‘No, Anne. Look!’
At first, all she could see were English redcoats and dragoons, then her eyes picked out the dark tartan in their midst. It was the Black Watch, and from the pennant that flew above their command centre, Lord Louden’s regiment from Inverness. Her heart became a stone in her chest. Would they have them fight their own people? A movement at the front of their lines drew her attention. An officer and his lieutenant walked along the row, pausing now and again to speak to the men. Despite the dark tartan of his unfamiliar uniform, she’d know that stride anywhere. It was Aeneas.
Aeneas stopped beside Lachlan Fraser. The boy was just seventeen. Though it wasn’t cold, he seemed frozen, trembling with it.
‘Hold your nerve, lad,’ he said, kindly. ‘They can’t assemble before dark. You’ll have a night’s sleep first and, when they do come, the guns are between you and them.’
‘My father’s with them,’ the boy said.
Aeneas squeezed the lad’s shoulder. There was no answer to that.
‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘We’re well placed. They might turn round and go home, and no shame in it.’ He was fooling no one, least of all himself. The Jacobite force had grown as it marched. They might choose not to fight here, but someday soon they would. If it was here, the government would have the victory he expected. It was sufferable. One quick, sharp shock to rout the rising and they could all go home, licking their wounds.
‘Captain M
c
Intosh.’ Ray saluted beside him. Would the man never learn? ‘We have more company.’ He nodded towards the rise.
Aeneas scanned it. He had already spotted Charles Edward Stuart, with his commanders, and George Murray, whom he knew well. In other circumstances he would have been with them, and would be yet, if the French defied the government’s belief and came. Like young Lachlan Fraser, he was also torn in two.
‘The woman,’ Ray said, pointing. ‘Do you not see the woman, sir?’
It was Anne, distant, but unmistakable. Anne mounted on the bridal horse he’d given her, and next to her, MacGillivray. Rage rose in him, the same anguished rage he’d felt when she left, only greater. A month had passed since then. She had not come home when he expected she would, after delivering her troops to Glenfinnan. She had not gone home when he hoped she would, after the government army left Inverness. It was not enough she shamed him by acting independently of her husband. She had stayed on without him, as no other woman would. Stayed with an army her husband opposed, stayed with MacGillivray.
‘That’s the witch I told you about, Captain,’ Ray explained. ‘Twice now I have nearly put a shot in her. This time, I will make sure!’
Aeneas spun, grabbed him by the collar and raised the lieutenant up on to his toes until their faces were level.
‘On the contrary,’ he spat out. ‘You will see that no harm comes to her, or answer to me. She’s mine, you understand? Mine!’
Anne dismounted and paced about the ridge.
‘What is he doing here, MacGillivray?’ she railed. ‘And with the man who shot Calum and his mother. This is not what he said. This is not what you said!’
‘I don’t know. He won’t raise arms against his own.’
‘He’s about to,’ Anne snapped. ‘He’s about to watch them slaughtered under those guns. Does he hope to humiliate us into turning around? Is he so determined to have his way he’ll kill his own people to achieve it?’
Lord George began directing troops down on to the battlefield, placing them carefully. But still they would be funnelled to the
guns. The Prince rode back over the rise to address the Highland chiefs before they, too, took the field. She could hear him below.
‘Follow me, gentlemen, and by the assistance of God, I will, on this day, make you a free and happy people.’
If only, Anne prayed. Oh, if only. How could Aeneas do this? Did he care nothing for his people, for her? A hand tugged at her skirts. It was a grubby young girl, the beggar child she’d given tuppence to in Edinburgh.
‘Clementina!’ Anne exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Ma faither came tae fecht, like I said he would,’ the girl explained. ‘He said I’m tae bide wi the wummin.’
‘They’re over there,’ Anne pointed. She didn’t have time for this. A decision was needed. MacGillivray would have to take her troops down soon.
‘I ken,’ Clementina said. ‘I was wi them but yin lady said the man ower there,’ she pointed at Lord George, ‘was askin if there was a road through the bog.’
‘Bog?’ Anne looked back over the field. The marsh was on the government’s left side. Between it and them, there were enough fields of firm ground to line up on but no way to get there. The bog was clearly treacherous, puddled with stagnant water. She turned back to Clementina.
‘What do you know of the marsh?’
