High on a Mountain

by Tommie Lyn

  He crawled along until he saw the form of a soldier ahead, holding a musket on his shoulder, the bayonet prodding the sooty sky. The sentry turned and walked toward a nearby fire. Ailean resumed his advance, an inch at a time. When he was too tired to go farther, he rolled into a clump of thick weeds and slept.

  Ailean awoke in full daylight. And as soon as he opened his eyes, he remembered. A groan escaped his lips at the thought of Niall. He covered his eyes with his hands, wishing he could push the awful sight of his brother’s death from his mind.

  The memory of Niall’s face when he was a little boy floated from the past into Ailean’s mind, a smiling face surrounded by blond curls, looking so much like Coinneach-òg. Except for one thing: Coinneach-òg was physically robust and firmly rooted in life, while Niall had been a dreamy boy with an other-worldly outlook. A series of images of Niall as a child passed in succession through Ailean’s memory.

  Himself and Coinneach laughing at Niall’s first clumsy attempts to handle a broadsword. Niall running to meet them when they were returning from a cattle drive, before he was old enough to accompany them. Niall playing his fiddle at Ailean’s wedding. He saw the shy smile that was ever present on Niall’s face, the blue eyes that seemed to see into forever.

  Gone. All gone, wiped out in an instant by a ball from the musket of a vile Sasunnach soldier.

  But Niall wouldn’t have been here if Ailean had listened to him. Ailean had told him he had to do the honorable thing, had to fight. It was Ailean’s fault Niall came here and died. The knowledge of his responsibility for Niall’s death was too much to bear. Ailean panted, rubbed his eyes, tried to push the memories away.

  A shout from the moor claimed his attention. He parted the weeds and looked through them. A group of redcoats walked over the battlefield. They stopped and poked their bayonets into the bodies of Highlanders strewn across the moor.

  As he watched, Ailean realized some of those bodies still held life. One soldier laughed when an arm was flung up in a vain attempt to ward off the bayonet, and he repeatedly stabbed the man. Another grabbed a man by his hair, raised him and slashed his throat with a knife.

  Other soldiers dragged some of the wounded to a low rock wall, propped them against the wall and shot them. One redcoat must have seen movement from one of the men he had shot. He bashed the man’s skull with the butt of his musket.

  Ailean ground his teeth in impotent rage. He had no strength, no weapon, and knew he could do nothing to stop the murders. He could be of no help to the wounded men. He tried to tear his eyes away from the gruesome sight but could not.

  After the soldiers moved to another part of the moor, Ailean lay face-down in the weeds, gasping, fighting to stifle an overwhelming dread that threatened to engulf him. The redcoats must have won the battle. How else could they have gone unchallenged over the battlefield dealing death to helpless Highlanders? But if they had won…

  Da! Where was Da? Was he…was he there on the battlefield, one of the bodies the soldiers were abusing? And Coinneach? NO! It couldn’t, it mustn’t be true!

  For a moment, Ailean couldn’t breathe, struggled but couldn’t get his breath. He rolled onto his side, curled his body, drew in his head and arms and legs. With muscles clenched tight, he lay immobile as wave after wave of torment, both physical and emotional, washed over him. Long minutes passed while he lay oblivious to his surroundings.

  His awareness was penetrated by a small noise. Ailean rolled his pounding head toward the source. Silence. He listened, unmoving. Maybe the wind had caused the sound. When he moved once more, he heard it again, a rustling in the brush.

  The sighing of the breeze blended with a whisper that called his name. “Ailean?”

  A sob rose in his chest, clutched at his throat. He choked it back. Someone had called him! Was it Da?

  “Aye?” he whispered. “Da?”

  “No. It’s Ruairidh,” came the hushed reply. “Are you badly wounded?”

  “Ruairidh? My head is hurt. And my side. Are you all right?”

  Ruairidh whispered. “No. I’ve got one leg injured. And a cut across my stomach. It’ll be dark soon. Just be still and quiet until then. If they find us, they’ll kill us.”

