Prince Across the Water

by Jane Yolen

  McLean’s grey eyes became slits. “I was there myself, old man. Fighting alongside my father and my brothers and my cousins.”

  Granda paused, considered a moment, then put out his hand. “Peace then. Highlander to Highlander.” He turned to Ma. “Another whiskey, Catriona, for my brother-in-arms.”

  So now I knew it all. The clans had come home, but with the English right after them, taking back again all that we had won on the way down to London. Ewan was right. There would still be much fighting left.

  “The man who’s leading the redcoats,” said the traveler, sipping his second dram, “is King George’s own son, Cumberland.”

  Granda spat on the floor. “Pah! Cumberland’s just a fat, pink-faced daddy’s boy.”

  I started to laugh at that but McLean raised his hand. “He may be young and as fat as a Christmas boar, but he’s already made a name for himself on the battlefields of Europe. Dinna dismiss Cumberland, friend. His bite is much worse than his growl.”

  “He’s an Englishman,” I put in. “And they always run away from a good fight.”

  McLean leaned over the table and glared at me, his eyes no longer pure grey but struck through with red lines, like lightning against a stark sky. “He’s no called the Butcher for nothing, laddie. But yer too young and untested to understand what that means.”

  “Aye, he is,” Granda agreed.

  Ma’s hand went to her cheek and for a moment she was as pale as a ghost. “Butcher?” she whispered.

  It suddenly felt too close in the cottage. My cheeks burned, and not just from the heat of the fire. I needed to get out into the air. I could feel the tightness around my temples starting, and the beginnings of the firefly flickerings.

  If I stayed much longer inside, I might have a fit right there in front of the traveler. So I went outside, and I was not exactly walking slow, either.

  It was a cold evening, which the wind made colder, and me outside without my bonnet.

  The moon and winter stars shone icily overhead. As soon as I was out of sight of the cottage, I leaned against a lichen-covered tree trunk, hoping to shelter from the wind. Taking three deep breaths, I thought that if I could calm my breathing, let my head clear, I would be fine.

  Still, I kept straining my eyes to probe every shadow beneath the trees, looking for a sign of Mairi coming toward me. Thankfully, she was not there, and I knew then that the sickness was passing.

  I waited a few minutes more to be sure. It was dark now and the trees had taken on the shapes of giants, their limbs stretching out like gnarled arms. Just then I saw something come drifting through the greenery, a human figure, but thin and faint in the fading light, like a wraith out of one of Granda’s tales. Yet my head was no longer throbbing, and I felt clear through and through.

  “Mairi?” Her name slipped out, as soft as a sigh.

  But it was a man. Not Mairi, not an apparition after all.

  As he came closer, I could see that he was scawt, scruffy, his clothes hanging loose about him, torn and dirty, greyer even than McLean’s had been. His plaid was threadbare. He wore mismatched cuarans on his feet. Only his sword in its sheath was still whole. What he looked like was a corpse that had dug its way out of the grave.

  I was rooted to the spot in sheer terror, unable to decide whether to run or—even more shameful—shout for help.

  The spectral figure lurched closer until I could see eyes like dying embers under the shadow of his tattered bonnet. The cockade on the bonnet was grey, the badge muddied. His plaid was a dark brown in most places, though a bit of the red showed through.

  With a shock I recognized him, even with the pale skin pulled so tight over the bones. Even with the eyes sunken in and the nose now so prominent. Even with the streaks of grey in his hair.

  “Da?”

  He looked even deader than Mairi when we’d set her in her grave. The tinkers told of such apparitions, how the dead sometimes come home to tell the living how they died.

  “Da?”

  Did I dare let him follow me home? How would Ma react, seeing him this way, wound in his grave cloth, his eyes like shining coals? Such a sight would kill her on the spot. And Sarah and Andrew would have screaming nightmares for the rest of their lives.

  I knew I would have to challenge him here, now. I raised a hand, made a fist.

  And then the ghost spoke, its voice creaking like an old wagon wheel. “This is a poor homecoming, Duncan. Have ye nae words of welcome for a weary man?”

