by Jane Yolen
His words smarted, but I knew he had a right to say them.
“Dinna ye worry about me,” I said. “I’ll see the road through, and fight at the end of it. I’m feeling fine. Only a wee bit cold.” To prove this, I belted my kilt and did a few deep-knee bends.
Ewan nodded approvingly, then gave me a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Ye’ve the making of a soldier, sure enough, Duncan. Just stay on yer feet and follow my lead.” He strode off.
The hair on the back of my neck bristled and this time I shook with anger, not the cold. He was treating me like a bairn, a child, who knew nothing about war.
Have ye forgotten which of us went to Glenfinnan and which stayed home? I thought. Or which of us won the fight in the burn and which needed to be rescued?
For a minute I thought about calling Ewan back. But I didn’t want to start another fight. Soon enough we’d have all the fighting we wanted.
After an hour of slogging through the wet bracken, neither of us had said a word. A thin drizzle began and the ground under our feet grew slippery. The drizzle quickly turned into a shower. In a short while, our plaids were as wet as if we’d fallen into a burn.
I could just about make out the huddled buildings of Inverness in the distance, and beyond them the grey shimmer of a large body of water.
“Is our army quartered in the town itself?” I asked, breaking our long silence. In fact I was hoping we might find the MacDonalds set up in a building in the town and get out of the rain for a while.
He shrugged.
“Ye mean ye dinna know?”
He shrugged again.
“Och, Ewan, ye stupid …” I suddenly stopped. Calling him names would only lead to a fight. “We’ll ask when we get there then.” That seemed straightforward enough.
Ewan wrinkled his nose. “Inverness is full of townsfolk, and there’s none of them can be trusted,” he said. “We’ll find our way just fine without asking.”
“So,” I said, “we’re to wander around like sheep without a dog until we go over a cliff.”
“We’re soldiers,” he answered, pushing a wet bit of hair out of his eyes. “Of course we’ll find our way.”
“That’s nae answer, Ewan,” I said, and strode down to the road, heedless now of possible redcoats.
Just then I heard a clatter of hooves and saw an open carriage heading toward me, coming from Inverness.
“Duncan!” Ewan shouted and all but tumbled down to the road to stand by my side. “What are ye doing?”
“It wouldna do any harm to ask these folk, would it?”
The carriage coming toward us was pulled by a single horse straining with the weight of its passengers and not making any great speed.
“Och, maybe no,” Ewan conceded. Then, seeing there wasn’t risk of being trampled, he stepped directly into its path and raised a hand.
The driver reined the horse in and glowered at us. He was a stout, ruddy-faced gentleman in a frock coat with a three-cornered hat perched on top of his white wig. At his side sat a younger, slimmer version, likely his son. Behind them, safe from the mud kicked up by the horse’s hooves, was a small, sharp-faced woman, who craned around the driver’s shoulder for a look at us.
“Bandits!” she exclaimed shrilly. “They’ve come down from the mountains to rob us!” She had a basket full of cakes, pastries, and wine bottles in her lap.
“Hold yer peace, woman!” the stout man told her. “It’s only a couple of vagabonds. Mere boys. Probably MacDonalds by the red of their plaids.”
“That’s no red, Da,” said the son. “That’s brown, like barnyard muck.”
“We’re Glenroy MacDonalds. And soldiers,” Ewan declared, planting his feet wide apart and grabbing onto the horse’s reins. Then he added recklessly, “Come to join Prince Charlie.”
“That seems likely enough,” said the son with a smirk.
Ignoring his remark, I asked as politely as I could, “Can ye tell us where we’ll find him?” Though what I would have liked even more was to beg some of their food.
“He’s camped up at Culloden House,” the stout man answered, waving his hand vaguely to the northeast of Inverness, as if we knew exactly where he meant. “His men are scattered about Drummossie Moor.”
“I told ye they were still here,” Ewan whispered to me.
“Cumberland’s no far off, they say,” the son piped up keenly. “Nae more than a couple of hours.”
“A couple of hours!” Ewan sounded delighted. He turned and looked over his shoulder at me. “I wager there will be a battle this very day.”
