by Tommie Lyn
A wild, high-pitched yell burst from Ailean, a sound he had never made and didn’t know he could make. He ran, swept along with the charge as though the army was a single entity of which he was a small part.
Ailean’s long legs soon put him alongside the men in the front ranks of the MacGriogairs. He saw the red blur of the soldiers in the Sasunnach line ahead. As he neared it, he saw faces of individual soldiers, frozen in fear. Some of them turned and ran, dropping their weapons in terror.
One lifted his musket and fired at the oncoming wave of Highlanders. The lead ball smashed into Ailean’s upper left arm and tore through it. He stumbled, jolted by the impact, although he felt no pain.
He looked down at his arm as he ran, at the torn and bloody sleeve encasing it. He raised his eyes again in time to see a MacGriogair clansman, armed only with a scythe, fall when a ball slammed into his chest.
The red-coated soldier who shot the MacGriogair man jumped over a body lying at his feet to reach the man he’d shot and plunged his bayonet into the wounded man’s stomach. The MacGriogair man writhed, helpless to defend himself, but the soldier continued stabbing him, again and again.
Rage enveloped Ailean. He threw down his targe, and, taking the hilt of his broadsword in both hands, he swung it up over his head as he neared the soldier. Yelling with all his might, Ailean brought his sword down upon the soldier and cleaved the man’s head in two.
He withdrew his sword as the body fell, and he swung it up again, brought it around and down upon another soldier, lopping off the hand with which the soldier held a musket. He raised his sword once more and plunged forward, swinging, slicing and slashing at the Sasunnach in their blood-red coats, venting his rage upon any of them within range of his broadsword.
To his right, he saw two redcoats staring at him, transfixed. Ailean turned and charged toward them, his sword raised overhead. One dropped his weapon, turned and ran, but the other aimed his firearm at Ailean’s face and pulled the trigger. The shot whistled past Ailean’s head. He brought his broadsword down as the soldier turned to run. Ailean’s sword struck a glancing blow that sliced into the man’s shoulder, and he screamed as he fell to the ground.
The sound pierced through Ailean, and he stopped, his rage spent. He stood trembling and looked around at the severed hands and arms strewn among bodies of red-coated soldiers, some lying still and quiet, others writhing and moaning, like the one lying at his feet. Other clansmen still flew past, chasing the fleeing Sasunnach, but Ailean’s strength was gone, dissipated in the soldier’s scream.
NINETEEN
The yells, screams and clangs of swords striking muskets faded from Ailean’s hearing, and the running men, weapons glinting in the early morning sunlight, receded from his sight, leaving a reddish haze surrounding the scene of carnage.
He didn’t know how long he had stood there when a hand gripped his arm. Ailean tore his eyes from the grisly milieu and turned toward the person who had grabbed his arm. He tried to focus.
It was Da, his face and hands and arms bespattered with blood. Ailean glanced down at himself and saw that he was bloody, too.
A moan from the soldier at his feet caught his attention. As he regarded the wounded man, pity for the man’s suffering stirred in his heart.
“He needs help or he’ll die. What should I do?” He fell to his knees beside the soldier and looked up at his father. “Help me, please. What should I do?”
Aodh knelt and looked at the soldier’s wound. “We need something to staunch the bleeding. Tear a strip from the bottom of your tunic.”
Ailean pulled off his tunic and stood naked as he ripped a strip from the bottom of it. He followed his father’s directions as they tried to stop the bleeding and save the soldier’s life.
“There,” Aodh said. “I think he will last until we can find a doctor for him.”
“How are we going to get him to a doctor, Da?”
Aodh thought for a moment. “Go fetch our féileadh-mòr.”
Ailean put his tunic on as he sprinted to the piles of fabric lying on the ground where they’d dropped them. He grabbed their clothing and ran to Da’s side. Aodh took Ailean’s féileadh-mòr and shook it out.
“Here, help me fold this.” Aodh gave Ailean the corners of one end while he held the other.
They folded it lengthwise, then crosswise, and laid it on the ground beside the soldier, who was now unconscious. They lifted him onto it, and, for the first time since the ball hit Ailean, a lightning bolt of pain shot through his arm. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out as they lifted the makeshift sling and carried the Sasunnach soldier to an area where men were receiving medical care.
“Aodh MacLachlainn,” a voice shouted behind them. “Your son is down.”
Aodh’s head turned toward the voice. It was Gabhran MacEòghainn.
“He’s lying yonder.” Gabhran pointed toward the west.
“Which son is down?” Aodh yelled back.
“Your eldest, Coinneach,” Gabhran replied.
“This man will get help here. Come along, we have to see to your brother.” They laid the soldier on the ground and took Ailean’s féileadh-mòr from under him.
Aodh ran as fast as he could. Ailean tried to keep up but he was losing strength, and he lagged behind. They stepped this way and that to avoid the dead and wounded men strewn across the ground. They made their way in the direction Gabhran had pointed and found Coinneach lying on the ground.
“Coinneach, where are you hurt?” Aodh asked as he knelt beside his son.
