by J. L. Jarvis
11
A Wild Wind from the Moor
The next morning was a Sunday. Despite Mari’s pleas to stay home, her father insisted that she go with them to kirk. It was the first time in weeks since they had worshipped as they chose, in a secret kirk service called a conventicle. While the Highland soldiers had stayed there, Mari’s family had gone to the local kirk services, which were now under control of Episcopal curates. Every curate had a list of parishioners. Anyone absent was fined. Should they be suspected of harboring Covenanter sympathies, they could be questioned, forced to take oaths renouncing their faith, and even tortured or executed. Mari had resented being forced to attend the king’s kirk, but complied with her parents’ wishes and attended them every Sunday. Jamie’s death had worn down their spirit. They were weary, and felt they had given enough. She would not trouble them over this.
However, once the soldiers were gone, the secret meetings resumed. Convinced they were no longer under suspicion, the McEwan family set out for their first secret kirk meeting one Sunday before the sunset. It would be at the Ferguson farm, Ellen’s home.
Mari had awoken to uncomfortable cramping. Thomas’s vial had taken effect. She told her parents she was feeling ill and would not be able to go to the conventicle planned for the evening. But her father said she looked well enough and insisted. Mari could not defy him.
When the McEwans arrived for the service, they were met with awkward greetings and stares that made Mari’s parents uneasy. By now Mari was in too much pain to notice. Not only did she have to endure stabbing pain, she also had to hide it from anyone watching. As one wave of contractions subsided, Mari caught sight of Grizzal MacRorie standing outside of the byre, eyeing her slyly. No, it could not be today. The agony was too much, but to endure it in public? She could not. As much as Mari had tried to prepare herself for this moment, her heart hammered in her chest. She was too sick now to think clearly.
One of the elders approached Mari and led her away from her now troubled parents. Agnes Blackwell, Thomas’s new wife, joined the elder who led Mari to the back of the byre.
“Mistress McEwan,” said the elder.
She looked plainly at him, but did not reply.
“We know that you are with child,” he stated, waiting for her to refute it. Mari could not meet his cold stare. Thomas Blackwell stood off to the side. Her eyes drifted toward him, but he shifted his weight to avoid looking at her. Her heart pounded so much she thought everyone could hear it. The elder gave a nod to the women and left them alone to attend to Mari.
She did not resist as they stripped her off her shoes, stockings, and skirts—all but her shift. There was little point in protesting, unless she wished to be forever cast out from the church and her friends. Nor could she run away and start fresh somewhere else. In order to settle in a new town, a person needed a testimonial from the previous church attesting to their good character. Without this, the person would not only be barred from the new kirk, but would be further unable to obtain work. Left with no choice but to comply, Mari set her mind on one goal: She would find a way to persevere. She said not a word and did her best to hide any emotion that might give her accusers satisfaction. If she could impress them with her repentance, they might spare her the rest of the punishment. Often the sentence included being chained to the Mercat Cross with a paper crown upon which was written the offense. They did not usually shave the heads of first offenders, but Reverend Blackwell was an unyielding man.
The pains were now coming more often. A lightheaded sensation dulled Mari’s fear as she clutched the side of the byre for support.
The women escorted her into the byre, which would serve as a kirk for this meeting. The elder prodded her forward to begin her solitary walk to the stool of repentance. A sharp pain shot through her abdomen, making her pause, but she steeled herself and kept walking along the dirt aisle. Now dizzy, she hesitated between steps and breathed deeply. Things came back into focus. As she resumed walking, she began to feel as though she were watching herself from a distance. At last, she arrived at the stool. There was talking. She heard words, but the pain soon returned and distracted her from their meaning. She bent over, but then gripped the edge of the stool and willed herself to sit up and face them. Only once did she let herself glance at Thomas Blackwell. She drew strength from the fear in his eyes. Agnes can have you and all of your lies. Wee one or not, I’ll not name you as the father and be yoked to you for the rest of my life.