  Ailean relaxed a little, comforted by Ruairidh’s presence. But…if only it was Da or Coinneach in the brush…he fell asleep. Ruairidh woke him after night fell.

  “Wake up. We have to go. We’re fortunate they didn’t check this area yet, but they probably will tomorrow,” Ruairidh whispered. “Can you walk?”

  “I tried to stand up but I couldn’t,” Ailean answered. “But I can’t leave. I have to find Da and Coinneach.”

  Ruairidh laid his hand on Ailean’s shoulder. “They…are both dead. I saw Coinneach die…torn apart by grapeshot at the same time I was hit.”

  “Coinneach…dead?”

  “And I fell beside Aodh when I was wounded. I was with him when he…” Ruairidh said, and his voice broke. He took a breath and continued, “when he died.”

  “My da? He…he’s…”

  “Yes. And, Ailean, he died feeling proud of you. He asked me, if I survived, to tell you he was proud to have a son who was such a fierce warrior…”

  Ailean’s throat tightened and his eyes grew hot.

  “Proud of me?” But I didn’t follow orders.

  “He saw you and Niall charging the enemy, running straight into the cannon fire, and he…” Ruairidh paused again. “Niall?”

  Ailean couldn’t speak. He covered his eyes with his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” Ruairidh said. “But we have to leave now. There’s nothing we can do for them. It won’t help them if we stay and are killed, too.”

  “But they—”

  “And what of our families?” Ruairidh continued. “You remember what Teàrlach Mac’Ill’Eathainn said before the battle. Cambeuls burned their homes, stole their cattle and stripped the women. What if they are doing the same to our families?

  Mùirne! Coinneach-òg! Ma! The thought shot through Ailean’s grief and energized him.

  “We have to get home. What might they do to them!” Ailean pushed himself up with an abruptness born of urgency but lay down again when a sharp spike of pain drove through his skull and started his head spinning. The dizziness made him retch. Ailean lay panting, eyes closed, until the dry heaves ceased and worst of the pain subsided to a dull ache.

  “Raise yourself a little at a time,” Ruairidh advised.

  He helped Ailean up into a sitting position and got a clearer look at him.

  “We have to clean our wounds so they won’t fester. Let’s go down to the river, and I’ll do what I can about your head,” Ruairidh said.

  “Aye. I need a drink.”

  Ailean had to stop often to rest but at last they reached the river. They crawled onto a gravel spit and lay there at the water’s edge, drinking their fill. Ailean quenched his thirst. He plunged his head into the icy water. It chilled him further but numbed his headache. Ruairidh helped him clean the clotted blood from his scalp, then attended to his own wounds. Ailean pulled up his tunic to bathe his side.

  “I think we’ve done the best we can do,” Ruairidh said. “Let’s get moving. It looks shallow enough here to wade across. Come.”

  “I have to say something first.”

  “Then say it.”

  “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t follow orders again, didn’t wait for the command to charge.”

  Ruairidh sat silent for a moment. “Ailean, you did the best you could. I find no fault with what you did.”

  “But after Gladsmuir, you said—”

  “That was different. But here? There was nothing anyone could have done here. Too many mistakes were made. But you fought bravely. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Then—”

  “I think you’re a brave warrior. I’m proud we’re kinsmen.”

  Ailean sat for a moment, drinking in Ruairidh’s words. Words which were more refreshing to his spirit than the wa
ter of the River Nairn had been to his body.

  They helped each other stand. Ruairidh pulled Ailean’s left arm across his shoulder and half-supported the big man as they waded into the river, helping Ailean keep his balance when his head reeled and made him unsteady. And Ailean served as a crutch for Ruairidh and made him more stable as he hobbled on his good leg. Neither man could stand or walk by himself, but together, they were able to move forward. They angled across the river as they searched for the shallowest place to cross.

  “I see a small thicket. We’ll rest there a little.”

  When they reached the bank, they crawled under the leafless bushes and lay down.

  “Pull your féileadh-mòr over your head and arms and pull your legs up so they’ll be covered. If we fall asleep and daylight comes, we’ll be hard to see in the brush if we’re wrapped and lie still,” Ruairidh said.

