Broadsword

by R. W. Hughes

  The only people left in the hall were the ones he had approached and had agreed to a man to participate in the attempted escape of Douglas Poulson. And if the attempt was a success or not, the plan was they would still join their families on the ship that would transport them to their new life in the Americas, as soldiers in the Highland Regiment of the English colony of Georgia.

  First my friends,’ he said to the remaining group of men that had now gathered around him in a tight circle, ‘I would like to thank you for offering your services to help release Douglas and his herdsman Alick Bain and the rest of our clan members.’

  ‘You don’a have to thank us George. I speak for all of us here when I say we are honoured that you involved us,’ replied his cousin, Hugh MacKay, which brought nods of agreement from the rest of the men.

  ‘Leave now, make your preparations and organise your families ready to depart with the ship when it arrives in the bay. I will contact you all when it is time for us to depart for the port of Thurso.’

  He watched as the men followed his instructions and left the hall just leaving his brother Riavach who was busy clearing away the many empty glass tumblers scattered around the room.

  ‘You do not have to do that, Riavach, after all, you are the main nominee for the leader of the MacKay clan its followers and dependants.’

  Riavach smiled broadly before replying. ‘Old habits die hard George,’ thinking back to when his uncle was alive and he, Riavach, was at everybody’s beck and call, and at that time quite happy to be so. As Riavach continued to collect the tumblers, George settled down in front of the peat fire burning in the hearth of the grand stone fireplace, leaning over he reached for the glass decanter and refilled his tumbler with whisky before settling back into the comfort of a deerskin covered chair. He had not shared the plan he was formatting in his brain with any one, not even his brother who had now left the room. In the end, he had decided it was in the best interests of all involved that he would enlighten no one until the group were on the outskirts of Thurso. He had finished his drink and was contemplating making his way to his bedroom when Fiona entered the room.

  ‘Did your meeting go well? Riavach told me you were still here,’ she said as she settled down beside him.

  ‘Yes! It went very well,’ he replied as he moved over slightly to give her more room, and gently caressed the bulge of her stomach as she snuggled closer to him.

  ‘Sithig’s wife says I am carrying a boy,’ she said with a smile as she leant over and kissed his neck.

  He chuckled as he replied. ‘Well! She could be half right.’ Fiona joined him in his laughter, as they both rose and made their way to their bedroom.

  The next few days were hectic for George and Riavach as they organised and recorded for the sale and transport to market of livestock that would be surplus to requirements for the families joining them in their new life in Georgia, and the amount of the funds loaned, and made available for these families to purchase the commodities they would require in their new life in the Americas.

  The surrounding area resounded with the bellowing of cattle, pigs, sheep and goats being driven down the single main street to the live stock holding pens at the end of the village.

  But, it was several days later when one of the nearby crofters’ sons came running into the village, desperately shouting out George’s name.

  ‘George! George MacKay! I have an urgent message for George MacKay.’

  George hearing his name turned to see one of the cattle drovers directing the young boy in his direction.

  ‘I am George MacKay, lad,’ he said as the lad stopped breathlessly in front of him, and took several deep breaths before blurting out.

  ‘Me father told me to tell ya the beacon has been lit on the hilltop of Hugh MacKays land above Scullomie village.’

  Georges face hardened. The beacons were placed at high focal points on the MacKay land and if set alight it was the signal of an attack or marauders in the area. This beacon could be observed from nearby crofters or residents living in or near the town ship, and they in turn would raise the alarm.

  ‘Ring the bell in the tower, Riavach,’ he said to his brother who had joined him in time to hear the lad’s message. ‘I will break out the weapons, powder and shot. And tell Sithig and the stable boy to saddle the horses.’

  He shouted after his brother who was running towards Tongue House to start ringing the large bell situated in the tower of the fortified MacKay residence. If they had not seen the lighted beacon, the bell ringing would bring all the men in earshot to a muster at Tongue House. If they were near their own homes they would bring their own weapons, if not they would meet at the rendezvous and be provided with arms. All the women, young children, old and infirm would also make their way to the village and take shelter in the fortified residence of the MacKay family.

  As he unlocked the metal studded door that lead to the powder room and arms store that was built into the side of the stone-faced hillside well away from any other buildings, but still well within range of a musket from Tongue House, the loud single chime of the large bronze bell situated in the tower began to vibrate around the valley.

  He wondered what had caused his cousin Hugh MacKay to light the beacon and alert the neighbourhood. He had proved in the past to be a competent fighter and leader of men; it must be a major problem for him not to be able to deal with the situation himself. But it was well-known in the area of the large stock of cattle being kept in the holding pens at Tongue, so it could well be a renegade band of Jacobites that were still roaming the countryside making a brazen attempt to rustle these cattle.

