Authors: Bob Atkinson
The two men splashed across the burn and began
to ascend the northern slopes. Before they’d climbed more than a hundred feet
they heard a thunderous roar. They turned to see a long trail of smoke smashing
into the burning cottage. The two men gazed frantically to the east, searching
for the gun position, but could see only scarlet infantry idly watching the
drama unfold. The smoke indicated where the cannon stood, but gun and gunners
remained invisible.
“From the rate of fire they can only be using
one cannon!” shouted Alistair.
“Guess we left ’em short-handed.”
Alistair pointed to the plume of smoke, now
drifting towards the east. “There’s a wee hillock beside the path. They’ve
positioned themselves behind it.”
“Does that mean we can’t get at the sons of
bitches?”
“Not from this angle. Not unless we climb the
ridge, and the range would be too great then.”
“Well we gotta come up with something.”
Alistair studied the slopes above them. “We
might have a chance if we head east as we climb. With any luck they won’t see
us until it’s too late.”
Sam’s eyes widened. This would take them closer
to the infantry and further away from
Meall An Fhraoich
. In the village
below smoke billowed from the stricken cottage. A woman was screaming like a
wounded animal.
“Guess we don’t have much choice.”
As they ran obliquely up the hillside, red-hot
missiles continued to rain down on the village, helping to mark the position of
the artillery. The blue uniforms of the gunners finally came into view when Sam
and Alistair were six hundred yards east of
Meall An Fhraoich
, and four
hundred feet above the floor of the glen. They moved more cautiously now,
hugging the hillside, like stalkers trailing deer. The infantry filled the dead
ground between them and the guns, all eyes drawn to the bombardment of the
village.
Alistair came to a halt. “There are seven or
eight of them serving the cannon,” he said softly. “You can make out another
one lying just this side of the hillock. He must be the spotter.”
Sam gulped oxygen into his heaving lungs. “What
range… y’reckon?”
Alistair squinted into the bright sunlight. “Six
hundred yards. Maybe six hundred and fifty.”
The American half sat, half collapsed on to the
hillside. “Gonna take some shot… give me a minute… catch my breath.”
The Highlander made himself busy preparing his
rifle.
“Some shooting back there… I take it that’s what
y’were… out there in France…?”
Alistair looked at the American.
“…Y’were a sniper?”
Another projectile appeared from the far side of
the glen, sailing westwards in a slow, looping trajectory. The noise of its
impact was lost in the roar of the cannon.
Alistair brought his rifle up to his shoulder.
“Whenever yourself is ready.”
Sam cocked his rifle and adjusted the sights to
six hundred yards. The blue-coated artillerymen looked like so many exotic
ants. He watched as Alistair squeezed off his first shot, and heard him grunt
with satisfaction as one of the ants fell to the ground.
As Alistair reloaded, Sam fired off three shots
in rapid succession, the crude recoil of the weapon driving the butt hard into
his shoulder. The rounds fell short, and to the left. He adjusted the sights to
seven hundred yards and squeezed off another four rounds. When he looked again
one of the gunners was down, and the others were frantically searching around
them. The surrounding hills had thrown the harsh bark of the rifles from one to
the other, disorientating those in the glen below. Some of the gunners made for
the safety of the infantry, directly towards the two riflemen.
Sam blazed wildly at those who ran into the
open, while Alistair calmly loaded and fired, dispatching any who remained by
the cannon.
The nearest redcoats had spotted the men, and
were lumbering towards them. Alistair scanned the area, making sure nothing in
blue was left standing. Some of the infantry stopped to fire a volley, sending
musket balls whizzing past their ears.
“Time we weren’t here!” Alistair yelled.
Already Sam was scampering back along the
hillside. He ran in a straight line, sweat streaming down his face. Musket fire
suddenly broke out from the slopes to their right. His eyes stinging with salt,
Sam saw a line of red uniforms spring from the heather six hundred feet above.
A party of redcoats must have been sent to fire down upon the village. Musket
balls now whistled past the two men from above as well as below. Sam kept his
head low as he ran, presenting as small a target as possible. The settlement
was only two hundred yards away now. Volley fire broke out from behind the
walls as the defenders tried to cover their retreat. The noise on all sides was
deafening.