  His voice broke me, and I ran into his arms like a wee bairn. The arms tightened around me and they were a live man’s arms, not a dead man’s, though they were so much thinner than I remembered.

  “Da,” I said. “Da.” I could barely keep from weeping.

  18 THE HOMECOMING

  Da hardly spoke on the way home. I started out asking a lot of questions, but quickly realized he wasn’t going to answer, or hadn’t the breath to answer, so I stopped.

  I was angry with him and glad he was safe. I was curious and cautious. I was ready to cry and wanting to laugh all at the same time. It was the strangest sensation, as if I were treading on a boggy moor. One wrong step and I’d sink forever.

  We walked back to the cottage in silence. Smoke was billowing out of the chimney and stretching south, like a long, accusing finger. Da let me enter the house first, as though he were a stranger who had to be led inside.

  The warmth from the fire hit me like a fist in the face. “Look!” I said brightly. “Look who’s come home.”

  Ma was at the hearthside, bent over her darning. She glanced up quickly, scowling at me for staying out so late. And, I suppose, for bringing another stranger home. McLean was long gone, but Granda still sat at the table, where he’d been drinking drams with the visitor.

  Ma looked past my shoulder and her whole face changed, like candle wax melting. With a whimper, she dropped her needle and thread, stood up shakily, then dashed toward Da. She threw her arms around his neck and sobbed on his shoulder, soaking his grubby plaid.

  “Nae, nae,” he said, patting her softly on the back, a gesture of affection I had never seen him use before. “Nae, nae, my darling, hush ye, dinna fret.”

  Sarah and Andrew didn’t recognize Da at all. They squeezed into a corner, cringing away from this gaunt stranger until he softly called them out by name.

  “It’s Da,” Andrew whispered.

  “But he’s got so old,” Sarah whispered back.

  They crept forward slowly and let Da pat them gently on the head. “Ye two have grown,” he said, his voice rough and dry.

  “Ye have shrunk,” said Sarah, and Andrew elbowed her. Then they both threw themselves at him and he covered their heads with kisses.

  I wanted to be young again and kissed that way. But I wasn’t. I’d been a man for half a year.

  In all this time Granda hadn’t shifted from his spot, but now he sat up straight. “Yer a long way from yer proper post, Alisdair,” he said. “Is the battle over and won?”

  “Many battles are over and won,” Da said carefully.

  “And the final battle? To end the war,” Granda said. “To bring the Stuart what he’s come here for.”

  “There’s been nae such,” Da answered bitterly. “And well ye know it. And there’ll be none if good sense prevails.”

  “Those are queer words coming from a Glenroy MacDonald,” said Granda. Silently I agreed.

  “These are queer times,” answered Da, “when a man returns from a long journey and nobody offers him a scrap of food or a dram.” He took off the belt with the sword and slammed it on the table.

  I went to the table, poured a dram of whiskey in a cup for him, then pulled out a stool. He sat down on it heavily and groaned.

  At the same time, Ma went to the cupboard and brought out some cheese and oatcakes, setting them on the table. “We had some beef, but …” She looked around as if not sure where the meat had gone, McLean, the hungry stranger, already forgotten.

  Da
started to eat without taking off his bonnet, stuffing the cheese into his mouth like a starveling, and following the cheese with the oatcakes. It didn’t take him long to clear his plate. He washed everything down with a long draught of water taken straight from the pitcher, and a sip of the dram right after.

  “Surely there was food at Prince Charlie’s camp,” said Granda.

  “Do ye think so?” Da challenged him. He poked himself in the ribs. “Do ye no see the state of me? I can count my bones as easy as my fingers these days.”

  “An empty belly’s nae excuse for failing in yer duty.”

  How can he answer that? I wondered.

  Da’s voice got dangerously low. “Old man, I was as ready as any to follow the Keppoch and fight for his cause,” he said. “I owe my land and my honor to him. But I owe a duty to my family as well.”

  Granda all but growled at him. “It wasna us that took ye away from the prince.”