  He had no sooner pulled open the heavy door than he was joined by several men who had seen the lighted beacon and hurried to the rendezvous point on their ponies. Between them they quickly stacked muskets and pistols with shot and powder outside the store for quick collection for the men that were now beginning to arrive in response to the lighted beacon and the chimes of the warning bell.

  A young boy on a small pony came galloping down the main street, and seeing the group of men near George, he directed his animal in their direction. As the boy pulled his pony to a halt, George recognised him as Hugh MacKay’s son.

  ‘My father sent me to tell you that raiders are in the bay,’ the boy shouted breathlessly.

  ‘Yes lad! We have seen the beacon,’ he answered smiling at the boy who he could see favoured his father.

  ‘Aye! They came by sea,’ the lad continued.

  In less than half an hour, George had thirty well-armed mounted men heading in the direction of his cousin’s farm that overlooked the Kyle of Tongue and the small fishing village of Scullomie. He had left his brother to organise the residents of Tongue to take shelter in Tongue House, placing anyone who could hold and fire a musket at the narrow firing slots placed at the second floor and the subsequent floors above. This was the procedure that had been put into practise several times in the past, when raiders and rustlers had been in the area, and he left instructions with Riavach for any stragglers who may arrive to follow him on to Hugh MacKays’ farm.

  During the short ride along the narrow path he pondered who the aggressors could be. It was unlikely to be Jacobites, even though there were still groups roaming the countryside, he doubted if they had access to a large boat to carry enough armed men for Hugh to require assistance. Could they be the advance party of a much larger French invasion force hoping to rekindle the Jacobite cause? Well, in a few minutes’ time, he would be in a position to find out.

  As the group drew near to The Kyle of Tongue, they heard the sound of spasmodic musket and pistol fire, which grew louder as they came nearer to Hugh MacKay’s farm, pulling the mounted group to a halt at the far edge of a small wood where they were out of sight from the men attacking those that had taken shelter in the farmhouse. He climbed a small hillock and crawled to several large rocks, from behind this shelt
er with the use of his spyglass he took in the situation before him.

  Hugh MacKay’s farm had been built with defence in mind, the solid stone yard thick walls with ground floor windows with external and internal wooden shutters on the ground floor, which George could see using his spyglass were closed.

  Built on a outcrop into the bay it was protected on three sides by deep cliffs with the land in front of the property being cleared of any natural cover like boulders or trees these been moved many years previous leaving a large stretch of clear land in front of the property. So, any force making a frontal attack could expect to take many casualties.

  From the first-floor windows, the odd puff of smoke and the sound of a discharged weapon could be seen and heard. And the crack of pistols in reply that came from behind two carts filled with hay that were being pushed slowly towards the building by two groups of about ten men each. Further back outside the range of musket fire from the farmhouse was another large group of men.

  ‘There are about sixty men in total at the front of the farm,’ he said softly to himself. ‘That’s double my strength.’

  He switched the spyglass to the bay, and lying at anchor with its sails furled he could make out a large ship. But it was not the type of ship usually seen in the waters around this coast; the rig of the sails and masts were foreign to him.

  He readjusted the spyglass slightly and gasped as he made out its banks of oars lying loosely in the water; it was a pirate’s ship. He moved the spyglass and focused on the large group of men, he gasped aloud as further minor adjustments brought the group in detail.

  ‘They are pirates! The bastards are Barbary pirates.’ There was one boat being rowed towards the ship while another boat was beached at the water line with several figures standing close by.

  With the help of spyglass, he could see the occupants of the boat on the beach and they were mostly women, some holding small children, with several men lying in the bottom of the boat with their hands behind them. This scene told him what had obviously happened. The pirate ship, as was the usual practice, had swooped in the bay at dawn and surprised the fishing hamlet.

  The young people would have been captured and anyone who resisted would have been killed. The alarm had been raised by one of the residents, and those that could had fled to the protection of the farmhouse, closely followed by the pirates.

  With the men on the beach and those at the front of the farmhouse, he was outnumbered at least three to one. He quickly returned to the group still waiting at the edge of the wood.

  He looked at the force he had managed to raise in such short notice, as they surrounded him. There were about ten young men still in their teens who had never been in a skirmish before. They were keen but lacked strength, stamina, and battle experience to be thrown against the murders, villains and ruthless killers that made up the crew of the pirate ship. There were the same number of older men who had been involved in many raids and were battle experienced but they were old and now lacked the strength for any lengthy prolonged hand to hand fighting. That left about ten Highlanders in their prime who man-for-man were as good as any warriors in the known world.

  ‘The attackers are Barbary Pirates,’ he said loudly. He had no need to explain who the Barbary pirates were; the communities along the coast had been plagued by these roving sea renegades for hundreds of years. They came for victims to sell in the slave markets of the Ottoman Empire. They slipped into the bays before dawn and surrounded the coastal villages and hamlets. They took just young healthy specimens; the men would be sold for a life of hard labour or chained for the rest of their lives in a pirate boat as galley slaves. The women would spend their life as concubines or working long hours in menial physical work.

