by Jane Yolen
“We’ll be dead long before that,” the grumbler said.
Suddenly, I realized I agreed with him. It shamed me to think so, but I couldn’t help it. Why should Cumberland’s troops come any closer, I thought, when they can kill us from the safety of the other side of the moor?
“I have to get to the Keppoch!” I cried. “I have to tell him …”
But before I could take a step forward, before I could dodge blind-eyed Sandy, and push through the boil of men, there was another cannon blast from the redcoats.
And another.
And another.
And I found I couldn’t move at all.
The blasts of the English cannon kept hammering at us and men kept falling—in front of us and then well to the right of us, and to the left, while our own guns fired fewer and fewer shots in return.
I felt the whole body of MacDonalds around me shiver every time a cannonball ripped a bloody path through our ranks. That shiver was like the moment before I fall into one of my fits. I had to bite my lower lip hard to keep from crying out.
“Close up!” the captains shouted after each round.
Close up? I thought. And make a better target for the cannon? Surely that is madness. Besides, my feet didn’t want to move.
“Close up, damn ye,” the captains cried, “and hold yer ground!”
The ranks in front of us had been thinned out like barley at harvest. Now I could see across the rain-drenched moor to the other side; could see the British guns, with grey smoke curling above them like the wings of the angel of death.
“Close up yer bloody ranks or I’ll shoot ye myself,” our captain called.
“Listen to the man,” Sandy ordered, and grabbed at two boys with his enormous hands, moving them closer together.
So we closed up ranks, stepping over the maimed, the whimpering, the dead. I forced myself to move. I had no choice. I closed my eyes against the sleet.
And then we waited some more.
Time once again dragged on painfully, measured by the ceaseless booming of artillery, punctuated by the cries of the wounded. Granda had been right. Dying men called for their mothers. Their mothers and God.
I kept opening my eyes wide as if I could pull myself out of this particular nightmare. Then the sleet and the sound of the guns made me squint again.
And still we stood, not charging, not running, just standing, like men in a bare-knuckle fight terribly outfought, but still unwilling to fall.
A dark-haired lad next to me glanced back over his shoulder, as if checking for a clear route of escape. I longed to look back as well.
But Ewan grabbed me by the arm, whispering, “Let’s get on with it.” As if there were something he and I could do.
“Let loose, damn ye,” I said to him and he looked at me, startled, and let go.
Sandy suddenly muttered, “It’s no like the Keppoch to stand still for a bloody nose. What’s holding him?”
“I thought ye said the prince—” I began.
And next to him a red-bearded man added, “Bloody nose or bloody head, give us the bloody signal, man. Let us charge!”
Then a cannonball ripped through a line only ten yards from where I stood. A shattered leg spun through the air toward me in a shower of blood, landing at Ewan’s feet.
I couldn’t look; but, glancing away, I saw Ewan’s face. It was as grey as a dead man’s, and spattered with red. Where he gripped his sword, his knuckles showed white.
“Ewan, are ye hurt?” I cried.
He looked down at the severed leg and then suddenly leaned over and spewed his last meal onto the ground. Wiping his mouth hastily with the back of his hand, he croaked, “Not I.”
“Close ranks, ye slackers,” the captain called.
I stepped over the severed leg, moving up into the next line of men, on the end, Ewan beside me. The ranks ahead of us were thin and, for a moment, I could see the whole muddy field. It stretched like a black sea before us. Humped with bodies, trampled heather, broken patches of gorse, it looked like a road to Hell.
Then the ranks closed together again and all I had before me were the backs of MacDonald men.
I thought about telling Ewan that we could leave now, that honor had been served. But suddenly there was a fresh skirl of pipes from the center of the Highland army. The drums started a new beat and the Mackintoshes of Clan Chattan moved across the field. And it was too late to say anything at all.
“The charge!” Sandy cried behind me. “The Mackintoshes have gone!”
Beside me everyone tensed like dogs held on a leash, ready to leap at the throat of a bear.
“Do we go?” Ewan asked. “Is it time?”
“Almost, lad, almost,” Sandy told him.