‘We yaist tae live ower there, oan the ither side,’ the girl said. ‘Tae ma mammie died and ma faither thocht we’d dae better in Edinburgh. We couldnae get work and we couldnae pay the gate fee tae get back oot again, no tae you came and opened thaim.’
The M
c
Intoshes were being called.
‘I have to go, Anne,’ MacGillivray said, dismounting to leave his horse in her keeping.
‘No, wait,’ Anne said, before turning back to Clementina. The girl’s Scots speech was a struggle for her. ‘So what do you know of the marsh?’
‘I ken the way,’ the girl said. ‘I ken the way through it.’
When night fell, the two armies settled for sleep, out of range, facing each other. Pleased with his preparations, Cope retired to a tavern near Musselburgh to spend the night. Aeneas was restless. Come morning, MacGillivray would be centre field, in Clan Chattan’s traditional battle position, directly opposite him. If Lord George sent the MacDonalds first, to attack the left flank, the guns would fire diagonally across the battlefield, catching the centre-attacking clan as they did. The same was true if the Camerons charged the right flank first. The guns would swing in their direction but would still mow down any attack in the centre of the field. The only way to open up the centre was to send Keppoch and Lochiel simultaneously. Would Lord George do that, or would he send the M
c
Intosh regiment first to draw fire away from his wings?
Aeneas knew what he would do. In MacGillivray’s shoes, where he’d have been if Anne had her way, he would refuse to charge. MacGillivray would not. The man was brave to the point of foolhardy. He would charge when ordered. He would charge, believing speed and ferocity would take him down the field and through the guns before his casualties mounted high enough to stop them.
‘Good speed, Alexander,’ Aeneas prayed. ‘Good speed.’ It was a foolish hope. If his cousin made it through the cannon fire, he would be into Aeneas’s lines, among the terrified sons of his own Clan Chattan forces, cutting them down, uncle against nephew, brother against brother, father against son. And if MacGillivray made it down that field, Aeneas would have to stop him. In his life, he had slept under the stars more often than under a roof, in heather, on rock, in trees, in kind weather and cruel, but he had never slept in a harder, more inhospitable bed than this. He drew his plaid tight round him and tried to stop his racing mind.
∗
There were no stars that night. A mist rolled in from the sea, blotting out the landscape. The Jacobites doused their fires, removing any possibility the guards on the government lines could see their movement. They were under silent orders. Every weapon, every scrap of metal, was tied down, tight to their bodies. The fully armed had dirks and broadswords either side, twin pistols in their belts, some had a Lochaber axe or two-handed claymore slung at their back where all stowed their targes, a few carried muskets and, as a last resort for close fighting, inside their shirts, the short, sharp
sgian dhubh
was tucked. In front of them all, a bare-foot twelve-year-old girl led the way. Burly, rough Highlanders, bristling with blades, stepped carefully, in single file, from tuft to tuft of rough marsh grass, winding through pools of mud and water, past clumps of reed, following a child.
On the government’s left flank, two gunners lay asleep under their cannon. A hand slid over the mouth of one. His eyes flickered open. A dirk sliced across his throat. Simultaneously, his companion met the same fate. Pushing the bodies back between the wheels, the two Camerons responsible lay down with their plaids wrapped around them to sleep. The next two pairs of gunners up the line were similarly, soundlessly dispatched.
One by one, the rest of the Jacobites reached firm ground, lined up and then lay down among the stubble of recently cut wheat, to sleep in their plaids. The later ranks were armed with what they had, billhooks, staves or pitchforks, whatever they could find. They would be the last wave on the field, and might find better arms among the fallen. It took several hours for the last man to come safely across. When all were in place, Clementina, by then asleep, curled up at the edge of the marsh, was wakened and sent back to the women behind the ridge.
In the grey, early morning mist, among the government infantry, a soldier stumbled from his blanket, staggered a few steps south to the edge of his line, fumbled in his clothes and began to relieve his bladder, yawning as he did. The yawn froze, half-complete. Across the flat field in front of him, wreathed in fog and barely
visible, stood an array of ghosts, blocked rank on rank, it looked like, ready to do battle. Mouth open as fear stood his hair on end, the soldier turned slowly, unable to comprehend the meaning of this ghastly long line. His urine splattered over the sleeping bundle at his feet. The infantryman inside it woke and yelled a curse.
