Authors: Bob Atkinson
Shortly after dawn a cold draught swept
through the cottage. Andy peered expectantly into the shadows, but it wasn’t
Ishbel he saw, framed against the pale glow of morning, but the elegant
silhouette of Mary. She’d been tiptoeing out of the cottage when a gust of wind
had blown through the opened door. Andy realised she must have come to Alistair
in the dead of night, as Ishbel had come to him. He lay awake for some time,
wondering if the gentle Mary had been able to apply any balm to Alistair’s soul.
It seemed he’d only closed his eyes again for a
moment, when he awoke to find pandemonium breaking out around him. People were
crowding into the cottage, some carrying children, others bundles of
possessions. In the distance he could hear Achnacon yelling in Gaelic. Alistair
was at the cottage door, rifle in hand.
“Andy, are you awake, man? They’re on their
way!”
These words were like a shot of adrenalin to his
heart.
“How far away? Which direction?” Andy’s hands
trembled as he pulled on his boots.
“From both east and west, just as Longholme
predicted. Achnacon’s young laddie has just arrived from Inverlaragain. One
column was spotted half a mile to the east. Longholme and the others arrived
from Kinlaragain five minutes ago. They report a second column three miles west
of the graveyard.”
Andy’s mind worked feverishly: “One lot’s gonnae
reach us long before the other. They must’ve tried tae coordinate their
movements, but instead they’re gonnae arrive piecemeal.”
Alistair shook his head. “They won’t know we’re
planning to make a stand here. More likely the eastern column intends to drive
ourselves westwards, like a herd of deer, into their trap.”
“Aye, that makes more sense, right enough,” Andy
had to admit.
By the time he’d pulled on his webbing and checked
his rifle, the furore had begun to die down. As many as sixty women and
children had crowded into the cottage. Some Andy recognised; others were
unfamiliar to him. He joined Alistair outside, to find the day bright and
clear.
The other non-combatants had already been moved
into an adjoining cottage. The only people now braving the open air were old
men and striplings… and Longholme’s redcoats. Like outcasts they stood at the
western perimeter of the clachan, their heads and shoulders showing above one
of the walls. Andy wondered if the sight of these uniforms had helped spark the
commotion, the way the scent of a lion would panic a herd of gazelle.
Near one of the cottages he could see Achnacon
handing out muskets and ammunition pouches to young and old alike. Some of the
bodachs
turned the weapons over in their hands, their eyes wide with interest. Two of
the youths were lunging at each other, expending nervous energy in a macabre
game. A shout from Achnacon put a stop to the fun.
There was no sign of Shawnee and Sam. Andy had
seen neither of them since the previous evening.
The two soldiers made their way over to
Achnacon. The Highlander was dressed for battle in a blue phillamhor, his
bonnet topped with an eagle’s feather, as befitted his rank. The handles of
broadsword and dirk projected from his waistband.
“Well, my young friends,” he declared heartily,
“what better morning to give our Hanoverian neighbours a true Highland
welcome.”
Andy found his enthusiasm a little
disconcerting. “Ah see that none of Longholme’s men decided tae leave.”
Achnacon nodded. “Himself has told Larachmor
they have elected to fight beside us this day and will deem it a great insult
if they are not treated as any other man here.”
Aware that he had become the topic of
conversation, Longholme made his way over. He looked pale and tired, his scar
less vivid than usual. He bowed stiffly before Achnacon.
“You have made good use of the time you were
given, sir. Nonetheless you will need every musket at your disposal. You must
arm my men and I at once.” Longholme saw the uncertainty in the clansman. “By
my honour, sir, Captain Scott seeks the destruction of my men and I as much as
he seeks the destruction of your people. If we must die this day then at least
let us die as soldiers.”
To the east, they could hear the distant tap of
a drum; the slow, regular beat that accompanied men on the march. Larachmor
came running along an adjoining passageway. He was dressed much the same as
Achnacon, the sun glinting off a pair of claw-handled pistols in his waistband.
