clyde River, which was a maze of sea lochs and islands.

  However, their orders came slowly, and by the time the Jacobites arrived at the castle, the Campbells had fortified the town. There wasn’t much for the Jacobite army to do but take potshots at them from behind breastworks. In the return fire Rob sustained a minor crease on his forearm, and spent the next few days walking about with a bloody rag tied around it, in a bad humor, cursing Argyll at every opportunity. Then he and his contingent went with Gordon, who left some of his troops to keep the Campbells occupied at the castle while the rest plundered up and down the western shore of Loch Fyne for supplies.

  Sinann’s excitement grew as she saw the Jacobites gain momentum. She hopped and flew to keep up with Dylan as he helped carry supplies along the trail between the boats on the loch and the Jacobite camp about a mile inland. The men carrying boxes had spread out some along the trail, so Dylan felt comfortable talking to her in a low voice. He suggested she help him carry the large crate of hardtack he was hauling. Sinann waved her hand and suddenly the box was lighter on his shoulder.

  “Thank you. I hope you didn’t actually empty it.”

  “No worries. It’ll be heavy enough, once you’ve set it down. It’ll be needed when the King—”

  “He’s not coming, Tink.”

  “Ye lie.”

  “He’s not coming. Not until the battle is lost and it’s too late to save the uprising.”

  “But the dispatch from Mar—”

  “Mar knows nothing. He’s almost as clueless as that pompous German ass in London. He’s the one who’s going to lose us Sheriffmuir, him and his dithering. He’s already lost us Inverary with his farting around.”

  “So slip a dirk between his ribs and that’ll be the end of that. You’ve a talent for it.”

  Dylan stopped walking and stared at Sinann, appalled. “I don’t think so! Whatever I might be—whatever I’ve become since you brought me here—I’m not a murderer! Take back what you said!” He loomed over her, threateningly.

  “I don’t—”

  “Take it back, Tink, or I set this crate down, head for Glasgow, and hop the next ship to the colonies and to hell with your precious uprising!”

  “I only meant—”

  “Take it back. I don’t want to hear any more about assassination. Ever. Take it back.”

  “All right, I’m sorry.”

  He walked on in silence, still angry, and she ran, hopped, and flew alongside. “You were certainly ready to murder Ramsay nae so long ago.”

  “I was wrong. You were right to stop me.”

  She made a noise of disgust. “Now he listens to me.” There was a long silence as she struggled to keep up with his pace, then finally she said, “But what can you do?”

  He sighed deeply. “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

  For several weeks Dylan and his comrades were occupied escorting Rob and the Jacobite communiqués back and forth to Perth, then back to Drummond Castle, then to Perth again, and to Auchterarder and back to Per
th. Though Dylan asked as many nosy questions as he figured would be tolerated, and hung around Rob as much as possible, he was never privy to the information transported. So he continued in frustration of not knowing exactly where the mistakes were going to be made until they happened. Even the information Sinann was able to glean in her eavesdropping was always too little too late—and too often inaccurate by the time she reached Dylan with it. It seemed Mar couldn’t make up his mind about even the smallest things. All Dylan could learn was the delays were hurting them, which every Jacobite in Scotland knew by now.

  The Jacobite army was eager to fight, but frustrated by Mar’s stalling and disheartened still further by Argyll’s taking of Edinburgh. For Dylan, that news bordered on terrifying, as he wondered what was happening to Cait and the boy.

  It was November now, the snows were close and creeping in from the Highlands, but still Mar waited for the arrival of the King. It wasn’t until November 9 that the news came they would march soon. Dylan knew when, and he knew where. They were four days away from the battle of Sheriffmuir. His heart sank.

  A messenger came running, breathless with orders from Mar for Rob to break off from the main contingent of MacGregors. He was to make a reconnaissance on the River Forth then rejoin Mar’s army in a few days. A great weight was lifted from Dylan as he realized they would miss the battle. But that weight reasserted itself when he also realized he was the Jacobites’ only hope. If he were to change the outcome of the uprising, he had to somehow change the outcome of this battle. He couldn’t do that if he were off scoping out terrain with Rob. He went to MacGregor with a request.

