by Jane Yolen
“To me!” Suddenly I heard a familiar old voice up ahead yelling. “To me, sons of Donald! Will ye no charge, for the sake of yer honor!”
I knew then that I couldn’t retreat. I owed Sandy something. I owed Ewan something. I owed the Keppoch something. Not a throne for a king. Not vengeance. I understood that now. What I owed them was my honor. It’s all a man has, all a MacDonald has, after all.
“For God and St. Andrew!” I cried, and started forward again.
26 FLEEING
“To me, sons of Donald!” the Keppoch called again.
Peering through the billowing smoke and the sleety rain, I caught a glimpse of him. He stood as boldly as a young warrior, sword in one hand, pistol in the other, his guards gathered around him. A young man with flame-colored hair was just now lifting a flag from the fingers of a fallen standard-bearer, then raising it overhead where it flew bravely in the sullen wind.
I moved closer.
The Keppoch looked around, at men skulking away, not like wolves, but like their sons, the little foxes. “My God, has it come to this?” he exclaimed, staring right at me, right through me. “That I am abandoned by my own children.”
“Not I,” I croaked, holding up my dirk.
He didn’t seem to hear me, though, for he turned and started toward the English lines, his guards following in his wake. As he strode along, scattered groups of fighters, men who had been lying prone on the ground, men who’d been scurrying away, men who were behind me and around me, took heart and ran to join him in one last desperate charge.
“God and St. Andrew!” they called, before disappearing into the smoke.
I meant to go with them. God and St. Andrew knew I wanted to. But suddenly my legs wouldn’t obey me any longer. I couldn’t take a single step. It was as if I had been turned to stone.
“Fire!” came the calm command from the English line, so close now, I could see the buttons on their uniforms.
This time the noise was deafening. Smoke spouted from redcoat muskets, gouts of fire, and scorching wind.
“No!” I gasped, thinking that no one charging into that storm could survive. Not the Keppoch nor any of the MacDonalds. And all at once I was running forward and weeping; sobbing for Ewan, and for big Sandy, and for the boy who’d lost his leg in the first round of cannon shot, and for all the maimed I had stepped over to get to this place.
And weeping, too, because for some reason, I was still alive on bloody Drummossie Moor at a place called Culloden. I—who should never have come to this muddy hell in the first place. And weeping because it was to be the very last place in the world I would ever know.
Suddenly, a wounded MacDonald came rushing out of the murk, his plaid trailing behind. He elbowed me aside, knocking me face-first into a large puddle in the bog.
As I splashed about in the cold water, a dreadful torpor seized hold of me. The noise of battle faded away and a voice whispered in my ear: “Stay here. That will be an end to yer troubles. Here ye can know peace.”
Peace. That was what I wanted. The peace between musket fire. The peace between battles. The peace between wars. And then I had one last thought: The peace of the grave. It sounded so wonderful.
For a moment, I felt I was standing between two worlds, one where I could surrender to that blessed final sleep, the other where I was wide-awake in the midst of fire and smoke and noise.
“Stay here,” the voice whispered again.
And I almost listened.
But honor wouldn’t let me. I pushed up hard, my fingers seeking some hold in the mud. Spitting out brackish water, I struggled to my feet, using the back of my hand to wipe the muck from my face. All I could see now were billows of smoke and the tartan of broken Highlanders who were stumbling around as if lost in a winter fog.
“Get up!” I told myself. “Move, ye slacker, move!” So I got up slowly and began to move, finding my way only by instinct and trudging toward what I thought was our front.
An agonized groan made me stop. Before me, sunk to his knees, hands clutching his belly, was a man, a MacDonald. From the quality of his weapons, I knew he was one of the captains. Beside him, on a tussock of muddy grass, lay his sword.
“Here, sir,” I said, offering my hand, “let me help ye.”
He waved me away, a trickle of blood spilling over his lips, bright red until the sleet turned it pale. “There’s nae helping me,” he croaked. “I’m done, lad. Go to the aid of the chief. That’s yer duty now. Nae use trying to help a dead man.” He pointed off to one side, in a different direction that I’d been heading. “Go to him.”