Further back, among the Black Watch, Aeneas, only half asleep, jumped to his feet and looked towards the shout, straining to see. In the milky, drifting air, deep lines of Jacobites stood, ghostly, im mobile, waiting for day. He turned to the west, to where they had been last night but could see nothing, only swirling grey. He glanced south again. They were still there, ethereal in the fog but real enough. He bent and shook Ray awake, telling him to get their men roused and ready, while he ran back to wake Lord Louden. On the left flank, soldiers were waking now, standing, struggling to comprehend the fearsome sight to their left. There were more shouts.
‘Jacobites!’
‘Arm yourselves.’
‘On our flank.’
‘Sound the alarm!’
‘Wake yourselves. On your feet!’
Hearing them, watching the flickers of movement through the mist, MacGillivray stood in front of Clan Chattan, unmoving, breathing deep, as the government army across the stubbled field woke up.
Up on the ridge, the Prince and Lord George, both mounted, waited side by side. They could see nothing below, the sun had not yet risen above the horizon, but they could hear the shouts of alarm. Prince Charles Edward Stuart smiled to his commander-in-chief.
‘A rough rising, indeed, Lord George.’
Beyond the command party, further back, Anne sat motionless on Pibroch. Beside her, Margaret and Greta were also mounted. All three had swords at their sides and pistols at their saddle bows. On Anne’s other side, she had put Clementina on MacGillivray’s horse so the girl could see. It was the least she could do. Behind them, stilled with fear and poised with anticipation, stood the
women and children. Revered among tribes, they were not risked in battle. A few had chosen to risk themselves. The rest would have work to do, when it was over. The sun tipped the horizon, putting a glow on all their faces. Down on the battlefield, the mist began to thin and lift.
Shaken rudely awake by Aeneas, Louden was out of his tent.
‘We’re outflanked,’ Aeneas said, pointing. ‘Where’s the general?’
‘He stayed the night at the inn.’
‘Then you’d better take command. It will soon be light.’
Louden grabbed young Lord Boyd, the Earl of Kilmarnock’s son. ‘Order the dragoons mounted.’ Then, to Aeneas, ‘Have the guns turned and bring your company round. Cover that flank.’
‘That’s not possible,’ Aeneas frowned.
‘Try,’ Louden barked.
Aeneas ran back to his company. The light was growing, the mist thin threads now, revealing patches of the enemy. As he arrived back at his men, he saw Duncan Shaw, on his feet but staring down at them.
‘What is it you can’t look at, lad?’ Aeneas asked.
‘My brother, sir. He’s over there. I haven’t fought him since he bled my nose when I was ten.’
‘Then you can bloody his in revenge today.’ Aeneas hurried on to James Ray. ‘Lieutenant, will you order the guns turned?’
‘To fire across us?’ Ray was incredulous.
‘Do it!’ Aeneas snapped. Small wonder the English barked orders. Requests did not work with them.
Ray ran off towards the nearest cannon.
‘Turn the guns!’ he called as soon as he was in earshot. The huddled gunners round the cannon did not respond. Ray ran on.
Across the field, MacGillivray turned from scouring the enemy lines when the fog allowed him glimpses, to speak with Donald Fraser in his front line.
‘Is that not your son over there?’
‘
’s e
,’ Fraser said proudly. ‘My eldest, the only boy.’
Opposite, behind the redcoat lines, the young Black Watch soldier had turned to face them.
‘Then go on back with Ewan,’ MacGillivray ordered.
‘It’s my place to be in the front line,’ Fraser said stubbornly.
‘I’ll not have father and son kill each other under my command,’ MacGillivray insisted. ‘Now get on back.’
Rankled at the loss of place, Fraser fell out and moved back through the lines, his position filled by the man behind.
James Ray had reached the gunners. He stopped running and stood four-square, furious that they seemed so oblivious to their army’s predicament.
‘Are you all asleep still?’ he yelled. ‘Turn the guns!’ At the nearest cannon, the two huddled gunners rose and threw off their plaids, revealing themselves already armed, flintlocks aimed at Ray. In turn, the other two pairs of gunners down the line did likewise. All twelve pistols pointed at Ray. His mouth fell open, his arms flapped. He about-turned and ran, hell for leather, back the way he’d come.