  “I want to fight with Balhaldie.”

  Rob was in conference with one of the MacPhersons, but excused himself, turned to Dylan, and frowned. “Why?” He clearly didn’t like the idea of his men leaving him, even to go to the forces of another MacGregor. Though social structure and attitudes in Scotland were changing, it would still be another generation or two, or three, before Highland men would be used to the idea of fighting for, or beside, anyone but family. Dylan had been accepted by Rob Roy’s MacGregors, but now he was leaving. This was not good.

  Dylan cleared his throat. He couldn’t tell Rob he knew if he stayed with his friends he wouldn’t reach the battle until it was too late to fight. He knew Mar was going to mess up badly but couldn’t remember from his reading just what would happen. He only knew if he was going to affect the outcome of the battle and give the uprising a chance, he would have to stick with the main strength of the Jacobite force. So what he said was what he thought Rob would accept. “I want to be first on the field. I’ve got a score to settle, and I want to kill some Redcoats.”

  A dry smile curled Rob’s lips, and he glanced at MacPherson, who also had a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Rob said, “You’ve never been in battle, have ye, lad?”

  Dylan shook his head. Beyond the siege at Inverary he’d never been in a full-fledged battle. He knew they thought he was an overenthusiastic fool, but he let them think it. It would be easier for them to understand than the truth.

  “You’ll regret asking this.” There was genuine sorrow in his voice, as if he had some premonition of Dylan’s death.

  Dylan nodded, certain Rob was right. He expected to die, but didn’t want to avoid the battle then spend the rest of his life wondering if he might have done something to make a difference. If there was a chance to alter the course of history, to find a way to carry the tide long enough for the cause to last until James’ arrival in December, he had to take it. For if the rising should succeed and James take his place as King of Scotland, it would prevent the next two uprisings in 1719 and 1745. Many Scottish lives would be saved and many clans would prosper where they hadn’t done before.

  And he had personal considerations. If James VIII were to succeed in his claim to the throne of Scotland, Dylan, as a Jacobite, would be pardoned of the charges against him. He would then be free to claim Cait and his son.

  So he was strangely elated when Rob gave his consent for Dylan to march with the larger contingent of MacGregors.

  On foot now, Dylan continued to be anxious on the long march to the battle. He could tell where they were, and knew where they were headed. And though he knew what the end result would be, he had little idea of what would happen once they got to the battlefield. If only he’d had a history book in his hand when the sword had grabbed him from the future!

  On the morning of November 13, he awoke from sleep at Kinbuck near the Allan Water, huddled on the ground with thousands of men he didn’t know, shook frost from his hair, and rubbed circulation into his nose. Two years ago he would have been immobilized by this cold. But he’d since learned not to feel it so much and not to let his body clench with shivering, so he could be about his business. He ate breakfast quickly: a handful of oatmeal wetted in the river and mashed into a glob that he swallowed in chunks he picked out with his fingers. Having eaten, he rinsed off his hands and proceeded to load his pistol.

  The firing charge went into the barrel, and he hoped it wasn’t too much. He valued his right hand and didn’t want the gun to blow up in it. Then in went the wadding and ball, which he tamped down with the ramrod. Tight, but not too tight. Damn, he hated explosives! Then he slid the ramrod back into place under the barrel, opened the priming pan, and half-cocked the pistol. He loaded the pan with fine priming powder, then closed it and jiggled the gun so the powder would go into the touchhole where it could ignite the firing charge inside the barrel. Then he slipped the pistol into his belt.

  Fully armed now, he formed up to march with the rest of the men.