Yet still we were held.
Then a minute or two later, another cry came rolling down the line of men in front of us.
“Atholl! Atholl!”
The Atholl Highlanders were the ones at the far end of the field—our place of honor, and much too far for me to see. But I could tell by the cries that they must have surged forward.
“The charge! The charge!” called someone behind me. And we were all shouting, a hearty cheer that—for an instant—drowned out the thunder of Cumberland’s guns.
25 THE CHARGE
“Now we’ll have them!” Ewan shouted, his voice shrill.
I tried to cheer with him, but my throat was suddenly parched and nothing came out but a croak. It took a while before I could even work up some spit.
“What about us?” a red-bearded man cried out. He was standing ahead of us. “Are we to charge or no? Has nae order come?”
To our right, the Camerons suddenly broke into a run toward the English, shouting their battle cry: “Sons of the hounds, come here and get flesh!”
By leaning sideways, I could see part of their charge. They went flat out, their swords above their heads, their targets before them, screaming at the redcoats. Suddenly there was a round of English fire, simultaneous stabs of light that brought a dozen men tumbling to the ground.
“Will nobody help them?” I cried out loud, but who could hear me in all that noise? Not the Camerons, surely. Those who were still alive kept up the charge, screaming wildly at the redcoats, knees pumping as they raced forward. It was glorious and awful at the same time.
“The Stuarts and the Gordons are away, too!” came a cry ahead of me. Now I could see those clans charging across the soggy moor toward the English guns.
But for some reason, we MacDonalds were still leashed.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” The mutter was all around me now, and then the mutter turned to a shout. I found myself shouting along with them, my heart beating so loudly, I feared it would burst through my sark. Raising my dirk above my head, I cried out, “Let’s go! Let’s go!”
There was a great crash, like trees falling, as the English musketeers fired off yet another volley. A second followed close on the first, the wind carrying plumes of smoke across the sodden field. I took in a big breath of it and started to cough.
Ewan clapped me on the back. “Ye’ll need breath for our charge, Duncan.”
I nodded, and ran my tongue over parched lips. “I’ll … have … it”—cough—“when … I … need …”
But Ewan had already started edging his way forward, ahead of me, displaying his sword as if it entitled him to a place on the front line. I moved to catch up with him, though carefully, in case his blade came too close to my head. Men pressed against us from behind, until the ranks were so tightly packed, we couldn’t advance any further.
“We’re in the thick of it now,” Ewan said, a feverish gleam in his eyes.
“Aye,” I agreed, my heart now beating like one of the drums.
“Claymore!” came a yell from the front, our ancient MacDonald call for attack.
I tucked up my kilts as the men around me did, and pulled my bonnet down tight over my brow. Some of the brawnier men even cast aside their heavy plaids entirely, leaving themselves only in their
sarks, but freer to wield their weapons. I couldn’t bring myself to do that.
Then the pipers filled their bags with air and started to play a rousing march. The drummers set up a rapid beat. Our front line fired off their muskets and pistols, a noise so close, I thought the English were upon us until I realized it was a ragged sound, and not the measured volley of the redcoats.
“Now, we’re away!” cried someone a row ahead of me and then we were finally moving forward, six ranks deep, across the muddy moor. Not a charge but a muddle.
“MacDonald! MacDonald!”
“Och, give me room,” I implored, elbowing the dark-haired boy who’d somehow slipped over to my right. He elbowed me back in the ribs, hard enough to raise a bruise. We jostled this way for a half-dozen steps, though we’d barely space to move, much less fight.
I wondered, as we pushed at each other, where Angus Ban might be. And the Keppoch. Right in the front, I supposed, and exposed to the English guns. And where were John the Miller and Jock and the rest of the Glenroy men? Somewhere close, I knew. There were only a few lines ahead of me now. But so tightly packed, all I could see was Ewan to my left, the boy to my right, and the backs of a hundred or so MacDonald men.
