The Storm Breaks (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 4)

by Julia Brannan

  “Jesus Christ,” said Angus, clambering back to his feet along with the rest of the MacGregors. “How long do we have to stand here? When do we get the order to attack?”

  All over the field men were asking the same question, looking to their chiefs for guidance. Alex looked up the field to Lochiel, who in his turn was looking to Lord George. No order had yet come.

  Another wave of cannon fire made its deadly way through the Jacobite front line, and the cries of the wounded and dying were no longer drowned out by the frantic blowing of the pipers. The rumble of discontent grew louder.

  “The men’ll no’ stand for much longer, Alex,” said Duncan. “I think ye’ll have to…”

  The rest of what he was going to say was drowned out in yet another salvo from the redcoat artillery. Something hit Angus hard in the left side of the head and he staggered slightly before righting himself and turning to see what it was. Lying near his feet was the severed arm of a clansman, the fingers still wrapped tightly round the hilt of his dirk. The bloodied remains of the rest of him were some way behind, scattered around the grass. Angus swallowed hard and looked up into Alasdair’s light blue eyes.

  “Ye’re lucky it didna chop your head off, man,” Alasdair said coolly. “If it had ye’d hae been the first man I’ve heard of to have been killed by a corpse.”

  It worked. Angus kept his bread in his stomach and grinned, turning back to his right to ask Duncan what he’d been about to say, but before he could do so the back of his head was seized in a vicelike grip. In the background someone retched, once.

  “Dinna look behind ye,” Alex said tightly.

  Inevitably Angus tried to do just that, and the grip on his head tightened painfully. Instead he swivelled his eyes to the side and saw that Alex had stepped into the space where Duncan had been a moment ago, and that his face was a sickly shade of yellow.

  “He’s dead, Angus. There’s nothing ye can do for him,” said Alex. His voice shook slightly, and suddenly Angus did not want to look back at all. He stopped fighting Alex’s grip and took a huge sobbing breath into his lungs. His heart banged leadenly against his ribs like a stone, and he closed his eyes for a moment, took another breath and steadied himself.

  “I’m all right,” he said. “Ye can let me go.”

  Angus felt rather than saw Alex nod, and then his head was free and he was staring doggedly forward into the mass of men across the field while the blind hatred against all of them raged inside him. He jerked automatically forward, and then checked himself. The rain beat down, soaking the men, and the shouts of discontent became roars.

  Far away on the left, towards the centre of the line, the men of Clan Chattan wavered and then suddenly broke and started surging forwards, swords drawn. Alex raised his head and looked to Lochiel, who nodded, and then from down the line could be heard the call of ‘claymore’. The order to attack. Alex raised his sword high in the air.

  “Ard choille!” he roared, and Angus charged forward with the other men, his world suddenly restricted to the sea of red ahead, the man on the left of him who was Alasdair, and the man on the right who was Alex but should have been Duncan, but he could not think about that now. Then they were on the redcoats and any remnants of fear were gone as the battle rage took him, and he thought of nothing but the killing.

  Angus paused only for a moment to shoulder his musket and fire it. Next to him he heard Alex curse as his powder failed to ignite, then they dropped their guns and raising their swords, ran full tilt into the men ahead.

  The enemy muskets were far more effective, as the rain was at their backs and their powder was dry, while the gunners manning the cannon changed from round to grape shot. The hail of small pellets, shards of metal and nails tore into the Jacobites, cutting great swathes through the clansmen. Angus was aware of none of this, only that in order to get to the enemy he had to scramble over the bodies of the dead and dying Highlanders in front of him. But it was worth it, and he hardly noticed the soft give of the flesh under his feet in his rage to get at the men who had killed his brother.

  His targe was braced on his left forearm, leaving his hand free to grasp his dirk. With his right hand he swung his broadsword at head height, neatly cleaving the first man through the skull, tugging it free in a spray of blood as he parried the next man’s stabbing bayonet with his targe, before following through, driving his sword into the soldier’s chest. There was no time to see if the man was dead before the next one was upon him, and he smashed the man in the face with his targe before kicking him in the groin and stamping hard on his face as he dropped. Before he could bring his sword down, Simon had bent down and cut the man’s throat, and Angus nodded in thanks before giving his attention to the next red-coated enemy.