He spoke excitedly to his friend, nodding as he did at Longholme. The two old
comrades embraced each other, before Larachmor ran on towards the sound of the
drumbeat. Alistair followed behind, eager to catch a glimpse of what they were about
to face.
Achnacon turned to the English officer. “Trust
does not come easy to one such as himself. But he has spoke at length to your
two Gaels, and is certain no deception has been hatched against us.”
“Have I not already given my word to this very effect?”
Longholme replied sharply. “In the name of God, sir, my men and I could have
left you to your fate. Instead, as men of honour we chose to share your fate
rather than seek our own safety.”
“But why, sir?” Achnacon at last put voice to
his worries. “ ’Tis a worm that eats at my brain. I can make no sense of it
whatever; that… that a chentleman like yourself would give his life for a
people he considered savages.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’d like to know as well,” a
female voice added.
Longholme spun round to find the American couple
standing behind him. Shawnee was dressed in a red tartan shawl and the same
calf-length skirt she’d worn on the day of the funerals. Wisps of straw clung
like confetti to her hair. Her companion was also dressed in Highland garb,
although the tone of his skin set him apart from the natives.
“I see you have recovered well from your
injuries, sir,” the officer observed.
“No thanks to you, fella.”
“So, why didn’t y’leave when y’had the chance?”
Shawnee asked pointedly.
The officer reached inside his uniform and took
out an object bound in a leather pouch. “I wished to reunite a lady with her
property.”
Shawnee’s eyebrows rose sharply as she
remembered the book she’d left at Inverlaragain. Without a word she accepted
the offering.
“I have also come to reunite a gentleman with
his conscience,” added Longholme, his eyes on the dishevelled beauty before
him. “ ’Tis not every man is so fortunate as to learn what posterity thinks of
him. Those were your words, as I recall.”
“I hate to break up this reunion,” Sam put in,
“but we got people coming today, remember?”
In the distance they could hear the noise of
wheels grinding over the rough path. Without wasting any more time the old
Highlander handed the officer a musket and ammunition pouch.
“And my men?” Longholme asked.
Achnacon nodded sharply. “By your honour, sir,”
he reminded him.
Andy felt distinctly uneasy as he watched the
redcoats being re-armed. The brutish-looking soldier was the last to come
forward. He grabbed the weapon like a Neanderthal reclaiming his club. Andy and
Sam were both aware of the sly interest he took in Shawnee. She also became
conscious of the attention she was attracting, and instinctively pulled her
shawl tightly around her.
All were glad to see Longholme lead his troops
away. The officer had marked out the roofless cottage as the main defensive
strongpoint and lost no time in positioning his men there. The sound of their
approaching enemy was growing louder.
Achnacon turned to his young warriors. “Well,
chentlemen, the time has come to choin our comrades.”
Sam turned to Shawnee. “I gotta go with the
resta the guys now. You get yourself into one of those cottages and keep your
head down ’til it’s over, and don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.” He leaned
over to kiss her and recoiled as he saw a familiar glint in her eye. “No,” he
said firmly. “Definitely, absolutely not.”
Sam watched the glint turn to steel. “Aw for
God’s sake, Shawnee, what are y’trying to do to me? Why d’y’have to act like
G.I. Jane all the time? Huh? I mean, y’don’t see Ishbel out here with Andy, do
yuh? And why d’y’think that is? Because she’s with the other women taking
shelter, that’s why!”
“Ach, man, if only this was so.” Achnacon looked
accusingly at Macmillan. “I have done the best a father can do, but young Andy
failed to heed the warnings he wass give. Now she thinks herself equal to her
chosen man, and will not be bid in any matter whatever. Even now she waits for
himself by the storehouse, determined to stand beside him, as she did before.”
Andy’s sympathetic grin vanished. “What? Ye’ve
let Ishbel out there, with those animals about tae descend on us?”