  “Which way do we go? I don’t know this place. And I didn’t pay enough attention when Fearghus brought Coinneach and me…” Ailean’s voice began to quaver as he said his brother’s name. He paused until he regained control. “I don’t remember enough about how we got here to make my way home.” Another thought assailed him. “Fearghus. Where is Fearghus?”

  Ruairidh didn’t speak for a moment. “He didn’t make it. I know the way home. But we’ll have to cross over Loch Ness and make our way down the north shore. There are woods where we can hide and no mountains to climb. And I have friends along there who’ll help us. Wounded like we are, we’d never make it if we tried to go home the way we came. Are you rested enough now to walk awhile?”

  “Yes. But…” Ailean said and paused. “What about the rest? Boisil? Gabhran? The others?”

  “Gone.”

  “Gone? All of them?” Ailean took a shuddering breath. For a moment, he couldn’t absorb the finality of Ruairidh’s words. “But…all of us?”

  “There were a few MacLachlainns who weren’t killed. When I hid after the battle, I saw some other clansmen escape. But of your croft, you survived. No one else did.”

  They sat silent as each tried to accept the enormity of their loss.

  “If you can move, let’s go,” Ruairidh said.

  The two men helped each other stand, and they leaned on one another as they eased along, stopping occasionally to rest for a moment or two. But each time they paused, Ailean urged Ruairidh on. His one driving purpose was Mùirne: he had to get home to her.

  Ailean said farewell in his heart to Da, Niall and Coinneach. And to the other men. They were gone, beyond his ability to help them.

  But Mùirne. He had to get home to her and Coinneach-òg. He had to protect her, as he’d promised he always would. He’d promised to protect Niall, too, but…

  As he remembered his words to Niall, Ailean’s mouth grew dry, and his breath caught in his throat. He was so far away and Mùirne was so fearful and helpless and alone.

  ____________

  “The report I received said the clan was devastated. Most of them died in the battle. The Duke had told Lachlainn MacLachlainn before all this business began that if he called his clan out for Prionnsa Teàrlach, they’d have to fight their way through us to get back to their homes,” Ualraig said with a shake of his head. “Now, we won’t have to worry about that.”

  The MacLachlainns dead! Latharn couldn’t suppress the gleeful smile that stretched his lips. If MacLachlainn was dead, Mùirne was a widow. She would be his at last. He would send Odhran and Dùghall to find out where she lived, and then he would go claim his heart’s desire.

  ____________

  “Yet when the rage of battle ceased,

  The victor’s soul was not appeased,

  The naked and forlorn must feel

  Devouring flames and murdering steel!

  “The pious mother, doomed to death,

  Forsaken wanders o’er the heath;

  The bleak wind whistles round her head;

  Her helpless orphans cry for bread.

  “Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,

  She views the shade of night descend;

  And, stretched beneath the inclement skies

  Weeps o’er her tender babes — and dies.

  “While the warm blood bedews my veins,

  And unimpaired remembrance reigns,

  Resentment of my country’s fate

  Within my filial breast shall beat.”

  — from “The Tears of Scotland”

  by Tobias Smollet

  TWENTY-SIX

  The afternoon sun displayed its light in broken, shifting patterns upon the path beside Ailean. Fleeting clouds blocked its rays intermittently, and new spring leaves on branches that overhung the trail tattered the light and sprinkled pieces of it onto the shadowed earth.

  He moved faster now that he’d passed Cambeul territory and was nearing home, but caution still slowed his steps, and he paused in the brush to listen from time to time. He wanted to get home before sunset but things he’d seen and heard during the long journey from Culloden heightened his awareness of danger and made him move slowly, deliberately.

  Ruairidh left him when the path forked, turning aside to go to his own home. He asked Ailean to accompany him, but Ailean couldn’t wait one moment longer to see that his home and family were safe, to assure himself that all was well.