  Da slammed a fist on the table. “We fought hard and marched far, only to be turned around with victory at hand. Led back we were, like sheep, back to the very place we started from, tired and misused.” He took a deep sip of his whiskey. “The prince’s gamble has failed, old man, and his cause is finished, and there’s not a Highlander come home who’ll tell ye otherwise.”

  “Finished?” Granda picked out the one word. “Ye beat the redcoats and marched to London just a few short weeks ago.”

  I leaned forward, wondering what Da could say to that. Just then, one of the logs on the fire made a popping sound and Da looked up, startled, something almost like fear in his eyes. Then, realizing it was only wood in the hearth making that noise, he said, “More cheese, Catriona. Please.”

  She brought over another slab and put it carefully on his plate. He picked it up and tore at it with his teeth. Then he followed this with another sip of whiskey before going on. “Aye, we beat the redcoats in some battles and we beat them to the gates of their own capital city. But dinna fool yerself, old man, they were still an army. And every day they got stronger while every day away from Scotland we got weaker.”

  “It’s still at the Keppoch’s side ye belong,” said Granda, “and at Prince Charlie’s. No here.”

  Granda was right. The prince needed all of his men.

  Da’s face went white and angry. Two spots of red, like fire, stood on his cheeks. “So ye’d rather see me dead and picked apart by the crows than here caring for my family?”

  “I never said that,” said Granda.

  He never did, I thought.

  “Aye, ye did,” said Da. “Ye just didna find the right words.”

  Ma made a small sound, almost a whimper. I felt like doing the same. Sarah and Andrew each took a handful of Ma’s skirts and Sarah put her handful up to her mouth.

  “I stood by my chief,” Granda insisted stubbornly. “I didna run off when swords were drawn.”

  “And we’ve heard that story as often as we’re minded to,” Ma interrupted, wiping tears from her cheeks with the flat of her hand.

  Granda gripped the tabletop and stood up sharply. I could see Ma’s words had shocked him, but before he could rebuke her, she spoke again, in a firmer voice this time.

  “Old man, ye and yers fought one battle, then ye went home to yer farms. Ye were only away for weeks; Alisdair has been gone half a year. He’s been all the way into England, right into the wolf’s lair. And God’s seen fit to bring him home to tell us about it. What more do ye want? He’s yer son. Can ye no be proud of him?” She put her hand on Sarah and Andrew’s heads as if to emphasize her point.

  Granda’s lip quivered, but he couldn’t seem to find any words to answer her. Instead he sank back onto his stool and gazed into the fire.

  We were all silent after that. Minutes passed, long minutes. The fire began to sink into embers. Da sipped his whiskey and Ma took his plate away. Sarah and Andrew sat down by the fire and rolled a ball of yarn back and forth between them. I just looked at them all, wondering what had just happened and who—if anyone—had been in the right.

  At last Da cleared his throat.

  “Duncan, go and fetch Mairi in,” he said, starting to sound like himself again. “It’s over dark for her to be running about on her own. Ye know how she is.”

  The silence that followed was deep as a grave.

  I swallowed and looked over to Ma, who turned pale as whey.

  “She’s … no here, Alisdair.” Ma looked at the floor, suddenly unable to meet Da’s eyes.

  Da stiffened, but he didn’t ask why. He just waited and the silence came again, deep and dark.

  It was Granda who told him, with great pity in his voice. “She’s been dead these five months, son,” he said. I had never before heard him talk to Da like that, as if he were a boy.

  Da looked at Ma, then stared about him as if he’d stumbled into the wrong house. “Could ye no have sent word?”

  “All the way to England?” said Granda.

  Da shook his head, but I think he suddenly remembered that he’d sent no word to us, either.

  Ma put her hand on his arm. “That’s news that travels badly at the best of times. We didna want to add our troubles to yers.”

  Da seized her hand so hard, she winced. “What happened? Did she fall sick?”

  “She drowned,” Ma managed to say, almost choking on the words.

  “In the Gloaming Pool,” said Granda. “She slipped and went under and was caught by the reeds. She didna suffer.”

  “How?” Da asked. There was an edge of anger to the word. “Was there nobody to watch her?”