A look of righteous indignation came over the
Highlander. “ ’Tis not my doing. I had expected the young man she chose for
herself would tame her spirit, but ’tis plain I was mistaken.”
“Now d’yuh see what you’ve done?” Sam growled at
Shawnee, as Andy stormed off.
The storehouse lay fifty yards from the cottage
occupied by Longholme and Larachmor. Inside the roofless building Ishbel was
sitting on a flat stone that projected from the wall. She was dressed similarly
to Shawnee, her face bright and expectant, her hair as beautifully preened as
if her courtship was about to resume. She rose to her feet as the soldier
approached, an anxious smile on her face. Immediately Andy’s anger evaporated.
He held her tightly against him, aware her trembling now had nothing to do with
the cold.
“What are you doing here?” he whispered.
“
Ishbeal agus Auntie
,” she told him. “
Ishbeal
agus Auntie gu brath
.”
He didn’t need an interpreter to know what she
was saying.
“Give it up, buddy, this is one fight we can’t
win,” grumbled Sam.
Shawnee, meanwhile, had found a toehold in the
wall and gazed excitedly over the top as the first red uniforms appeared on the
horizon. As she watched, a long column of men, marching two abreast, came into
view. Behind them rumbled two horse-drawn wagons. The front ranks halted six
hundred yards away and formed into an extended line. Soon a mass of red
uniforms stretched across the breadth of the glen, the morning sun reflecting
off the polished steel of their bayonets.
The drumbeat had now become more insistent.
“I didn’t think there’d be so many of them,”
breathed Shawnee.
“ ’Tis their scarlet coats,” Achnacon explained.
“They mislead a man into thinking he faces an enemy greater than he truly is.
Every clansman knows to select one man in the line, and to look upon him alone
as his mortal enemy.”
“Like the little guy with the drum?” said Sam.
“Say, Andy, d’you reckon y’could put one into the little son of a bitch from
here?”
Andy realised he and Ishbel were still clinging
to each other. “Aye, if nothing else it’ll let them know tae keep their
distance.”
He loaded and cocked the S.L.R., and rested the
barrel on the wall. His hands shook as he searched out that frenetic little
figure. At this range he decided not to risk ammunition on such a small target,
and instead shifted his sights to a nearby line of soldiers.
Suddenly he could hear Alistair’s voice: “Andy,
no! Hold your fire!”
He looked up to see the young Highlander rushing
along the passageway that separated the two strongpoints.
“Don’t fire on them yet… whatever you do!”
“D’ye wantae shout a wee bit louder,” Andy said
dryly, “just in case any o’ the redcoats didnae hear ye?”
Alistair waited a few moments until he’d caught
his breath. “At this range, if they discover what’s waiting here for them,
they’ll stay where they are and not risk an advance…”
Andy closed his eyes. “Aw Jeezus, Macmillan,
waken up you idiot.”
“What’s the problem?” asked Sam. “If you guys
can take out a few of those sons of bitches at this range there’ll be less to
hurt us later.”
“If we do that, they’ll keep their distance and
pound us with their cannon. We need to let them think it’s safe to move their
cannon closer so Andy and myself can have a clear shot at the artillerymen.”
Sam scratched his head for a few moments. “Yeah,
I guess that makes more sense. Hey, good thinking, fella.”
Andy breathed a heavy sigh. “Thank God someone’s
on the ball today.”
Alistair nodded. “They’ll have seen our
barricades. It’s only a matter of time before they launch an attack.”
Even as he spoke the line of troops began to
move slowly forward. Behind the advancing soldiers the two wagons continued to
follow the path through the glen, the iron clang of their wheels contrasting
with the silent tread of the infantry. A small party of horsemen had now come
into view, bringing up the rear.
“How many muskets do we have here?” Alistair
wanted to know.
“The lefftenant and Larachmor have eighteen. The
other five is here with ourselfs,” Achnacon replied.
“I don’t suppose anybody other than Achnacon
knows how to load and fire a musket?”