“This very day?” My voice suddenly sounded high, unsure.
“Aye, and if ye dinna stop blocking the way, we’re going to miss it,” the gentleman complained.
“Have ye come to join the fight, then?” Ewan asked, his hand still on the horse’s reins.
“Fight? Are ye mad?” The gentleman laughed and his son joined in. “We’ve come to watch.”
“There’s no been a show like this since the last summer’s cattle market,” said the son. “There were jugglers and dancers and even a performing bear. Faith, but it was a braw day!”
Ewan almost turned purple with rage. “These are no jugglers, laddie! These are yer own people fighting for their freedom. Have ye nae thought for the honor of yer family and yer home?”
Well said, Ewan, I thought.
“My family and I have more pressing concerns,” said the stout man, leaning forward and peering at us over his piggy nose. “Peace and good trade’s what we care for and what this poor land needs most. No some foreign prince come to strut and caw about the countryside.”
“Hughie, let’s go!” the woman demanded. “There’s a hill over by Mackie’s farm. We’ll have a fine view from there.”
The driver raised his whip and made to lash out at us. “Out of the way, ye ruffians! Go fight yer battle if that’s what ye want.”
Ewan dropped the horse reins and clenched his fists, looking determined to block their way. But I moved next to him and put a hand on his arm.
“I’ll fight with ye here if that’s what ye want, Ewan,” I said, “but there’s no honor in fighting these cravens. Save it for the redcoats.”
“Aye,” he said, moving to the side of the road. “There’s more than a bit of sense in what ye say, Duncan.” But his arm was trembling under my hand, and I swear, he was ready to draw his knife and fling it at the merchant’s heart.
The merchant touched the whip against the horse’s sweaty back, and they took off down the road.
“Townsfolk!” Ewan spat in the dirt. “I warned ye they couldna be trusted.”
“Surely some of them must support the prince,” I said. “They’re Scots after all.”
“If any do support him, they’ll be turned as easily as bannocks on a griddle if they see the advantage swing Cumberland’s way.”
I didn’t say it, but in my heart I feared he was right.
We trudged northeast, leaving the road again and going over fields muddied by the footprints of many men. The wind began to gust rain into our faces, cold and hard as little stones.
Ewan kept muttering, “Hurry, Duncan, hurry.” He didn’t want to miss the battle, sure it had already started. I was shivering again. Who knew that honor could be so cold? Or glory.
Occasionally, we saw small bands of figures in the distance, scrambling over the hills. They could have been farmers—or soldiers—for all we knew. None of them was ever close enough to hail.
“Damn them!” Ewan cried.
I wasn’t sure if he meant the bands of figures, the redcoats, or the merchant and his family.
After several hours in the pouring rain, it was difficult to tell which way to go. Without the sun to give us a clue, we simply followed after the men we occasionally glimpsed through the grey rain.
“Watch out!” Ewan warned me. “There’s a ditch here. We’ll have to jump it.”
We approached the ditch’s edge and looked down. What we saw ther
e made my blood run cold. My legs started to shake so much, I was afraid I would fall in. Ewan looked as shocked as I.
More than a score of muddy bodies wrapped in worn, filthy plaids were spread out the length of the ditch, some curled up like bairns in their cots, other stretched out full-length in puddles. Not a one of them was moving; a chill like death hung over the place.
“This is nae ditch!” I gasped. “It’s a grave!”
22 DRUMMOSSIE MOOR
“Wheesht!” said Ewan. He was staring hard into the ditch. “There’s something queer here, Duncan. Look close.” He grabbed my arm.
I didn’t want to look any closer, but I also didn’t want Ewan to think I was afraid. So I peered down and saw what he meant.
“There’s nae blood on them,” I whispered.
“Look closer,” he demanded. “Ye can see them breathing.”
I looked closer. Now the rise and fall of their chests under their plaids was clear. And there was a strange sound, too.