“Who, sir?”
“The Keppoch, lad.” Then he started coughing up more blood.
For a minute I thought about taking his sword. He had no more use for it. But it was a heavy thing by the look, too heavy for me. And a man’s sword is his own. Taking it could bring me the same bad luck as Ewan. I hurried away.
The field was covered with bodies. Apologizing over and over to the dead men I stepped on, I made my way forward till I came upon a group of nine Highlanders crazed with battle madness. Even though it was clear that they could make no headway against another hail of bullets, they clashed their swords against their targes and bellowed out their defiance, saying “Come for us, ye sassanachs, or we’ll be coming for ye!” One yelled the loudest. He was broad in the shoulder and wild-eyed, a bloodied fist wrapped around his sword hilt. “Sassanachs!” he cried again.
“Ye canna kill the Highland spirit!” called his companion, half a head shorter.
Next to him was a wiry old man, his beard more white than grey. He was hurling rocks at the enemy and screaming, “We’ll show ye how to fight like men.”
But the English just stood, calmly reloading their guns, preparing to fire again.
“For God and St. Andrew,” I shouted, ready to join in one last, mad charge. There was a bloodred haze over the field. I took a deep breath.
27 THE KEPPOCH
Close to my right, I suddenly heard someone cry out, “Get him up! Take a leg there, Iain!”
It was a familiar voice, like a lifeline, and me about to drown in a river of blood. The haze before my eyes lifted and I turned toward the voice. Running to him, my legs were suddenly as spry as they’d been in the early morning. The rain parted like a curtain, and there was Angus Ban standing over his father’s body.
The Keppoch fallen? It was as if the earth had cracked wide.
Angus Ban had the chief by the head and shoulders while an old, grizzled clansman—Iain at a guess—was trying to take hold of his legs, which were slippery with rain and mud.
“Let me help, sir,” I called, rushing to their aid. Sliding my dirk back into my belt, I took a grip of the Keppoch’s left leg, leaving Iain to the other.
“Yer a fine sight to see, lad,” Angus Ban told me. “Where’s yer young friend?”
A droop of my head answered him. Then I really looked at the Keppoch. He had a bloody wound in one arm and another—much worse—gaping in his chest. I couldn’t tell if he were breathing or not. “Is he alive?”
“Barely,” Angus Ban said grimly. “But we’ll no leave him here for the sassanach to finish.”
“No if I have to carry him myself, sir.” Though the one leg was slippery with mud and rain, I swore I would not let it go.
“It willna come to that, lad.”
With Angus Ban walking backward and Iain and me going forward, we carried the Keppoch like so much butchered meat. He was not a light burden, with his sodden plaid and jacket, his great sword and brace of pistols. But just as I hadn’t taken the dying captain’s sword, I knew we couldn’t dishonor the Keppoch by removing his weapons just to make things easier for ourselves. Not while he was still alive.
“Hurry! Hurry!” Angus Ban said, trying to keep us moving. “Before those damned guns start up again.”
We were certainly going as fast as we could, but the boggy ground kept grabbing at our feet, the dead bodies strewn over the field kept g
etting in the way. We had to warn Angus Ban each time where to step and which way to go or he would have fallen backward over them.
“Hurry, both of ye,” Angus Ban said again, before glancing down at the Keppoch, whose lips were moving, though no sound came out. Then he added, “Not far, Father, not far.”
Not far to where? I wondered, but didn’t dare ask. I needed all my breath.
There was another crash of muskets and a ball smacked the water between my feet. I jumped and let out a frightened sound. The Keppoch’s body tensed.
“Leave me!” he croaked. “Save yer own lives!”
“Wheesht, Father!” Angus Ban told him. “I’m no bairn that ye can tell me what to do.” Then he said to Iain and me, “Keep moving. Hurry. Hurry. That way.” He tilted his head toward the edge of the moor where there was a stand of trees.
When other retreating clansmen saw who it was we were bearing to safety, they formed a ring of swords around us to keep off any redcoats who might give chase. I didn’t recognize a one of them, except by their badges.