Another stab of pain seized her. Her ears rang and she felt herself slipping away. A muffled voice spoke from what seemed like a distance. “Are you so shameless and prideful to think you can raise this wee one with no father and no kirk? Would you wallow in your blasphemous ways rather than swallow your pride? Confess now and be delivered from—”
A bold, kilted figure eclipsed the light from the doorway. Wild wind from the moor tossed the hair of the fearsome Highland warrior.
He had come back.
12
The Battle
Across the moor and up into the hills they rode, to a cave Callum had found on patrol. Here Callum made a pallet for Mari and covered her with his plaid. He stepped outside long enough to send the other dragoons on to Hamilton. It was not far, just southeast of Glasgow, but Mari could travel no farther. He and Mari would stay here for now and catch up to them later.
She lay on her side, curled up in pain. “I ken it’s not cold, but I cannae stop shaking,” she said through chattering teeth.
He sat leaning back against the cave wall and gently pulled her back against him, and enfolded her in his arms. She leaned back into the warmth of his body and trembled. As a sharp pain shot through her, she gripped his arms as she called out his name.
“Aye, lass?”
“I’m sorry.”
“God’s teeth, love, what for?”
She winced and drew a sharp breath. “For all of the trouble I’ve caused you.”
“Och, whisht.” Callum put his hand on her moist forehead and rested his cheek against her hair.
Mari tried not to cry out, but tears streamed down her face as she clung to him.
In his deep, soothing voice, he said, “We’ll get through this, my love. We’ll get through this together.”
* * *
The next day, ribbons of midday sun shone in through the branches that covered the cave opening. Mari opened her eyes.
“Callum?” She barely recognized her own voice in the raspy sound that came out. “Callum!” She tried to sit up, but she lacked the strength.
Pushing the branches aside, Callum ducked into the cave. “I’m here, lass.” Concern and fatigue etched his brow and darkened his eyes. He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. During the long night, he had feared he might lose her. But morning came, bringing sleep.
Mari whispered, “Have you buried it?”
“Aye. I found a wee place under a tree. It looks out over the moors.”
She gave a slight nod and rolled onto her side. A tear rolled down her cheek.
Callum lay down beside her and held her.
* * *
The next morning, Mari walked outside, leaning on Callum’s arm. “Go slowly, lass, you lost a good deal of blood.”
“Dinnae worry about me. It’s a short ride to Hamilton. I can rest when we get there.
He laid a thickly folded plaid over the saddle, and cradled her in his arms as they rode slowly along. She did not complain, but he knew that the ride caused her pain. Mari had insisted on leaving. He was overdue back at camp, and he would not leave her alone here. With the promise of rest when they arrived, they rode. They spoke little. The sun warmed and soothed them, and they were together. Grief had a way of distilling one’s life to a moment, and another, each hanging in air thick with spent emotions.
After a time, Mari said, “How did you ken to come get me?”
“Young Sally.”
“Sally Hay?”
“Aye. It seems that she and Hughie were keepin
g company. He snuck over there to see her one night. She had heard the girls gossiping. The dairymaid—”
“Grizzal MacRorie.”
“Aye. Grizzal was quite proud, the old cow, telling stories about how she tended you when you were sick with the fever. It was then that she discovered your condition.”
“I think she knew even before that. I got sick by the byre one day. When I looked up, she was watching me. I was afraid then she’d guessed.”
“Aye. When she was certain, she told a kirk elder.”
Mari was too worn out to react. “I’d hoped to hide it a few sennights more. But what difference would that have made? The damage was done.”
“Shh… ” He looked at her sternly. “We’ll not wonder about the past anymore. We’re here now, and I’ll not let anyone hurt you again.”
* * *
The encampment in Hamilton was humming with activity. In the morning they were to march on Bothwell Brigg, where the some four thousand Covenanters had established their camp. Hughie met them and took Callum’s horse.