“They’re snoring!” I was so relieved, I almost began to laugh. But then I had another thought: What if they’re enchanted? I’d never really believed Mairi’s tales of the faerie prince. She was daft after all. But hadn’t I seen her apparition each time I had a fit? Hadn’t I felt the prince’s healing power? Maybe there weren’t faeries, but surely there was magic. I made a quick blessing sign over myself, spitting three times as protection against enchantment.
“What’s up with ye?” Ewan asked.
“I’m warding off any witchcraft. Can ye no see they’re under a spell? How else can they sleep on when they’re being called out to war?”
As if to lend power to my argument, the skirl of pipes began off in the distance, calling all Highlanders to battle. The rain had slackened, there was a sliver of morning light, more grey than blue, and the sound of the pipes carried clearly, all the tunes of glory blending into one keening summons.
Ewan frowned, unsure whether to believe me. He looked down at the sleeping men and chewed his lip. “What should we do?”
“We’ll have to try and wake them for the bonnie prince’s sake,” I said.
“How do ye break an enchantment?”
How indeed? I thought of Granda’s stories. Kisses. Good deeds. An innocent heart. It was something different in every tale.
“I dinna know for sure,” I told Ewan, “but I know we have to try.” I slid one foot over the edge of the ditch and began to climb down.
“If ye go down there, ye could fall under the spell yerself,” Ewan warned.
“If I do, pull me out.”
Ewan nodded and hunched over, one hand poised to grab me if I should fall asleep.
When I reached the bottom of the ditch, I skirted several puddles and stooped over one of the men, a redheaded giant. I looked for the telltale signs of enchantment, the ones from Granda’s stories: spiderwebs over his face, elflocks knotted in his hair, or an unnatural color to his skin. Suddenly he groaned and his eyes opened a crack. They were the green of gooseberries.
“What’s this?” He grabbed the hilt of his sword and bared his teeth.
I jumped away, pressing my back against the side of the ditch. Then he saw my bonnet, with its identifying badge, and his haggard face relaxed.
“A MacDonald lad,” he said, then yawned greatly, taking his hand from his sword. “Away with ye then and leave me to sleep in peace. I’ve nothing here for ye to steal.”
“The MacDonalds are no thieves,” I answered indignantly. “I’m here to help ye.”
“Help me do what?”
“To answer the pipes, man. Can ye no hear them?”
He yawned again. “I answered those same pipes yesterday and stood for hours in the cold to nobody’s good. And the day before that, and many other days, going back a full nine months.” He turned over and tried to make himself comfortable.
“There must be a way to break the spell that’s holding ye here,” I said desperately.
“Yer daft, boy,” he said, twisting back again and looking at me with those gooseberry eyes. “It’s nae witchcraft that’s brought us to this. It was a night of stumbling through bog and over hillock till we were close enough to smell the redcoats’ cook fires. Do ye know what rations we got yester eve? One biscuit for each man. One biscuit! For a whole night’s march without a stop or a charge.”
“We’ve come to fight,” Ewan called out. “Not to lie about like pagans on a Sunday.”
The man glanced up and saw Ewan crouched on the edge of the ditch. “Then go and do it, and leave us in peace.”
“We thought ye were dead,” I told him.
“Dead tired, laddie, and our bellies as empty as a pauper’s purse. I’m happy never to wake again if it means an end to all this marching and starving.” He shoved me away roughly and laid his head down in the crook of his arm. In an instant he was fast asleep again.
“Come away, Duncan,” Ewan urged, stretching his arm down toward me. “There’s nothing we can do here.” I took hold and he hauled me up beside him.
“It’s nae enchantment,” I said. “It’s exhaustion. Da looked like that when he got home. These men might as well be corpses for all the life that’s left in them.” I started toward the sound of the pipes, but Ewan had another thought and motioned me to wait.
“They might be of some use yet,” he said, laying his pitchfork on the ground. Before I could stop him, he was sliding down into the ditch which was still as a grave.
As soon as I realized what he was up to, I shook my head and hissed at him. “Stop it, Ewan.”