If this is a charge, I thought dismally …
“MacDonald!” someone called again, as we waded shoulder to shoulder across the moor. My feet kept making sucking noises in the boggy ground, and the springy heather made walking even harder. The Keppoch was right, I thought. And Granda, too. This ground is a poor choice for us.
“Shift!” Ewan said suddenly to me. “Duncan, move to my left so ye dinna block my sword arm.” Though we both knew he needed two hands to wield the bloody thing.
Nevertheless, I let him shove me over to his left, and was glad of it, for there was more room on that side and I could leave the jostling lad behind.
I raised my dirk. Only yesterday it had seemed such a grown-up weapon, yet now, after a morning of muskets and cannon, I knew it wasn’t much. But if I could be Ewan’s wasp … Well, I thought, my dirk might do some duty yet.
“Claymore! Claymore!”
The MacDonald call came again, this time erupting from hundreds of throats at once.
Clanranald’s men rattled their swords and shouted: “Dh’ aindeoin co theireadh e! Gainsay who dare!”
Then the MacDonalds of Glengarry roared back at them, “Creaghan-an-Fhithich! The Raven’s Rock!”
Not to be outdone, Ewan and I joined in the Keppoch’s yell along with the rest of our men. “Dia ’s Naomh Aindrea! God and St. Andrew!”
The yell seemed to give me the strength I needed. Once we charge, no one can stand against us, my heart told me, as I thought of what Da had said about Edinburgh, about Falkirk. The English always run before Highland swords.
The men in front of me suddenly charged, and I ran after them. Behind me the pipes screamed out for blood. They sang of glory. And suddenly all I could think of was killing the redcoats, the sassanachs, the invaders.
“God and St. Andrew!” I screamed.
But half a dozen steps later, my feet began sinking into muddy pools. The lingering smoke in the air caught again in my throat.
“This … is … hard … going,” I cried out. The boggy ground had grabbed off my right cuaran and I had to kneel to free it.
“I’m caught, too.” That was Ewan right behind me. Then I heard him laugh. “That’s it, then. I’ll go shoeless. Come on, Duncan, we’re almost to the English line.” He shook his sword. “Let them taste our steel.”
“Wait for me,” I begged. I didn’t want to face the English alone, with only my dirk. A wasp has the right to be a little afraid.
“But we’re so close, Duncan.”
“Och, we’re not that close. Look, will ye, Ewan? Ye can barely make them out. They’re a hundred yards away. There’ll be plenty left for us.” I got the stupid shoe back on and stood.
The crash of English musket fire and the iron boom of their cannon came again. Huge clouds of smoke rolled across the moor, plunging Ewan and me into a choking darkness. Then a rush of hot air whipped past my ear and I flinched from it with a sharp intake of breath.
Cannonball!
I clutched my dagger so hard, the pommel left an imprint on my palm. Sighing in relief when the ball flew past me, I looked for Ewan to make a joke of my fright.
“Did ye see me shake, Ewan?”
He didn’t answer.
“I was like a tree in the wind, Ewan.”
He was silent.
“Ewan?”
Then some of the smoke cleared and I saw him, off to my right. He had been slammed to the ground by the cannonball so suddenly, he’d not even had a chance to cry out. His face was white, his head was covered with bright-red blood. Shards of white breastbone showed through his open chest. His right hand—the sword hand—was gone completely.
Oh, God, Ewan. If I hadn’t asked you to wait …
I looked around, desperate for help, then saw his severed hand a couple of yards past a gorse bush, its lifeless fingers still fastened around the hilt of the stolen sword.
Oh, God, Ewan.
I knew then with crushing certainty that I’d killed him as surely as I’d killed Mairi. Suddenly, I remembered Mairi telling him: “There’s blood on yer head, Ewan, as if ye were wearing a scarlet bonnet.” An uncontrollable tremor began to run down my arms and legs, and I sank to my knees, one hand stretching out helplessly toward his body.
“Ewan!” I cried, for an instant unable to summon grief, only a strange kind of relief that it wasn’t me there on the ground.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I cried, relief turning to shame.
Someone grabbed me by the arm and hauled me roughly to my feet.