  ‘We’ll take the horses to our side of the wood then move in closer and quietly on foot. No noise, lads. We’ll spread out, so pick your target with your musket. On my order, we fire, reload and keep firing. Keep your pistols primed and loaded in case they try and rush us. Any questions!’

  ‘Aye, George! Can we not charge after firing our muskets as is the norm’? asked one of the older men. ‘Just get us amongst that evil scum and see how they like the taste of Scottish steel.’

  There were growls of approval from the rest of the men surrounding George. ‘These pirates are seasoned fighters and outnumber us at least three to one. If we show ourselves and they realise how few we are, they will be the ones who charge us. We in turn would be hard-pressed to hold them, and risk not only losing our own lives, but the rest of our people trapped in the farmhouse, and we could well end our days chained to the oars of one of their ships. So, no heroics! We don’t break cover from the wood; do we all understood!’

  He looked around his group, everyone was nodding in agreement. Putting his finger to his lips in a sign for silence he primed his musket and pistols, indicating for his followers to do the same. And then when everybody was ready he led the way slowly and quietly into the wood.

  Twenty-Two

  It took the group fifteen minutes of stealthy walking, carefully watching every step they took to avoid stepping on a dead branch, that might in the deathly stillness of the large group of trees, expose their position to the unsuspecting pirates. The only sound that could be heard was the occasional crack of a musket from the direction of the farmhouse, and the return fire from the men behind the hay cart. When the group came in sight of the clearing, the waggons filled with hay were much closer to the farm, and the pirates were taking it in turn to fire their muskets at the windows, then return to the rear of the waggon to reload their weapons, while several of their associates were slowly pushing the heavy waggon ever closer to the main building.

  He could imagine the situation in the farmhouse as the older women would be loading the weapons and possibly firing them as well if there were no menfolk in the house. The terrified children would be screaming and crying adding to the confusion noise and the smoke of the musket and pistol fire.

  He looked on either side and indicated with hand signs for the group to slowly and quietly spread out and find cover. Returning his gaze to the large group of pirates about forty paces in front of him, he selected the one who was shouting the instructions to the others pushing the hay carts and was obviously in charge of this group.

  Taking carful aim with his new rifled barrel musket, he squeezed the trigger.

  He had spent many hours practising with his new weapon which had been taken from the French ship’s officer by one of the Highlanders, and he had exchanged it for two standard French muskets and had been greatly impressed with the accuracy and extra range of this new weapon.

  As soon as his shot rang out, it was followed by a ragged volley from his thirty companions that decimated the outer ring of close packed group of pirates.

  Some after being hit struggled to rise but many others stayed still, or were wriggling on the ground where they had fallen including the one he had targeted.

  But these pirates were hardened fighters of many a skirmish, and lying behind their fallen companions and using them as cover they were quick to return their fire towards their ambushers sheltering in the wood.

  Having now loaded his rifle again, he took careful aim at one of the group with the hay carts. It was out of range of the smooth barrelled musket, but he calculated not for his new weapon. As the ball hit one of the men, he crumpled, and this put his fellow pirates in a quandary. They now had no shelter—being fired upon from the farmhouse and now from their rear, as another well-directed shot from his rifled musket brought down another pirate at the rear of the carts. Several of the men broke cover and dashed towards the path that led to the beach and their longboats, taking several causalities in the process from a volley of shots from the windows of the farm.

  The others dragged the second hay waggon behind the first, so it helped to shield them from the sniper in the wood, but it still left them trapped in the middle of two forces.
He now turned his attention to the main group of pirates; they were being rallied by one of their group who was obviously second-in-command. He could see the man was intending to charge his Highlanders, who were keeping up a constant but ragged volume of fire at the pirate group, but they did not present easy targets, sheltering as they were behind their friends corpses. George’s shot hit the leader as he moved forward at the head of a group who were prepared to follow him in a charge towards the wood.

  This group now fully exposed in the open hesitated as their leader fell, and several more were hit by the muskets of the MacKay firing from good cover in the wood. Now seeing the tide of battle swinging against them and reluctant to move any further forward into an exposed and vulnerable position, several of the pirates turned and followed the first group towards the path that led down to the beach, firing wildly back into in the direction of the wood as they went.

  But nine of their group led by a large man wearing a bright red turban were made of sterner material and shouting and cursing they rushed towards the trees sheltering George and his followers. A young lad of about fifteen, who he recognised as David McCoy the young stable assistant at Tongue House, broke his cover and ran from the trees to meet the pirates with his father’s broadsword held high above his head. He was swiftly followed by another lad of about the same age, carrying a dirk in one hand and a pistol in the other.