“It looks bad,” a bald man told Iain.
“Shut yer mouth,” Iain replied. “He’s not deaf, ye know.”
“Hurry,” I said, picking up Angus Ban’s cry. “Hurry.” Because it was bad. Anyone could see that. And because the Keppoch’s leg was a dead weight about to slip out of my hands.
We hurried, if a snail’s pace could be called hurrying.
“There’s cavalry coming up on our flank to the left there, Angus,” Iain said. As soon as he spoke, I heard the ominous drumming of hoofbeats.
“Pay nae mind,” Angus Ban ordered. “The prince has men in reserve who’ll keep them at bay.” Then he said down to the Keppoch, “Almost there, Father.”
My arms felt on fire. My back was aching. Not far, I told myself. Not far.
Now the smoke was clearing, and by turning my head to the left, I could see the Highland line.
Line! What had been full of glorious warriors such a short time before was now a huddle of frightened men. Few Highlanders still stood upright, and those who did clumped in ragged groups. Several of them were falling back into defensive formations. But the greater number were simply running toward us, toward safety, as fast as their weary legs could carry them. And who could blame them? Surely not I.
Suddenly, directly ahead of us, I saw a well-ordered body of soldiers in blue uniforms, their muskets primed and at the ready.
“Angus Ban,” I whispered, “we’re done for. Look behind ye.”
He turned his head, then gave a short, sharp snort of laughter.
“Dinna fear, laddie,” Iain said for him, “those are the Royals, loyal Scots like ye and me. Only they’ve fought in the king of France’s army so they’re wearing his uniforms. They’ve come home to stand by the prince.”
The French? Have they arrived at last? The prince will like that, I thought.
“Stand,” growled one of our guardians. “And that’s all the Frenchies have done—stand. While the rest of us charged and died.” He spat to one side.
Even as the man spoke, a squad of red-jacketed English dragoons came galloping across the moor in pursuit of the fleeing Highlanders, heading straight toward us. I saw them raise their sabers, glinting wickedly in the feeble sun.
I was so terrified, I almost let the Keppoch slip from me. But in one efficient motion, the Royals swung their muskets about and unleashed a booming volley at the redcoats. The English dragoons swerved sharply aside and pulled back out of range, their horses kicking angrily at the air.
“Did ye see that!” I cried, hope returning. “The English horsemen fled. They fled!” I held tightly to the Keppoch’s leg, suddenly full of strength again. “My da says …”
Angus Ban shook his head. “They have time and territory on their side, lad. They dinna need to put themselves in danger. Och—didna the Keppoch warn about this ground.” His voice broke as he spoke his father’s name.
The Royals opened their ranks, allowing us and other fleeing Highlanders to pass through. Then they closed ranks behind us.
“Are we safe now?” I asked Iain, hope flaring in my heart.
He looked grimly toward some redcoats who had suddenly surged around our flank, trying to engulf us. Our own Scots cavalry galloped off to meet them, but they were badly outmatched, like a handful of straw hurled into the face of a flood.
“At least we’re no longer on boggy ground,” I said. Instead it was hummocky and covered with scratchy gorse. But much better, I thought, than muck and mire. “Are we close yet?”
“There!” Angus Ban replied, tilting his head toward a flimsy hut about two hundred feet further along, partly hidden in the trees.
We staggered toward it, conscious that a battle still raged around us, but determined to find safety for the Keppoch. When we got there at last, Iain kicked open the door and we managed to get the chief inside.
28 THE OLD BOTHY
The hut was low, dim, and damp, the walls green with mold and the thatched roof half fallen in. The smell was awful, like a byre that hadn’t been cleaned for months. There were a few bits of furniture—several broken chairs, and a battered oak table in the one room. A half-dozen wounded men were already sheltering inside, sitting on the floor, their backs to the leftmost wall, all so badly off, none could lift a hand to help us.
Gently we lowered the Keppoch onto the table, which looked almost too rickety to support his weight, yet—amazingly—it held, as if borrowing some of his own strength.
“There, Father,” Angus Ban said, “we’ll be fine here.”