He ignored me and crawled within an arm’s length of the nearest Highlander, a large grey-bearded man wrapped in a green-and-yellow plaid. Stretching out a hand, Ewan eased the man’s sword from his side. All at once the sleeper snorted. His fingers twitched, as if seeking the missing weapon. Ewan froze and I held my breath.
After a long, anxious pause, Ewan took his prize and clambered back up beside me.
We looked at each other and Ewan broke into a toothy grin. “Now I’m a real soldier,” he said. Then he stood and started off and I followed.
As soon as we were out of sight of the ditch, Ewan stopped to admire the fine broadsword he’d taken, with its intricate basket handle for protecting the fighter’s hand. He took a couple of swings with it, and to tell the truth, he had trouble wielding such a sword. It was a man’s weapon, and heavy. But that didn’t put a dent in his pride.
“Now this is a proper weapon to fight with,” he declared. And resting the blade of his new sword on his shoulder, he marched off at a jaunty pace.
Once again rain pelted us, almost muffling the sound of the pipes. Still, there was enough of a thread of sound to follow. As I strode behind Ewan, I was both jealous of his sword and worried that a blade gotten by theft might prove his undoing. I thought to say something, guessed what he would answer, and never said a word.
Now we could hear drums as well as the pipes. And then the murmur of distant voices. It stirred us more than a thousand songs or tales of bravery.
“MacDonald!” I cried out, taking my dirk from my belt. Ewan turned and winked at me. We were here. Here in time for the battle. And onward to glory.
A hundred yards ahead of us was a walled enclosure of rain-slicked stone. Past that we could see a great body of men, their ranks stretching off into the distance. I smiled. Here were many more than had been at Glenfinnan. I tried counting them, and got lost in the numbers. The men were mostly Highlanders, their tartans smeared into a dull blur by the rain. They were huddled together, moving their feet restlessly.
As we got closer, I could make out some of their badges and the dull colors of their plaids. “MacLachlan and Clan Chattan,” I told Ewan. The sight of them gave us fresh strength.
Then Ewan halted and pointed. “Look there,” he said. “That line of red.”
I peered through the drizzle and finally could make out a packed crimson formation far off on the opposite side of the moor. There must have been thousa
nds there. At least double the number of Highlanders I could see. Flags and banners waved soddenly over their heads and their drums beat out rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat. The men were steady and unmoving, but as full of menace as a leashed hound.
“Butcher Cumberland’s army!” I could hardly breathe.
“Are ye still in such a hurry to meet them now ye’ve seen them?” asked a voice.
I held my dagger steady and Ewan hoisted up his sword with both hands.
“Easy,” said the voice. “I’m on yer side, lads. There’ll be plenty of fighting soon enough. No need to do it among ourselves.”
The speaker was a young man seated on the ground with his knees pulled up almost to his chin. He was partly concealed by a gorse bush but had leaned forward to have a sight of us. We moved around to have a better view of him and as we did, I saw he wore a black-and-red plaid. There was a sprig of heather in his bonnet and the badge of a MacDonald. I was sure I had seen him before.
“I was hurrying to answer the pipes myself,” he went on, “when I got a cramp in my leg and dropped to the ground like an old woman. Here, give me a hand up, lads. I think it’s gone now.”
He stretched both hands to us and we pulled him to his feet. He loomed over Ewan by a good head.
Suddenly I recognized his plain, craggy face. “Yer the Keppoch’s son.”
“That I am,” he answered proudly. “Angus Ban MacDonald of Keppoch.”
“Duncan MacDonald of the village of Glenroy,” I said.
“Ewan MacDonald, also of Glenroy,” Ewan said, punching his thumb into his chest.
“I was at Glenfinnan,” I added.
“That was a long time ago,” Angus Ban said ruefully. “When hearts were lighter and the cause a clear road unmuddied by blood.” He eyed Ewan’s sword. “That’s surely a man’s blade yer carrying there, laddie.”
“It was a man that gave it to me,” said Ewan, keeping his voice even, though his fingers tightened around the sword’s hilt.
“Be worthy of it, then,” said Angus Ban, “and ye’ll do yer chieftain proud.” He turned as a huge cry went up behind him and I saw bonnets being tossed in the air.