Coinneach moaned. Aodh checked for wounds over Coinneach’s body, then turned his son’s head to the side, revealing a bloody tangle of hair. A musket ball had creased his skull above the left ear, and Coinneach was barely conscious.
Aodh examined the laceration, sat back and took a deep breath. He looked at Ailean for a long moment before he spoke. “I think he’ll be all right. He will just need to rest until his senses return. Help me. We’ll carry him to the doctors.”
As they carried Coinneach on the makeshift sling, the loss of blood from his wounded arm continued to weaken Ailean. When they neared the place where the doctors were caring for the injured, his knees gave way. He stumbled, and they almost dropped Coinneach.
“Careful. We don’t want to add to his injuries,” Aodh said. He frowned as he scrutinized Ailean more closely. “Are you wounded?”
“My arm.”
“We’re near enough. Lay him down here. And you sit beside him.”
Ailean sat on the ground and weakness overwhelmed him. Aodh found the rent in his sleeve and tore it open to reveal the wound that still oozed blood. While they waited for medical attention, Aodh worked to stop the bleeding.
____________
“I haven’t seen Niall anywhere yet. I wonder where he is,” Aodh said, almost under his breath.
Worry deepened the creases on his face. Both of his older sons were injured, and he didn’t know the whereabouts of his youngest.
“You stay here with Coinneach. I’ve got to find your brother,” Aodh said to Ailean, and he started across the field on a quest to find his youngest son.
He found Niall wandering aimlessly, sword in hand, dazed but physically unharmed. Aodh led him to the place he’d left his older sons.
“You stay here and look after your brothers. I’ve got to find our clothes and the other things we left on battlefield.”
____________
Ailean became aware the sun had not risen far, yet it seemed hours had passed since he drew his sword.
“Da, look at the sun. It is yet morning.”
“Aye, it is.”
“But…it…surely it should be later. Much later. The battle and then—”
“The battle was probably not much longer than ten minutes.”
Ten minutes.
Ailean closed his eyes. Just ten minutes, and now his life would never be the same. The scenes of blood and pain and horror and death would be in his mind forever.
Fighting in a battle bore no resemblance to his boyhood dreams of adventure and conquest as a warrior. Inflicting death and damage on other men no longer seemed glorious or something in which he should take pride.
____________
By evening, most of the injured English soldiers, as well as the few Highlanders who had been wounded, were receiving medical care. A doctor cleaned and bandaged Ailean’s arm, and Ailean took off his torn, bloody tunic and put on the old work tunic he’d brought with him.
The sun sank to the western horizon, disappeared, and a chill night encroached on the darkening twilight. Niall gathered reeds from the bog and built a small fire.
Aodh and Niall wrapped a still-unconscious Coinneach in his féileadh-mòr and laid him near the fire. They stayed by him, watching over him, trying to keep him warm. Ailean rested on the other side of the fire.
The three of them sat in silence for a long time, looking into the flames.
At last, Ailean spoke. “Was it like this at Sheriffmuir, Da? Is it always like this?”
“Aye.” Aodh looked away from the fire, into the darkness, as if images from the past hung suspended there. “It was blood and pain and killing men you didn’t know.” His voice lowered, grew rough and gravelly. “And it was mourning men you did know.”
Aodh cleared his throat and leaned his head back, lifted his gaze to the stars.
“Sometimes this is a man’s lot in life. We have to fight because it is our duty to fight. We can’t question it, because those who know better than we do have made the decision that we must fight. And so we must.”
They sat in silence again for a short while.
Aodh looked across the fire into Ailean’s eyes and spoke again. “But, son, there are other times, even though the blood and pain and dying are the same, we fight because we ourselves decide to, because we know it is the right thing to do, the honorable thing. At those times, it’s easier to make the fight, but it’s still hard to bear the…the…”
Aodh’s voice trailed off. He lapsed into silence again as he regarded his unconscious son, remembering the past, worrying about the future.
Aodh bowed his head, closed his eyes and prayed aloud. “Thank you, Heavenly Father, for sparing my sons’ lives and for sparing me. Please watch over us through this night, bring us safely through it to the morning. And, be with our loved ones at home. Keep them safe and bring us home to them again. I ask, too, that You watch over all the men who fought and were wounded today. If it be Your will, may they all be healed. I make this petition in the name of Your Son, Jesus. Amen.”
After a moment, Aodh raised his head. “Ailean, lie down and get some sleep. You, too, Niall. I’ll tend the fire and make sure your brother stays warm.
____________
Ailean fell into an exhausted sleep. He wakened as the sun rose, weary and lethargic. In his weakened condition, it took a long time to get dressed. Niall had to help him when he stood and pulled the top half of his féileadh-mòr over his shoulder and fastened it. He panted, drained of energy, and sat while he recovered his breath.
Ruairidh stopped on his round through groups of his men.
“How’s everyone this morning, Aodh?”
“Not good. Ailean is very weak, and Coinneach, he still hasn’t come to his senses.”
Ruairidh leaned over and peered at Coinneach. “Hmm. Well. I’ve come to tell you that the army’s returning to Edinburgh. Although,” he shook his head, “I don’t know how we’ll be able to take this one along.”