“Up, lad!” a gruff voice ordered. “The best service ye can do the dead is to avenge them.”
An abrupt shove propelled me forward. I struggled onward, my dirk held before me, through more smoke and muck and sleet. I was so dazed, I didn’t notice the face of the man who had grabbed me. I hardly noticed anything. Even the din and roar of the battle faded to a distant buzz. I felt as if I had been plunged into an icy pool and would never be warm again.
As I moved forward, I tripped over something, a man, a Cameron, knee-down in the muck. Blood dripped from jagged wounds in his neck and chest, mingling with the mud. I touched his shoulder. It was cold as ice and as hard.
“Is there nae end to this blasted moor!” someone exclaimed behind us. I could hear the sucking sound of his feet in the bog.
“Go on! Go on!” cried someone else.
I left the kneeling man and struggled on. Another man lay facedown in the bog in front of me. I stepped over him. Still another lay faceup, sleet melting into his eyes. More, then more, faceless, armless, legless, headless men. I didn’t know their names. I couldn’t see their faces for the mud and blood and smoke and sleet.
What could I do for them?
Take revenge.
But revenge sounded like poor comfort in the midst of all this horror. How could more bloodshed wash away what had already soaked into me? I was covered in it, head to toe. I remembered Ma saying, “Hope is sowing while death is mowing.” Mowing indeed. Death had mown us down like a scythe through corn.
Directly ahead, the crash of muskets grew. The calm voices of English officers barking out their orders seemed distant, uncaring. As if we Scots really were only a crop to be cut down in the field, not flesh, not blood.
Blood—dear God—so much blood!
The image of Ewan’s hand by the gorse bush suddenly came back to me. Not his blanched, dead face, but his severed hand. I fell to my knees and began to cry.
“Fire!” commanded the calm English voices. And immediately after came the awful boom of cannon. The mass of standing men ahead of me quivered.
The cannon boomed again.
And again.
The pipes behind me fell silent as if they had nothing more to say. The beat of our drums faltered.
&nbs
p; “Grapeshot!” someone cried in warning.
Granda had told me about grapeshot. Awful stuff, he’d said. The worst. The cannonball replaced with bundles of musket balls, nails, scraps of metal. At close range, it could kill or maim half a dozen men at a go.
Oh, God, I thought, not grapeshot.
A huge groan went up around me as if the very earth protested.
I stood. I don’t know why. Staying down made more sense. Staying down meant staying safe. But I stood.
Not for honor.
Not for glory.
For revenge.
“On!” cried our chiefs. “It’s no far now, brave lads!”
Once again swords were brandished in the air, banners waved. I lifted my knife. Now it seemed as heavy as a sword.
I found a group of Highlanders. I couldn’t tell which clan. Just men, muddy, bloody, nameless men. Men who were still standing. For this moment.
The pipes—were there fewer now?—resumed their labored tunes. We started forward.
The sleet lessened. The smoke lifted. Ahead I saw someone I knew: a mane of white hair; a tall, handsome, mud-spattered old man. So, I was near the front line.
If only I can get to his side, I thought. The Keppoch will see me through.
There was another volley of musket fire, then a further round of grapeshot. Beside me, three men staggered backward, falling on the boggy ground, their sarks just crimsoned tatters.
By now the men in front of me were crouching low or flinging themselves full-length on the heather to avoid the next English volley. Before I could do the same, a giant of a man stumbled backward, colliding with me, knocking me flat on my back. He dropped his sword as he fell, pinning me to the ground beneath him.
Winded, I lay gasping until I could summon the strength to wriggle out from under. I pushed myself up onto one knee and stared at him. His lifeless eyes—one blue, one a blind white—gazed up at the leaden sky. A jagged fragment of iron was embedded in his forehead like a dagger.
Stupidly, I wondered what his name was.
And then I thought: Sandy. Sandy MacDonald, of course.
Somehow I managed to get to my feet. I could have turned then and run. God knows, others were racing away. Ma would have told me to run. Da, too. I looked down at my hand, the one that still held the dirk. It was covered with poor Sandy’s blood. MacDonald blood.