  The blood sang in his veins, and he knew himself to be invincible, the powerful muscles of his arms and shoulders smoothly dealing the blows that he had practised over and over again until it was second nature and his sword, dirk and targe became part of his body, so that he did not have to think about technique and could concentrate all his attention on anticipating what the enemy was about to do, and on countering it.

  While on the far left of the field the MacDonalds were struggling to negotiate a particularly marshy piece of ground which had slowed them down dramatically, the centre of the line veered to the right to avoid it, which had the effect of closing the gap between men, so that Angus suddenly found himself surrounded by Camerons and MacGregors, with no room to swing his sword, and soon even using the dirk became difficult.

  This situation continued for a few minutes, the men so tightly packed that even the wounded and dead had no room to fall, and the Hanoverian artillery made the most of it, blasting grape shot into the helpless clansmen and dramatically thinning them out. Directly behind him Angus thought he heard Robbie Og scream, then the mass of men staggered sideways as the Camerons started to break free to the right, and the men were running again, flexing their sword arms. Angus looked around but could see no sign of Robbie, although he could have been anywhere among the heaps of kilted men who lay still, or jerked feebly, or were attempting to crawl back off the field.

  Instead he followed Alex, who was some way ahead of him and covered in blood, although from the speed with which he ran and the ferocity with which he attacked every man who came at him, Angus surmised that none of the blood was his own.

  The Camerons had succeeded in breaking through the front line of Barrell’s regiment and were now hacking at the grenadiers of Munro’s, but the Hanoverian commander of the second line, Major General Huske, realising what was happening, advanced his line forward, with the result that the Camerons, along with the Robertsons and Frasers who had joined them, were now beaten back by a devastating fusillade.

  Angus, still trying to fight his way through the packed bodies of those cut down by the guns to get at the redcoats ahead, suddenly found himself being dragged back. He turned to see Iain, face white, left arm hanging loosely at his side.

  “Pull back, man,” he shouted. “We canna go on like this. We’ve lost too many men.”

  Angus hesitated. He had still not had his fill of killing, because once the killing was over the grief would set in, and he was not ready for that. He would never be ready for that. He twisted to look over his shoulder and saw the men retreating, far fewer than had advanced only minutes ago, their faces twisted with frustration and hatred. Reluctantly he turned and followed them, splashing through the red puddles and scanning the field as he went for those of his clan. Iain was clearly injured but still walking, which was what mattered. Kenneth seemed unharmed, and Alex was striding ahead, his shirt half-torn from his back, filthy and bloody but very much alive. Of the others nothing could be seen, but that didn’t mean anything; they had all become separated in the confusion and could be anywhere on the field.

  Angus sent up a prayer of thanks that his brother was still alive and seemed unscathed, and that he himself definitely was. But the battle was lost, that was clear. He had n
ever seen so many dead, mangled and scattered all over the field, and even a cursory glance told him that nearly all of them were Jacobites. Vaguely he wondered whether the prince had got away alive, and had just decided to trot forward to Alex when a horde of men suddenly rose up from behind the Culwhiniac walls that Alex had commented on earlier, and fired a volley into the retreating clansmen. Then they were clambering over the walls, flinging their plaids to one side and screaming “Cruachan!” as they came.

  Campbells. From behind them, through the breaches they’d made in the wall, came the dragoons, sabres drawn, and suddenly the Camerons and MacGregors were fighting for their lives again.

  Angus saw Kenneth swing his sword in an enormous arc, decapitating one man and driving into the shoulder of the next. Then he turned and deftly tripped the next man who came at him, jumping with all his weight on the Campbell’s back as he landed on the ground. No man could survive that.