“We dinnae have as much time as I’d thought. Wait here.” Callum ducked into his tent, then came out moments later, extending a flask of water to Mari. While she drank thirstily, he said, “We’ll go find you someplace to bide.”
“Can I not stay here?”
He leveled a look. “Mari, my love, there is nothing more I would like than to offer this to you. But, first, it’s not proper.”
“Not proper? Last night we slept in a cave.”
“That was different. We had no choice then. And there was no one to see us.”
She looked at him plainly. “And what shame could there be left for me now?” Sadness crept into her expression as she looked away with moist eyes.
Sudden concern came over him. “Lass, you’re weary.” He led her to a log to sit down on. “I’m sorry not to have something more comfortable.” Although she had not complained, she sighed with relief to sit down.
Callum knelt down and took her hands in his. His eyes softened. “This is not what I wanted for you.”
“What you or I want is no longer important.” She took a breath and straightened her posture in a manner that was both brave and false.
“Aye, lassie, it is.” He kissed her hand and tenderly placed it back on her knee. With firm hands on his knees, he leaned forward and stood up. “I’ll go find you a place to stay now.”
She touched his arm, and he stopped to look down at her. Warmth filled his eyes.
Mari said, “I dinnae mind staying here. I dinnae care if it’s proper.”
“No, lass. I stay here with my men. While I’m sure they would not mind, I would.” He raised a brow and, with a most charming grin, let her reflect on the prospect.
Suppressing a weak smile, she looked up through her lashes. “Well then, where will I stay?”
After she had rested, he took her to the area of the encampment where the followers stayed. Soldiers’ families, sometimes children included, would follow during the mild seasons. Wealthy officers brought their servants. Washerwomen, cooks, barbers, and surgeons were all needed to support troops. Many troops would not have joined on or remained as long as they had without their families in trail. For the men without families, there were women who followed to meet other needs.
Callum led the way to a tent, where he glanced about and soon spied a matronly woman hanging clothes on a line. Sneaking up from behind, he bent down to circle his arms about her plump waist and planted a kiss on her cheek.
“Och!” Startled, she whirled around, ready to swing a fist. But her fists soon landed on each hip. “Callum MacDonell! You gave me a fright!” But she stretched out her arms and embraced him. She then spied Mari and looked inquisitively back at Callum.
He took Mari’s hand and drew her closer. “Nellie McKinnon, I would like to introduce Mari McEwan.” Nellie greeted her warmly and offered her a folding stool and some tea.
“Nellie’s from Glengarry too. You ken her sons, Charlie and Hughie.”
“Aye.” With a broad smile, Mari said, “Such braw men!”
While Nellie grinned with pride, Callum said, “Nellie, Mari needs someplace to bide while we’re here.”
“Aye, the lads told me.”
Mari looked away as she thought of how much they had told her. Before shame could begin to take hold, Nellie gave Mari’s arm a comforting squeeze. “Of course you’ll stay here.”
Mari looked at her with a hint of surprise that was mixed with relief.
Nellie said, turning to Callum, “I’ll make a pallet to use, until you can find us a cot.”
“I’ll help you,” he said, bounding up. “Stay here, Mari.” She started to rise, but he gave her a warning look to sit back down and rest.
Inside the tent, he spoke softly. “She’s been very sick, Nellie. I’m worried about her. She’ll not let on, but she needs to lie down and rest.”
Nellie finished smoothing out the pallet and fluffing the pillow she’d pulled from her bed. That done, she put her hands on her hips and asked bluntly, “Callum, what is she to you?”
He looked squarely at her. “Everything.”
* * *
The next morning the Sabbath dawned, and the Duke of Monmouth led fifteen thousand royalist forces to the north side of the bridge. Filling the width of the bridge, the troops were followed by eleven square formations of men with firearms bearing six unfurled banners, and two cavalry units. They looked over Bothwell Bridge to the south, where five thousand rebel Covenanters collected in an unorganized mass. A contingent of rebels came forward to meet with the duke. They set forth their demands, to which the duke listened, but he would do nothing until they laid down their arms. The rebels were unwilling or unable amongst themselves to agree, so the royalists began firing their field artillery. When the rebels fired back, some of Monmouth’s men bolted, abandoning their weapons. Callum drew his men forward and rallied others to follow before the Covenanters could take advantage of the royalists’ moment of weakness.
They broke rank and retreated. Advancing again, cannons fired. Bodies lay strewn across the bridge. Still they advanced into cannon fire.
Monmouth was moving his artillery forward, but before he could fill in a breach to his right, rebels fired on the Highlanders. Royalist cannon fire soon deterred them as once more the dragoons advanced.
After two hours of fighting, the ammunition ran out on the Covenanters’ side. Rebel cavalry fled, leaving the Covenanter foot soldiers at Monmouth’s mercy as the royalists crossed over the bridge en masse and defeated those who had not died or fled. Monmouth ordered the fighting to stop, but as soon as he left, some rogue royalists chased the surrendering men through the town of Hamilton. By the end of the day, four hundred were dead, and twelve hundred more were taken prisoner. Three hours from when it had begun, the Battle of Bothwell Brigg was over and the Clyde River ran red.
* * *
Mari awoke to the chaos of men coming back from the battle. She bolted up. How could she have slept? It was Nellie who had insisted that she lie down. To appease her, Mari lay awake in the tent as the sounds of battle filled most of the morning. She was weak from the loss of her baby only two days before, and the ordeal in kirk before that; but Callum was out there somewhere, and she needed to find him. Nellie was gone. Mari got up and combed her fingers through her hair, then went outside to find a plate of oatcakes covered with cloth, which Nellie had left for her. Mari went to the bucket and splashed water on her face and wiped down her neck; then she drank half a cup of the ale just to stave off a weak, trembling sensation.
Soldiers walked past and talked of the battle. Mari walked through camp, searching for Callum. With each passing dragoon, she felt more and more lost. Without knowing whether Callum was safe, time moved slowly. She did not know how the camp was laid out, where the barbers or surgeons might be, so she headed in the direction from which all the soldiers were coming. Some were bloodied and wounded, while others looked oddly unscathed.
/>
She stopped soldiers as they passed. “Please, sir, I’m looking for Callum MacDonell.”
Soldier after soldier shook his head.
“Callum MacDonell! Has anyone seen him?” she cried out, walking more briskly.
She found her way to Bothwell Bridge. Mari stopped and looked out over hundreds of bodies strewn over the landscape. “Callum.” His name caught in her throat.
People wandered through the field and searched bodies for items worth taking. Prisoners were taken and ordered to lie on the ground without moving. One Covenanter turned over and was shot. Dead soldiers were stripped of any uniform garments that might be reused. They were then loaded onto handcarts and taken to a large pit in which bodies were collected. A dragoon sprinkled quicklime over them, layer by layer. Mari watched blankly.
“Madam, this is no place for you.” When she did not respond, a gentle hand touched her shoulder.
“I’m looking for someone,” she said without taking her eyes from the scene.
“Come away, madam.”
When she finally looked back, Mari saw before her an English officer of some rank, judging from his uniform decoration. He led her to a stool outside one of the tents. “Please, do sit down for a moment,” he told her. She looked at him with the blank stare of a woman in shock, but allowed him to guide her. He introduced himself as Captain Lumsden. As they exchanged introductions, Mari thought it so strange that they could be so civilized amid all of the carnage about them.
In answer to his inquiry, she explained, “I am looking for someone. He might be hurt, and I dinnae ken how to find him.”
He handed her a pint of ale and said, “Tell me about him. Perhaps I can help.”
She told him Callum’s name, with which clan he was fighting. “He’s a cavalry officer. An ensign.”