  They moved away from the river, toward the rise. The terrain was rocky, with low, undulating hills rising to the muir. Ten thousand Jacobites swarmed over the hills, and as Dylan descended between each hill he lost sight of the muir above. He was on high ground, though, when a halt was called. The enemy was outlined against the sky to the west of the muir, tiny toy soldiers making a thin, red line on the horizon. The sight of them stirred something ugly in Dylan. Red coats equaled the enemy. Those English uniforms represented pain and danger. He’d suffered personally from the English occupation, and sight of those soldiers clenched his gut. His heart beat faster, and his soul hardened.

  Readying for battle, the clansmen dropped their kilts and tied their sporrans into them to fight in their sarks. Dylan debated pinning his brooch to his sark, but decided against using the talisman. It required stillness to work, and if he were wounded and fell he might not be found. He had little money anymore, so the bag contained only a few pence, the brooch, Ramsay’s handkerchief, the Goddess Stone, the flask of priming powder, and his ration bag of oatmeal. He buckled his belt in a loop to keep the sporran on it, then wrapped it in his rust-and-black kilt and left it on the ground at his feet as he walked away. His baldric hung across his chest, and Brigid was strapped to his legging. He carried his primed pistol in his right hand. Energy was intense among the Highlanders. The Jacobites were ready for blood.

  When the order came to move again, it was to change direction and head up the slope and circle above the Hanoverian position. But Argyll was moving, too. The Jacobite Army didn’t make the muir in time to gain the higher ground. Both forces formed up and readied to fight on the rolling ridge top. Dylan’s heart slammed in his chest as they advanced to position.

  Sinann appeared, marching beside him. “Look to your right, at the bottom of the muir,” she said. On the right was a conical hill, very precise and pointed. The army made a wide berth of it. “A faerie knoll. Now look closer.”

  Dylan peered at the strange hill and frowned. A woman dressed in a flowing red gown stood at the peak of it. She watched the sea of men flow past. She seemed inordinately pleased at what was happening, dancing around the top of her little hill. “What is she doing?”

  “That’s Morrighan. Goddess of war.”

  Dylan grunted and returned his attention to what was ahead. “Well, she’s going to be a happy camper
today. A lot of people are going to die.” Then he muttered, “You go away.”

  Grinning, she shook her head and marched at a two-step to keep up with his one.

  “I said, get out of here.”

  Now she frowned. “What if you need me?”

  “The best I could hope for from you would be to put me out of my misery quickly when the time comes. Go away, you might get hurt yourself.”

  “Silly mortal.” She clucked her tongue and flew into the air. There she hovered over him as he walked. He could live with that. She would have him believe she was immortal, but he knew better. Long-lived and wily, but not immortal.

  The battlefield was uneven moorland covered with heather and large rocks that were slippery with mud from other soldiers’ shoes. The ground between the rocks was damp, almost boggy in places, and the trampled growth underfoot did not hold well in the mud.

  The Jacobites, facing southwest now, lined up opposite the Hanoverians, and Dylan found himself and the other MacGregors on the left wing with the MacKinnons and MacPhersons. As Campbell of Argyll’s troops formed up across the way, Dylan could hear the steady English drum cadence and saw, with a surge of blood lust, that his group was in opposition to units of red-coated dragoons. He was on foot, but he had experience dealing with men on horseback. The dragoon had a height advantage, but sometimes a man’s horse could be manipulated against him.

  At that moment the Jacobite cavalry on his left broke and galloped to the center, to Dylan’s right. This was not good. It left only clan infantry against the opposing heavy English cavalry. Dylan took several deep breaths and tried to stop thinking about dying as the armies approached each other at a walk. Muskets, pistols, swords and dirks were brandished on both sides. Dylan, his pistol in his right hand, picked up his knee as he walked and drew Brigid with his left hand. Then the ranks halted. For one breathless moment they faced each other. Time stopped. Then there was a single volley of gunfire, and Dylan blinked. He had no idea which side had fired until smoke rose from the front ranks of the rebels.