Aodh stroked his beard. “Maybe we’ll have to stay here with him until he wakes up.”
“Not a good idea, Aodh. You shouldn’t be separated from the rest of us.” Ruairidh turned to Ailean. “I have to talk with you, Ailean. About what you did yesterday.”
“What was that?”
“You broke ranks. You didn’t follow orders.”
“But, I fought and—”
“Battle is not a game. It’s not about showing how well you can wield your sword,” Ruairidh said, his voice cold and stern. “It’s about following the orders of your commanders, about fighting as one unit with the other men. It’s about carrying out the battle plans those in charge of the army have formulated. The success of your regiment can depend on how well you follow orders, how well you do what you’re told.”
“I thought—”
“You thought you could bring yourself some glory.”
“I—”
“Next time, forget about yourself and follow orders. Then maybe you will bring yourself the glory and honor you seek as a warrior.”
Coinneach roused into consciousness while they were talking. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up but groaned and lay back again.
“Are you all right, son?” Aodh asked.
“My head hurts,” Coinneach mumbled.
“Does anything else hurt?”
“No, just my head.”
“Ruairidh, what are we to do if we can’t stay here and can’t go with you?” Aodh asked.
Ruairidh scratched his head. “I don’t know. Let me think about it.” He started toward the next group of men, hesitated and turned to Aodh.
“I think you and Niall will have to take Ailean and Coinneach home to recover. Neither of them is in any condition to go home by themselves, and I think it’ll probably take both of you to help them along.” He reached into his sporan, pulled out some coins and handed them to Aodh. “Take this. I don’t know how long it will take you to get home, but maybe this will buy enough food.”
“Thank you.”
“You’d better get started as soon as you can get Coinneach on his feet.” He glanced at Ailean. “And you. Think about what I said.”
Ailean kept his head lowered after Ruairidh walked away. He didn’t want to face his father after the humiliating words Ruairidh said. He’d not only lost the respect of his commander, but his father knew about his disgrace.
The next morning, Coinneach was able to stand, and they left for home, with Aodh supporting Coinneach as they walked. Ailean did not look back.
Aodh had carried a few coins with him when they left home. With the additional money from Ruairidh, he had enough to buy food from crofts along the way to sustain them at first.
Ailean began to recover during the first days of the homeward trek. But the long days of walking over rough terrain with little food to eat drained the small bit of strength he’d regained. Then his wound became infected.
TWENTY
The journey home took longer than it should have because neither Ailean nor Coinneach could walk far at one time nor at a normal pace. Aodh and Niall became tired and worn, since each of them carried an extra targe and sword slung on his back in addition to his own weapons, and at times, they had to help support the two wounded men as they struggled along.
“I’m sorry, Da,” Ailean gasped as he sat on the ground where he had collapsed, his head hanging. “Just let me rest a little, please…and…I…” His voice, weak and tremulous, faded as if he had neither the strength nor breath to continue speaking.
“We’ll stop for a while,” Aodh said. “We need to rest anyway. Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you lie down. You’ll get more rest that way.”
Ailean lay back on the grass and closed his eyes, still panting. Coinneach and Niall sat beside Aodh, all of them watching Ailean, exchanging brief, worried looks.
“Da, what are we going to do if—” Niall began, but his father’s frown and shake of the head silenced him.
When Ailean’s labored breathing became easier, he opened his eyes. “I think I can go a little further now.”
Aodh and Niall helped him to his feet, and the father and his sons continued their homeward journey.
____________
The sun climbed to its zenith as the men ascended to the top of the ridge east of their croft. Ailean faltered when he got his first sight of home. So much had happened since the evening they left, the ordinary days of his existence before the battle seemed lik
e a lifetime ago.
The children were outside playing and were the first to see the men as they descended the slope. Coinneach-òg recognized his father and ran toward them, shouting, “Daidein! Daidein!” His commotion caught the attention of the women.
Mùirne shaded her eyes and looked to see who was coming down the hill. Suddenly, she threw her drop spindle to the ground and raced toward them, followed by Una and the other women.
Aodh, on whom Ailean leaned, relinquished his son to the arms of his wife. Worry pinched furrows into Mùirne’s forehead when she saw Ailean’s sunken eyes and pale face. She pulled his right arm across her shoulder to help support him and stared at him in alarm. She placed her hand on his forehead.
“You have a fever! You’re sick!” she said.
Ailean said nothing. He gazed at his son’s blonde curls, at his guiltless face. The realization of how he’d changed since he last saw his son shook Ailean. A great gulf had formed between himself and his former life, and he couldn’t reach across it to touch the innocence of the days before he had wielded his sword in battle.
Coinneach-òg lifted his arms to his father, asking to be picked up, but Ailean couldn’t lift his son. He reached down and caressed the curly head, while he struggled to keep his emotions under control.
The little procession reached the cottages, and Aodh swung the weapons from his back and lowered them to the ground. He groaned and bent over, placed his hands on his knees and propped himself for a moment’s rest .
“You boys pick up those swords and targes and bring them in the house,” Brìghde instructed the children.
“Brìghde,” Aodh said. “Ailean’s very sick. You need to help Mùirne.”