  Angus turned, and raising his dirk, drove it with perfect accuracy into the eye of the man rushing up behind him, and then turned back in time to duck, narrowly missing being decapitated by the swing of another sword. Before the man could recover his balance, Angus hit him full in the throat with the edge of his targe. He dropped like a stone, and driving his sword through the prostrate man’s chest, Angus ran on, looking for his next victim.

  In the distance he saw Alex, who had dragged an unfortunate dragoon off his horse and had bent over him to deliver the killing blow. Then he straightened as another cavalryman drew up in front of him. As he seemed to have temporarily run out of enemies, Angus started to run across the field to assist his brother.

  Alex drove his dirk straight into the horse’s breast, and the animal screamed in pain. Angus expected Alex to jump sideways to avoid the flailing hooves and attack the rider. But inexplicably, Alex suddenly looked away, across to where a dark-haired dragoon was slashing at another man, his face ugly with hatred, his sword dull and bloody.

  The sun broke through the clouds, bathing the field in golden light, and for the first time Angus was aware that it had stopped raining. Then the wounded horse reared, and Angus shouted a warning too late as its hoof caught Alex on the forehead and he went down in the heather, his sword flying from his grasp.

  Then Angus found himself running as he had never run in his life before, and as he ran he saw the horse come down and Alex’s body jerk convulsively, and then it bolted, the dragoon clinging to its neck, and Angus dropped to his knees beside his brother’s inert body.

  The hoof had come down on his shin, snapping the bone and driving the jagged edge through the flesh, and his forehead was already swelling. There was no time to see if Alex had sustained any other injuries, or even if he was alive. Angus hoisted the limp body into a sitting position, and then with a superhuman effort clasped it round the waist and heaved it over his shoulder, grunting with the effort as he stood. Then he ran, straight down the slope towards a small copse near the river, sheathing his dirk and abandoning his targe, stumbling over the heather, his chest burning with the strain of carrying a dead weight that was heavier than himself.

  It seemed like hours, but in reality could have only been a few minutes before he was plunging into the trees. He turned and looked behind, and seeing no signs of pursuit he dropped to his knees and laid his burden gently on the ground. The sight of the bone was sickening, but Angus did not concern himself with that right now. Instead he frantically fumbled at his brother’s neck, forcing his own breathing to slow so that he would feel the pulse, if there was one. Alex was still and white, his eyes closed. A thin trickle of blood ran from his swollen forehead.

  The pulse was there. Faint, but steady. And then Angus saw the slight rise and fall of the chest, and he fell back into the grass, his limbs suddenly turned to jelly, and burst into tears of relief.

  “Oh thank God, thank God,” he sobbed over and over, his breath coming harsh and ragged as he sought to control his limbs, which had started to tremble uncontrollably. He could not give way now.

  “Does he live?” asked a familiar voice above him. Had it been an enemy instead of Iain, Angus would have been dead. He had not even heard him approach. It was not good enough. Alex would not behave so.

  He sat back and looked up into Iain’s anxious face. He was cradling his left arm in his right, and his sleeve was drenched in blood.

  “Aye, he lives,” Angus said. “But he’s sore wounded. He was kicked in the head by a horse, and his leg’s badly broken too. Musket or sword?” he asked, nodding at Iain’s arm.

  “Musket,” said Iain. “The ball’s lodged in the bone, I think. But if I bind it, I’ll be all right until I’ve time to get the ball out.”

  Kenneth came into view behind Iain, sword encrusted with blood and hair, looking to right and left for any hidden redcoats. Angus’s spirits rose, and then sank again as he saw the blood pouring down the back of Kenneth’s head. Seeing his face, Kenneth grinned.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “Scalp wound. Ye ken how they bleed. I’m fine. Truly, I am,” he added, observing the twin expressions of doubt on the faces of his clansmen. He moved to bend over Alex, and his face became grave.

  “Is he…?”

  “No,” Angus interrupted. “We need to splint his leg and get him away from here.”

  Iain was already off looking for a suitable branch, and returned a couple of minutes later with two branches that could have been straighter, but would have to suffice. Angus had pulled off his shirt and was cutting it into strips with his dirk. Then he looked at Alex, and up at Kenneth.