  But, all was not well. He stopped, crouched upon the moss with his head in his hands and blinked to forestall tears, ground his teeth to stifle groans that rose in his throat. Ailean tried to shove the horrific battlefield images from his mind. He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths to deaden the grief, to push the pain away.

  Now that he was near home and Da, Coinneach and Niall, Oh, Niall! were not here, heartache poured through him, fresh and new again.

  Visions flashed from his memory, one by one. Once again, Da fell as a fragment of metal from the Sasunnach cannonade tore through his leg. And Da’s words echoed in his ears, “Fight them! Kill them all! Avenge your chief!” Ailean watched as Niall fell. He looked again into Niall’s lifeless eyes and saw blood pour from his brother’s mouth.

  After a time, the images faded, but the torment they left behind lingered. Ailean pushed his suffering down again, locked it deep inside. He rose to a crouch, scanned the woods and listened. He heard no disturbing sounds, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He took a trembling breath and continued creeping through the woods parallel with the path.

  When Ailean reached the bùrn, he stopped and listened. No sounds announced a threat, no danger showed itself in the greening undergrowth. He emerged from the bushes, knelt on the bank and quenched his thirst. He bathed his face, stood, and dusted his knees. He stepped across the narrow stream and slipped without a sound into the sheltering brush once more, headed home.

  He topped the hill overlooking the croft, paused and surveyed the scene below. His cottage, like the others, was whole, unscathed. The door stood open, awaiting him, inviting him. All looked peaceful in the late afternoon sunlight.

  And quiet.

  He closed his eyes in a silent prayer of thanks and breathed a deep essence of home. Ailean wanted to run down the hill and across the bare yard to Mùirne’s comforting arms, but he made himself squat in the thick undergrowth to observe. He had learned not to rely on his perceptions, not to trust appearances, but to assure himself that what seemed to be so, was so.

  When he and Ruairidh traveled through Lochaber on their way home, they happened upon scenes of wanton murder and destruction committed by the Sasunnach and the Argyll Militia. In some places, burned shells of houses still smoldered, and, on one croft, the bodies of women and children lay strewn outside their destroyed homes, struck down for no reason Ailean could understand.

  After each such observation of inhuman cruelty, anxious imaginings and visions of the destruction of his own home built in Ailean’s mind. He and Ruairidh pushed themselves harder, faster, allowing for little rest. Ailean knew he couldn’t relax until he reached home. And now, here he was at last.
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  As he observed his home from the concealing underbrush, he anticipated lying in Mùirne’s arms, warm and comforted. But he knew that could not be, even if the trouble hadn’t yet reached this far. If he let his guard down for even one night, it could mean capture or death. He would make sure that Mùirne, Coinneach-òg and the others were safe, then he would find a place to hide. Maybe at the airigh.

  Ailean satisfied himself nothing was amiss and began a slow circling of the cottages, remaining hidden in the surrounding woods. He called himself foolish for wasting this precious time, but even so, something held him back. He continued his slow progress around the back of the croft, watching and listening. When he eased around and could see the open door of his own cottage again, he remained concealed behind the bushes to watch and listen for a time.

  A feeling, an idea, something…something contracted his muscles, drew them tighter, tighter. A gradual awareness crept through Ailean as he hunkered down in the brush, something…wasn’t quite right. He could see nothing wrong, but something…a thought at the back of his mind, unrecognized…something tried to break through into his awareness.

  Silence. Dead silence.

  There should be some small sounds. From this distance, he should be able to hear an occasional word, hear the sounds of Mùirne’s cooking or housework or the sounds of the animals penned in the byre for the night. He should be able to hear the voice of Coinneach-òg as he played.

  But there was only silence.

  And yet, there was the open door, the promised warmth of hearth and home beckoning to him. Surely all was well.

  When he could wait no longer, Ailean raised himself to a crouch and sidled across the bare yard to the side of the cottage, scanning his surroundings for signs of trouble. He stayed low as he crept along the wall.

  Ailean reached the door and straightened, stood with his back flattened against the cold stone wall. Then he ducked through the doorway and entered the cottage. And froze.