Sam had no idea how he made the settlement in
one piece. He knew Alistair was close behind as he dived over the wall. The
Highlander hit the ground beside him, bringing rocks down on top of both men.
The storm of musket fire didn’t die down at once. The clamour subsided only
gradually, finally dwindling away to a sporadic exchange of pot shots.
Bruised, and half out of his mind with fear, Sam
was shaking with laughter when Shawnee, Mary and Achnacon found him.
It was only when he saw the blood on the ground,
and the red trail that led out beyond the safety of the wall. Only when he
realised Alistair was lying motionless beside him, that Sam’s terrible laughter
died away.
Alistair was carried to the drystone barn,
where his blood-soaked clothing was peeled away. The dark arterial haemorrhage,
which had sprung from two circular wounds in his back, had already subsided to
a trickle. Neither ball had found an exit.
Mary sat by his side, gaunt and drained of
emotion, as if she was fulfilling some melancholy destiny. There were tears in
Achnacon’s eyes. Shawnee, too, wept as she clung to Sam.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “He was behind me
all the way. I swear to God, I didn’t know.”
Shawnee looked to the old Highlander. “Surely
there’s something we can do for him?”
Achnacon was lost for words. Unable to look
Shawnee in the face he turned and made his way out of the barn.
Mary smoothed Alistair’s hair, making soothing
noises as she worked. His dark hair contrasted vividly with the waxen pallor of
his face. The Americans looked helplessly at each other. Sam nodded towards the
door, and without a word they left the girl on her own.
Outside, two of the cottages were ablaze, the
flames devouring the accumulated soot of countless peat fires.
Achnacon had already passed on the news to Andy
and Ishbel. Macmillan remained on his feet by the rampart, an array of muskets
propped against the wall beside him. He tried to smile at the two Americans,
but managed only a grimace.
“Cannae believe either of yez… made it back.”
Sam shrugged, his face pale and drawn. He knelt
on the ground and busied himself filling the empty magazines.
“Alistair had only five rounds left. Y’got about
sixty for your buffalo gun. Don’t suppose you’re up to using either of them?”
Andy shook his head. “…Right arm’s useless… couldnae
hit a barn door… Ah can fire a musket wi’ the left… Ishbel has tae load…”
The musket fire had now died away. Only the
crackling of flames and the sound of weeping from one of the cottages broke the
silence. Andy peered over the wall, looking for signs that the enemy was
abandoning the surrounding hills, but the scarlet uniforms remained in
position. The soldiers seemed to be resting on their arms.
“Maybe they’re waiting ’til darkness…” Andy
began.
Ishbel made a little hissing noise and turned
her head to the west. It was a few moments before the others heard it; carried
on the westerly breeze, the distant tap of a drumbeat.
“Aw sweet Jesus,” Sam groaned. “It must be that
other buncha soldiers Longholme warned us about.”
Achnacon, Longholme and Larachmor had also heard
the approaching drumbeat, and sprinted along the adjoining passageway.
Longholme shaded his eyes with his right hand, his face stained black by
gunpowder. As they watched, the foremost ranks of the second column came into
view. Their comrades on the hillsides cheered and waved their hats in salute.
“ ’Tis most unjust that such gallantry should
receive so cruel a reward,” said Longholme. He bowed stiffly before his
eclectic band of comrades. “I had prayed the second column might be
intercepted, or dissuaded from its task. ’Twas but a faint hope. Gentlemen. My
Ladies. It has been the most singular honour to have shared this day with you.
Alas, I fear not even your extraordinary weapons will be sufficient to turn
back the tide that now approaches.”
“No, I won’t believe it’s all gonna be for
nothing,” Shawnee retorted. “We can’t just stand here like… like…”
“…Hogs in a slaughterhouse?” Achnacon suggested
with an ironic smile.
“How many muskets we got in total?” Sam asked.
“We have sixty now, with ammunition for all,”
replied Achnacon. “Sufficient for a small army, but the lefftenant has lost a
full third of his force, and ourselfs are little better. We are in sore need of
help from whatever quarter…”
From one of the cottages came the sound of women
singing, their voices faint and hoarse, barely rising above the crackle of
flames. Achnacon looked uncertainly at the others.