  “Aye, I ken,” said Kenneth. “I’ll do it. Can ye hold him? I’ll have tae pull hard, so ye must brace yourself well.”

  Angus went behind Alex, lifted him into a sitting position and then sat down himself, wrapping his arms round his brother’s waist and digging his heels into the ground. Kenneth knelt down at his chieftain’s feet and crossed himself reverently. Then he gripped hold of Alex’s ankle, took a deep breath, and pulled.

  The muscles of his enormous forearms bulged and veins stood out on his forehead, but slowly the bone retracted into the flesh and the leg straightened. As soon as Kenneth nodded Iain slammed the makeshifts splints into place, ignoring the pain in his arm as he bound them tightly to Alex’s leg with the strips of linen.

  Finally it was over and Kenneth sat back, wiping his forehead with one enormous hand.

  “Christ, what I wouldna give for a dram now,” he said.

  “If I had a dram, I’d be using it to clean our wounds,” Iain said, his face haggard and grey now as the pain tore through his injured arm.

  Angus, still holding Alex, was feeling for his pulse again. He had half-expected his brother to wake up when his leg was being straightened, because the pain must have been tremendous, but Alex’s hands still hung loosely on the ground, his head rested limply against Angus’s shoulder, and the pulse was still faint but steady.

  The three men exchanged a worried look, but none of them wanted to put their anxieties into words.

  “Are we all that’s left?” Angus said instead.

  “No,” said Kenneth. “I saw Alasdair and Simon running off the field. Graeme was alive when we started the retreat. Wee Robbie was shot. I saw him fall. The others I dinna ken about.”

  Iain and Kenneth both looked at Angus, and with a jolt of pure terror he realised that they were waiting for him to tell them what to do next. With Duncan dead and Alex badly injured he was the next in line to be chieftain, and clearly they considered him fit for the job, or they wouldn’t be waiting for his advice. From somewhere he found the strength to form a coherent thought.

  “Ruthven,” he said. “The men will all go to Ruthven now. If we head over the river the dragoons willna be able to follow, and we’ll meet other men heading the same way. There’s bound to be carts for the wounded, and once we get there the doctors can tend ye.”

  Reluctantly he laid Alex down again, and stood.

  “Can ye carry him, Kenneth?” he sai
d.

  “Aye, nae problem,” the huge man replied. Kneeling down, he put his arms under Alex’s knees and shoulders then stood, lifting the powerful chieftain as though he were a child. Alex’s head flopped back over Kenneth’s arm, and a lump of panic rose to Angus’s throat at the sheer helplessness of the brother he had always thought of as being invulnerable, immortal even. He had always been there, he would always be there. Anything else was unthinkable.

  “He mustna die,” he blurted out, his voice rising in fear. “He mustna. Take care of him, Kenneth, for God’s sake.”

  “He’ll no’ die if anything I can do will save him,” said Kenneth grimly. “Only if God wills it.”

  That had to be good enough. No one could ask more.

  “I’ll see ye in Ruthven, then,” Angus said shakily and turned away.

  Kenneth moved in front of him.

  “Ye canna mean to go back to the battle, man!” he said in a shocked voice. “It’s over. The redcoats are running wild all over the field, stabbing at anything that moves.”

  “No,” said Angus. “I’m going for the women. I ken where they are. You head for Ruthven and I’ll join ye later.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Iain.

  “No,” said Angus. “You go wi’ Kenneth. Ye need a doctor, and I’ll have to move fast. I’ll skirt round the field. The redcoats’ll all be busy looting, or heading for Inverness. I’ll be fine. I’ll bring them safe to Ruthven.”

  He could sense the reluctance in the wounded man, but Iain knew he would slow Angus down, although he hadn’t said as much. He bit his lip and nodded, moving back to Kenneth’s side.

  Angus took two steps away and then came back, brushing Alex’s hair back and kissing him gently on the forehead.

  “Tha gràdh agam ort, mo bhrathair,” he whispered, and then he melted silently into the trees and was gone

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN