by L. L. Muir
ADAM
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor (No. 11)
By Cathy MacRae
www.cathymacraeauthor.com
AMAZON KDP EDITION
Adam © 2015 Short Dog Press
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor © 2015 L.Lytle
All rights reserved
My name is Adam Patrick Gordon, and I am a ghost of Culloden’s battlefield. Restless I am, for much unfinished business pulls at my soul—and my heart. I left my sweet wife, Mairi, heavy with our first child, to face the Government Army on behalf of Prince Charles. I was one of the unlucky few from the Glenbucket Brigade who fell at Culloden that day in April, 1746.
What would I trade my ghostly existence for? Would a few minutes alone with our bonny prince give my soul the rest it deserves? I must convince Soni that all my heart desires is one more day with Mairi.
DEDICATION
To warriors everywhere, and the families they leave behind.
A NOTE ABOUT THE SERIES
Although the individual stories of Culloden’s 79 need not be read in strict order, The Gathering should definitely be read first to understand what’s going on between the Muir Witch and these Highland warriors from 1746.
The Reckoning, Number 79’s story, will finish the series.
The names of Culloden’s 79 are historically accurate in that we have used only the clan or surnames of those who actually died on that fateful day. The given names have been changed out of respect for those brave men and their descendants. If a ghost happens to share the entire name of a fallen warrior, it is purely accidental.
Table of Contents
DEDICATION
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 1
I listened to Soni as she challenged the others around me. The night was dark, the unearthly fire casting a greenish glow that lit our ghostly faces. To a man, they crowded about her, our sweet young witch, eager to hear how they could accomplish their revenge. “Each of you can face a hale and hearty prince,” she’d said. “If that is what you wish.”
What we wish? How many times over the past 270 years had we heard of the failings of our Bonnie Prince Charlie, the Young Pretender? How he’d ignored the advice of his more experienced commanders, marched his starving and exhausted army through the snow on a dark night for a surprise attack that never happened. As proud as we all were to fight for his cause, every man among us would give anything for a chance alone with the prince to express his disappointment, frustration, ire.
Except me.
Soni drifted about the group, inserting a soft word here, a laugh or a gentle touch there. We were all a bit nervous as our numbers dwindled, one by one. For years I’d simply been known as Number 22, though I believed that to indicate the order in which we’d risen the first time after the bloody battle. My name is Adam Patrick Gordon, though few but myself remembered it.
I thought of Soni’s bargain. Men who had spent the better part of almost three centuries wandering the moor and sleeping in the mud were now given the chance to become a hero and win the boon of their lifetime. It was something most, if not all, of us had dreamed of many times over the years. I’d turned my own grief toward the prince more than once. This restless non-life was no way to spend the rest of eternity, though we’d seen amazing things during our time here at Culloden Battlefield as it grew from a bit of marshy land enriched with the blood of braw Scots to a visitors’ centre where people came to witness the end of Prince Charlie’s dreams. And I’d witnessed many changes—from horses to cars, from the written and spoken word to voices issuing from small, hand-held devices, and the peculiar changes in clothing. Now there was an eye-opener if there ever was.
I turned back to the moment at hand. The last of the 79 milled about, eager to be gone. Around me, the men joked softly, shared remembrances, boasted of how they’d take care of the bonny prince. A few had already disappeared into their chance to become a hero, and then to speak a few words to our doomed leader before settling forever beneath the moor and whatever reward awaited us.
I turned my gaze into the green fire and tried to shut out the unrelenting voices in my head. Once again I heard those life-changing words echo. Even had I returned unscathed from battle, my world would never have been the same. The night closed about me, the velvet sky twinkling with stars that hadnae changed in nearly three hundred years.
Fingers made feather-soft contact with my arm, and I jumped in surprise. It wasnae normal to feel things. Not physically, anyway. Memories and regrets were another thing, and I’d had far too many years of them. Soni’s touch startled me and I eyed her curiously.
“Ye seem somber, Adam,” she said, standing beside me near the fire. “Are ye not ready to have yer say?” She gave me a winsome look.
Over the years, she’d matured from a bonnie bairn to a sweet lass who’d stolen our hearts, and her ability to bring a smile to each of our faces had grown. But this time it wasnae in me. My heart was too heavy. There was more than the loss of a battle and all of Prince Charlie’s plans for me to regret.
She took my hands and turned me toward her. “Why so glum, Adam Gordon? Ye are a brave man. Ye cannae fail yer test.”
“`Tis not the test I worry about,” I managed. “I was damned before I ever fell at Culloden.”
She tilted her head, clearly surprised. “Suppose ye tell me about it.”
I’d bottled up my grief, my anger and my self-recriminations too long. I’d fought well and done my duty and never confided to a soul. Yet the compassion from this slip of a lass nearly did me in. I struggled for breath to form the words.
“I am responsible for my wife and child’s deaths.”
It was her turn to look startled. “Can you explain, please?” Her grip on my hands tightened.
I ducked my head as others turned in our direction. “Not by my hand, but because I wasnae there to protect them.”
“I would like to hear about it,” she said. “It clearly has ye undone.”
Her eyes rounded with sympathy and suddenly the memory broke free. Words I had shoved to the back of my mind tumbled over themselves in the unexpected chance to tear loose. The too-familiar guilt lay on the surface, but I no longer felt consumed, torn between duty and family.
I remembered the day Major General John Gordon had ridden into Strathbogie on his gray Highland pony, still exultant from the Jacobite win over the English at Falkirk in January. He was a craggy man, his aged body twisted with rheumatism, but still a terrifying leader. `Twas said a raid planned by Government forces had cried off due to a mere rumor that he and his men were in the area. The joke was his name alone gave King George nightmares. The reality was, he’d pressed every able-bodied man in the area to ‘the cause’, and I was among them.
“`Twas the night before the march to Culloden,” I recalled. “We were down to our last bit of food, hoping the supply wagons would show up the next day. A young lad rode into camp, but we paid little attention. `Twas not uncommon for new recruits to show up unannounced. Nor was it verra uncommon for us to lose a man the same way—slipping quietly away. It had been a hard winter, and the small respite after the victory at Falkirk in January of ‘46 had done little to raise morale.
“I left my sweet wife, expecting our bairn, when Major-General John Gordon of Glenbucket rode through our land in March, gathering men for the Gl
enbucket Brigade. Proud I was to support the prince, but reluctant to leave Mairi with her so close to her time. But the harvest had been poor, the winter lean, and the Major-General promised good pay.” A bitter smile threatened to twist my lips, still ashamed I’d been unable to provide for my wife. “My Mairi knew what the extra money would mean to us. She told me not to worry. She would have the bairn ready for me to dangle on my knee when I returned.”
I paused. Soni shook her head. “And ye never returned.”
“Nae, that isnae it. The lad who rode into camp that night had a message for me from my brother’s wife. Two days earlier, my sweet Mairi had heard the dog barking furiously and saw the hole in the barn where a couple of sheep had escaped. Though it was bitterly cold, the loss of a sheep meant the loss of wool, lambs and coin, and she set out to help the dog retrieve them. She slipped on the ice and landed hard. It caused her labor to start early and by the time she was found the next day, the babe was dead and Mairi wasnae far from it.” I could not choke out the next words, but Soni did not seem to need to hear them.
“She died as well.” `Twas more of a statement than a question.
I nodded, too heartsick to speak. Even after all these years, the loss of my Mairi struck me hard. She had been my heart, my life. To hear of her death whilst I was away still cut me to the quick. I wanted to believe someday our spirits would find each other, but I had lingered here on Drummossie moor, restless and unable to settle my guilt. Unable to regain in death the family I lost in life.
Soni gripped my hands hard. “How is this yer fault, Adam Gordon? Falling is not something ye could prevent. Ye dinnae cause her death.”
I rounded on her—I admit it—but my eyes were hazed with tears and each word pulled something loose in my heart. “Ye dinnae understand. The bloody sheep had escaped through a hole in the side of the barn. I’d always meant to repair it, but it just became another thing to do once I was home again. If I’d been more caring, if I’d spent one more day at home—”
Soni jerked my hands, cutting off my words. “Ye are not to blame. Ye must believe me.”
I could only nod for her benefit, not mine. I’d watched the bairns with their families at the Visitor’s Centre since it opened in 2007. Jolly bairns, cranky ones late for their naps, whining ones tired or hungry. Wee lads and lasses on chubby legs, older ones galloping about the place with the energy of a cavalry charge. The pull of these youngsters remained strong. Yet I had no descendants, no great-great-great-grandchildren to visit me here. And despite Soni’s well-meaning words, it was entirely my fault.
“Adam, if ye could have one wish, any wish at all, what would it be?” Her voice was soft, beguiling.
That wasnae a difficult question. I had my answer ready. I’d truly thought of little else these many years. I looked her square in the eye. “To go back for one more day with Mairi and fix that damn hole.”
Soni paused, considering my request. “If you receive yer wish, ye must remember ye have but one day, perhaps two at the most, to perform yer heroic act. No matter the outcome, ye will move on at the end of yer time.”
I trembled with anticipation, my stomach awash with a fear I’d never felt before. What if she couldnae allow it? What if the thing I wanted most in this existence wasnae possible? “Can ye do that, lass? Can ye give me time? To protect Mairi is all I ask. I dinnae care what becomes of me.”
She gave me a sorrowful look. “This isnae about avoiding yer fate. Ye are one of the 79 and will always be so. `Tis yer only chance to prove yerself.”
I nodded, my throat thick with emotion. How I longed to live out my life with Mairi, though I knew it couldnae be. But I would give anything—anything at all, including my chance to have a discussion with our bonnie prince—to be able to avert her fate. She deserved better than to die alone on a cold night birthing our bairn. I wanted the power to make that happen for her.
With a nod, Soni brought my hands together before her, then gently pushed me back, toward the fire. I stumbled, my body suddenly heavy, my feet scrambling against the soft soil of the moor. I flinched as a thudding I’d not felt in 270 years began again in my chest and warmth fired outward through my arms and legs. I stared at Soni in wonder, but her face was already fading, dissolving into the green mists. I reveled in the strength returning to my body. I felt young again, invincible, like the twenty-year-old I’d once been who’d left hearth and wife to accomplish great things in Scotland’s honor.
The green glow of the fire faded to a pinpoint, then vanished altogether. Bitter cold stung sharp as a slap as snowflakes grazed my cheeks. I glanced about in the darkness, the waning moon casting its glimmer on the snow. To my left, I could hear the river as it toiled against its frozen banks. Ahead, I could see a light in the window of the stone and thatch cottage where my wife and I called home. To my right loomed the barn, the hole in the corner a dark stain on the wood beneath the pale light of the moon.
I drew a deep breath of cold, clear air. The noxious fumes from the 21st century were gone. The smell of peat smoke hung heavy on the breeze, mingling with the odor of sheep. Tears pricked the backs of my eyes. Soni had done it! She had granted my wish. I was home.
CHAPTER 2
Barking erupted from inside the house. “Pol! Be quiet!” I grinned to hear Mairi’s voice as she scolded the dog. But Pol took no notice of her and I heard the collie’s toenails scratch the wood as she leapt against the door.
“Fine! Out with ye, then.” The door opened and Pol bolted outside. For a moment Mairi stood silhouetted in the doorway, one hand clutching a shawl about her shoulders, the firelight glowing gold behind her. Her figure was bulkier than I remembered—it must have been about three weeks since I’d left her—and she’d never looked more beautiful.