  My heart seized on me then. I could scarcely breathe.

  “She ran off,” said Granda, beating out each word like a blacksmith pounding on an anvil. “There was nae helping it and nae blame to be parceled out.”

  Da slumped back down into his chair and laid his head in his hands. He made a moaning noise that might have been Mairi’s name.

  “Ye can only chase a butterfly so far,” said Granda, consoling now. “In the end it slips through yer fingers and is gone.”

  Fresh tears sprang from Ma’s eyes, but she wiped them away quickly with the hem of her apron. She fetched the whiskey jar down again from its shelf and poured more into Da’s cup. He downed it in one swallow.

  “I thought I was done with death,” he groaned.

  Granda beckoned to her to refill the cup quickly and Da gulped that down as well.

  “I should never have left,” Da said, sounding hollow.

  “Aye, ye had to,” said Granda. “Ye couldna see into the future.”

  “That’s sure,” Da agreed. “If I had, I wouldna have been half the fool I’ve been.”

  “Ye havena been a fool, Da,” I suddenly put in. “Fighting for the prince—”

  “Maybe no a complete fool,” Da interrupted. “Och, well, I suppose it must be told once at least. Then we need speak of it nae more.” He drew himself up and his eyes took on a distant gaze, as if he were staring down a long tunnel into the past.

  I had seen other storytellers start that way. But I knew this telling was going to be different. There’d be little to cheer about and less to laugh at. One look at Da’s face told me that.

  So we all came back to the table and listened to Da, and the tale of the clans marching down to London and back was as black as the Highlander McLean had said, and blacker. For what had been promised the Stuart all along the way—men and weapons and support from France—had never come. The rising up of the English for our king had never happened.

  And the long march homeward, Da said, seemed twice as far as the road down south.

  “I held to the Keppoch as long as I had a heart to,” he told us, “though others of our clan had already melted away like spring snows. Then in February came the orders to march on to Aberdeen, through weather that was the worst in years. By the time we got there, most of us had icicles …” and his right hand described them as he spoke, “hanging down from our eyebrows and beards. We couldna see more tha
n ten yards ahead.”

  Ma put a hand out to touch his. “But you were close to home.”

  And, I thought, close to Inverness. Where Ewan says the prince is now quartered.

  “Da, did you go on with the army to …”

  He interrupted. “There is no army now.” His voice was rough, as if the dust and dirt and ice had corroded it. “Just bands of clansmen scouring the hills for food, and making their ways home. The two weeks before I left, all we were given was a weekly allowance of oatmeal. Ye canna expect to keep an army on that.”

  How can he say there’s no army? I wondered. If I know about Inverness, he must know, too. The prince needs the MacDonalds around him more than ever. And if Da willna go, I’m more than ready to take his place. But I didn’t say this aloud.

  “I did hear that Alan’s son, Struan, had come home,” Granda admitted, turning to look at Da. “And two more in the next glen.” As if he were finally agreeing.

  But I was not ready to give up so easily. The army, I thought. Inverness, I thought.

  “The ones who’ve come home are the ones with some sense,” said Ma, unable to keep still on the matter. “They know they’re needed here to feed their families and keep their children safe.”

  “What about Ewan’s da?” I asked. “He’s not home yet.”

  Da lowered his head and it was a long moment before he spoke. “It’s the worst news I have to bring that poor family.” His voice quavered. “Dougal’s dead. Cut down by an English dragoon at Falkirk. It’s his cuaran I wear on my right foot. I asked his forgiveness when I took it. If the dead can give permission, I had his.”

  Uncle Dougal dead? I blurted out before thinking, “Do they know? Have ye told them?”

  “I’ll tell them in the morning. Let them have one more good night of sleep,” Da said. “God knows they’ll not have another.”

  “Godspeed, Dougal,” Ma said.

  “Godspeed,” we all echoed.

  19 BREAKING THE NEWS

  The next morning, I went with Da and Ma to break the news to Ewan’s family. His ma took it well, only sitting heavily on the hearth bench, asking, “Did ye give him a decent burial at least?”