“Why not?” said Shawnee. “I know I’d rather be
out here where I can see the shit coming than in there waiting for it to hit!”
Longholme studied the young woman, a smile on
his face. It was the first time she had seen anything like warmth touch the ice
of his eyes.
“Madame, ’tis my fervent wish that I may one day
set eyes upon this city of angels.” He turned to her fiancé. “Sir, I have known
many a noble lady for whom a gentleman would draw blood, but I have known few
for whom a gentleman would gladly shed his blood. I implore you, keep your
sword arm free and your lady close at all times, she is a most extraordinary
creature.”
Sam would have been happier with Longholme’s
advice but for Shawnee’s maidenly blush.
Achnacon spoke briefly to Larachmor. The old
clansman looked dubiously at the two cottages, and then at the mass of scarlet
assembling on the western horizon. He nodded in sharp agreement, and ran
towards the nearest cottage, shouting at those inside. Old men and fair maidens
alike clutched one another as they were assembled outdoors, the distant throb
of the drum doing nothing to ease tattered nerves.
Achnacon and Larachmor arranged them inside the
two fortified strongholds, and in a straggling line along the west-facing
passageways. Most grew in confidence once they were given muskets.
“This is crazy,” Sam grumbled. “I’m not sure
what side of the wall I’d wanna be on when this bunch start firing.”
“Way to be positive, Sam,” replied Shawnee.
“Only thing I’m positive of; I wish to hell we’d
gone to Vegas for our vacation.”
She picked up one of the muskets, straining to
bring the weapon up to her shoulder. “And miss all this? No sense of adventure,
Kramer, that’s your problem.”
The Hanoverian reinforcements had come to a halt
half a mile from
Meall An Fhraoich
. The drums fell silent as a little
party of horsemen galloped to the front, where they were joined by a detachment
from the southern slopes of the glen. Behind the battered walls people held
their breath.
“That’s right, it’s not gonna be as easy as
y’thought,” Sam murmured. “Just turn around…”
The drum began beating again. To left and right,
lines of scarlet figures peeled away from the main body and began to climb the
slopes above the glen, joining their comrades already there.
“Dammit!” hissed Sam. “What is it with these
guys? Are they too dumb to know when they’ve had their asses kicked?”
“They are brave soldiers, answering their
orders,” said Longholme with quiet pride.
Detachments of redcoats from east and west
converged along both flanks of the glen, three hundred feet above
Meall An
Fhraoich
. The remaining troops guarded the low ground on either side of the
settlement.
Ishbel spoke hastily to her father, pointing at
the narrow passageways they’d erected the previous day.
“Herself is right!” shouted Achnacon. “The lanes
will afford protection from a crossfire!”
Clutching muskets and ammunition pouches,
soldiers and clansmen, ancient warriors and young women alike, withdrew into
the lanes that ran parallel with the glen. Those remaining in the cottages
filled the nooks and crannies as best they could.
Sam lay on top of Shawnee, using his body as a
shield. Easing himself down, Andy tried to do the same with Ishbel, and drew a
stream of Gaelic indignation for his trouble. The soldier looked ruefully at
her as she lay beside him.
“Ssshhh,
Ishbeal
, not to speak,” he
whispered.
The irony of the moment drew a poignant smile
from her.
The roars of the N.C.O.s barking out the firing
drill rang out from the slopes above. Moments later plunging volleys of musket
fire fell upon the cottages and stoneworks of the settlement. Lead balls
ricocheted this way and that. The screams of the women and children inside the
cottages rose above the clamour. Longholme’s force tried to return fire, but
did little more than add to the din.
Andy yelled at Sam: “Northern side’s the
nearest… doing most damage… need tae hit them… get us outtae this crossfire…”
Sam twisted around so his mouth came up to
Andy’s ear. The soldier could barely hear him above the continuous volleying.