Pol’s black and white form streaked across the yard and she launched herself at me, tail wagging furiously. Half-expecting the dog to pass right through me as things tended to do when ye are a ghost, I was taken off guard when her furry body landed solidly against mine. Taking a step back in the snow to recover my balance, I reached out with both hands and caught her wiry frame.
“Easy, lass. I am glad to see ye, too.”
Pol rubbed against my legs, whining happily. I tried to pet her, but she flipped and rolled and wallowed about me in her excitement. I fisted my hands on my hips and gave her my sternest glare. “Pol. Sit.”
She jumped at the command and plopped her furry behind on the ground in front of me, her tail swiping a path behind her in the snow, ears perked forward, eyes intense as she stared expectantly at me. I reveled in her intelligence. We had been close, she and I, before I left for war. Her herding instinct was second to none—a boast I’d occasionally won a wager on—and her ability to outthink me was uncanny.
I grinned at her and the game was on. “Up.” She rose on her hind legs, her front feet gently paddling the air for balance. “Turn about.” Still on her rear legs, she hopped up and down until she described a complete circle. “Down.” She collapsed instantly onto the ground, her head flat on her paws. I knew it would take a second command to budge her from the spot.
“Crawl.” Raising her furry rump ever so slightly, she crept toward me. “Stop.” She froze. “Back up.” She slithered backward. “Halt.” She stopped.
I knelt on the ground and motioned her forward.
With a yelp, she lunged into my arms and we fell to the ground, wrestling as though it had only been yesterday since we’d last been together. Three weeks for her—270 years for me.
“Pol? Where are ye, lass?” Mairi called from the doorway, peering into the darkness.
I climbed to my feet, dusting the snow from my breeches and coat. “Best get back, Pol. We don’t want to keep our Mairi waiting.”
I strode to the house, Pol galloping beside me. Mairi stared at me, eyes wide, her hand to her throat.
“Adam Gordon? Is that ye?”
My grin spread wider than my face, I was that glad to see my pretty wife. I swept her into a
n embrace, my arms straining around her as I hugged her close. She’d always been a tiny thing—a wee lass against my 6’6” height—and the swell of the bairn almost doubled her size. I tucked my face against her neck and breathed in the smell of her, content to just hold her. After a moment I released her. “Aye, and who else does yer mangy dog welcome home at night?” I teased.
She cradled the curve of my cheek in her palm. “Dinnae say such things, Adam. Ye know ye alone have my heart. Och, I have missed ye so much.” Her hand came to rest on her bulging stomach, and a shy smile crossed her face. “Ye would scarcely know me, I’ve gotten that big since ye’ve been gone.”
A blast of cold wind nipped at my backside and I shooed her in the door. “Get inside, wife. I’ll not have ye taking a chill. I’ll ask ye to take better care of yerself and the bairn than that.” Memory of the missive I had received skittered through me. It willnae come to pass. Soni gave me my heart’s desire and I willnae allow harm to befall Mairi or the bairn.
We went inside and closed the door, leaving the cold night air behind. The fire in the hearth was banked for the night, but warmth still lingered in the glowing embers. Mairi waddled to a chair by the table and collapsed into its seat. She reached for my hand, twining her fingers through mine as she pulled me close.
“Is it really ye, Adam? I am not dreaming? I do often—dream of you, that is.”
I knelt beside her and she smoothed her hand over my hair. “`Tis really me, my love. Ye arenae dreaming.” And to prove it, I kissed her long and tenderly.
She trembled and wrapped her arms about my neck. She pressed her face against my chest and I felt her tears through my shirt. I lifted her in my arms and took her seat, cradling her against me in my lap. We sat like this for a long while, and I even crooned snippets of a tune in the back of my throat as I rocked her gently. Before I’d left home, we were constantly touching, as though `twas difficult to exist beyond each other’s reach. To have her in my arms again was the most wonderful feeling in the world.