Though how anyone could be fine in this low, damp place, I couldn’t even begin to guess.
The Keppoch lay still, his arms and legs hanging loose over the table ends. Exhausted, I stared at him while trying to rub some life back into my aching arms.
“Father?” Angus Ban bent over his father, then laid a hand on his cheek. The old man’s mouth hung open; there seemed to be no breath passing between his lips. Drawing his hand slowly down over his father’s brow, Angus Ban lovingly closed the Keppoch’s eyes for the last time. He whispered, “Good-bye, Father.”
“Godspeed,” I said.
Angus Ban looked up, nodding. “Godspeed, indeed.”
Only then did I notice that the MacDonald men who had guarded us on our retreat were now crowding in the doorway. One stepped forward and said softly, “Angus Ban, our duty is done here.”
“Aye,” Angus Ban agreed wearily. “Ye’ve served yer chief well, all of ye. Good luck to ye now.”
The men turned and rushed away.
“Ye, too, Iain,” Angus Ban said quietly, so that no one else in the dim, smelly hut could hear but the three of us. “Go now, quickly. Go back and tell my stepmother what has befallen. Bring her my father’s sword.” He unbelted belt, sheath, and sword from his father’s body. “Tell her I’ll come when I can and if it is God’s will.”
Iain nodded.
I moved away so they wouldn’t think I was eavesdropping on purpose, though I heard it all anyway.
“Tell her that if things go hard with her—as I fear they will—to shelter in the cave at Loch Trieg. She knows the place. Tell her to rely on my brother Ranald in all things. He’s only twelve, but has a canny old head on those young shoulders.”
“I should stay,” Iain began. “For yer father’s sake. For the chieftain.”
I turned to look at them, wondering what the answer to that would be.
“My father is dead,” Angus Ban said brutally. Then, as if to soften what he’d just said, he added, “Nae, man. I am yer chieftain now, so ye must obey me. I want ye to live for Scotland and for the Keppoch MacDonalds. We need men of yer strength for the tasks ahead.” He clasped Iain’s arm.
Iain nodded again and drew away. Then he stood a moment looking out the open door. Just before he went through, he turned and said, “For God and St. Andrew.” Then he was gone.
I was surprised at how quickly he’d left. But Angus Ban himself surpr
ised me even more. Pulling the two pistols out of his father’s belt, he set about loading them with powder and bullets.
“Sir,” I asked, “do ye mean to continue the fight?” For if he was going back to the lines, I would, too. “I’ll go with ye.”
He looked up as if finally remembering I was still there. “What’s yer name, lad?” he asked me.
“Duncan MacDonald,” I replied. “Of Glenroy.”
“Well, Duncan of Glenroy, if this sorry day hasna made a man of ye, nothing ever will.”
“I dinna feel much like a man,” I said slowly.
Angus Ban rammed the loaded pistols into his belt, then looked at me again. “Aye, I know what ye mean, Duncan. But feeling sick at a slaughter means ye have a good brain in yer head, and there’s nothing unmanly in weeping for the dead.” He nodded as if agreeing with himself. “But this is nae time for philosophy. When the redcoats get here, they’ll put a torch to this place, and to everything else for miles.”
“But yer father …”
“Gone to his rest,” said Angus Ban. “And honorable it is. Nothing can disturb him now.”
“What about these brave men?” I gestured to the wounded lying against the walls.
He leaned forward till his mouth was near my ear and whispered, “There’s none here who can be moved without great pain, Duncan. Look at them. Chest wounds and gut wounds. The worst. This is nae hospital but a mortuary. They’ll all be dead before nightfall.”
I gazed around the hut, squinting in the dim light. He was right, and I knew it. Indeed, half of those who had been alive when we arrived were already dead, slumped over or fallen to the floor. The others were scarcely moving. But to just go without them …
“Cumberland doesna mean to leave a Highlander standing. It’s madness to stay here with the dead and the dying, lad. They’d tell ye that themselves, if they had the breath.” He looked around slowly at the men in the hut. “To stay would only add two more to Cumberland’s count. A grand gesture signifying nothing.”