“I’ve taken a hit… Gonna have to do it on your
own…”
The American pushed the rifle towards the
soldier. Andy could see the wound in the back of Sam’s upper thigh. The blood
was trickling down either side of his leg. He looked up to reassure the
American, but already Sam had crawled back on top of Shawnee.
Andy manoeuvred himself in short, painful jerks
until he was squatting with his back against one wall, the barrel of the S.L.R.
resting on the other. He felt as if a knife was embedded in his ribs.
The infantry were in two lines on the sloping
hillside, one line twenty feet above the other. Holding the rifle between his
knees, Andy cocked the weapon with his left hand, and adjusted the sights to
one hundred yards. He should have been left with an easy shot, but he couldn’t align
and fire the rifle with one arm. He blasted off two rounds but his aim was so
wild he may as well have used a musket.
Ishbel leaned over and removed the rifle from
his grasp, pulling the butt into the crook of her shoulder, just as she’d been
taught. Those gentle hands, which had wrought such beautiful torment only a few
hours before, now held sudden death in their grasp. As she squeezed the trigger
the nearest soldier was hurled violently back against the hillside. Ishbel,
too, was jolted backwards by the recoil, the rifle clattering to the ground.
She picked it up and fired again, but the shot was wildly off target. Her next
shot went the same way. She now held the weapon as if it was about to explode
in her hands.
Before she could fire again Andy grabbed the
rifle and returned the butt to his right shoulder. He held the stock with his
left hand and sighted along the barrel.
“Shoot!” he yelled at Ishbel.
Her eyes flashed in fierce indignation.
“Ah’ll hold the thing… you pull the trigger!”
Above the din of the musketry he could hear
Achnacon shouting at his daughter. At last she understood. Her finger curled
around the trigger, squeezing gently. Instantly his red target was flung
backwards. Andy moved his hand two inches to the left and stared down the barrel
with his right eye:
“Shoot!”
Ishbel caressed the trigger, and a second round
smashed into its victim. Like reapers they worked their way along the hillside,
cutting down all who appeared in Andy’s sights. Steadily the firing from the
northern slopes slackened, until at last the survivors broke, abandoning the
hillside to the dead and dying.
Safe from the deadly crossfire, the defenders
could now shelter behind the south-facing walls. Gradually the volley firing
from that direction also died out.
Achnacon and his
bodachs
let out a stream
of wild yells. Andy and Ishbel sat side by side, still holding the rifle
between them. The soldier looked at the twisted figures littering the hillside
and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick.
Not everyone rose to their feet as the firing
died away. Here and there the silence was torn by groans and cries. Sam flopped
over onto his back as he tried to allow Shawnee up.
“I been shot in the freakin ass! Are y’happy
now? Is this enough adventure for yuh?”
Laughing and crying at the same time Shawnee did
her best to tend to Sam’s wound. A ricochet had caught him in the lower
buttock, penetrating two or three inches. He grumbled bitterly as he was helped
to the makeshift hospital, where he was joined by a dozen others.
Longholme returned to the east-facing
stronghold. Some of the newly armed clansfolk joined him there. Others
abandoned their muskets and went off to check on their kinfolk. Achnacon made
sure his wife and younger daughter had come through unscathed before he and
Ishbel helped Andy shuffle back to the storehouse. The soldier was shocked at
the number of misshapen lead balls littering the ground.
Achnacon held his daughter’s face in his hands
as he spoke to her. Even before he’d finished she had thrown her arms around
her father, burying her face in his whiskers.
“Since herself was a tiny babe she has pulled
against the reins,” he explained. “But Achnacon could not be more proud if she
was his son. Herself has shown courage worthy of her husband to be.”
Andy was barely listening, his attention focused
on events elsewhere.
“ ’Twill be a grand day for Glen Laragain when
your vision comes to pass,” Achnacon went on, his arm around Ishbel. “ ’Twill
mark the end of this terrible chapter in our lifes.”
“Aye, Ah’m sure it will, right enough,” Andy
murmured. He could see movement amongst the troops to the west, but the red
uniforms remained in position on the southern slopes. Nowhere could he see
signs of the enemy preparing to withdraw.
“What are they up tae? Why aren’t they getting
the hell outtae here? Ye’d think they’d’ve had enough by now.”