High on a Mountain (15 page)

He had mixed feelings as he ran along with
the other clansmen behind their chief. He looked at his sons and
thought of the days ahead and of his sons’ involvement in the
coming conflict. They would be changed forever by the things they
would experience, things they would see and things they would do. A
swelling of pride filled him…pride in their strength, manliness and
willingness to fight for the honor of the clan.

Accompanying that pride, though, was a
sobering sadness at the innocence that would be forever lost. He
would not allow himself to think beyond that, to think one of them
might be wounded or killed. It was as though, if he didn’t think
it, it wouldn’t happen.

EIGHTEEN

For several days, the men of Clan
MacLachlainn made their way through a trackless countryside. They
passed through green glens, climbed over hills, around lochs and
across streams, avoiding known paths. The chief didn’t want them to
be seen by men from opposing clans, like the Cambeuls. He wanted no
warning of their approach to Edinburgh to be made known.

At night they slept on the ground wrapped in
their
féileadh-mòr,
and each of them ate what little food he
had brought with him. They were all tired, hungry and unkempt when
at last they neared Edinburgh.

“Will there be food, do you think, Da?”
Ailean asked.

“Maybe.”

“I’m so hungry. What will we do if there’s
not? I have no money to buy any.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just wait and see. The
chief knows we haven’t eaten since yesterday. He knows men can’t
make a good fight when their bellies are empty.”

When they arrived at the city wall, they
learned Prionnsa Teàrlach’s army was no longer in Edinburgh. It had
moved southeast to Duddingston. Their trek was not over yet. By the
time they reached Duddingston, the Highland army was moving again.
The chief and his tacksmen decided the men should go no farther
until they rested and ate.

Ruairidh told the men under his command to
sit on the ground. He and the other tacksmen went to get food. When
he returned, he handed out two rations of meal to each man.

“Eat one now and save the other for later,”
Ruairidh said as he passed through his group.

Ailean devoured part of his food gratefully
and wrapped the rest in the piece of linen Mùirne had used to
bundle the bread and cheese she prepared for him. He put it in his
sporan and lay down to rest. The food and a short nap strengthened
Ailean. He felt refreshed and ready when they resumed their
march.

Late in the day, they reached the Highland
army. Ailean had never been so far from home, not even on cattle
drives. And he had never seen so many men gathered in one
place.

The exhilaration of being part of the large
armed force made Ailean forget his weariness. He stifled a smile,
tried to maintain the serious demeanor he thought the occasion
demanded. He would be a part of the noble effort to help Prionnsa
Teàrlach regain his father’s rightful throne.

But more important to him was the fact that
he would have an opportunity to prove himself as a warrior. His
body tightened, his muscles became rigid. Thoughts of the conflict
which lay ahead gave birth to doubt. Apprehensiveness seethed in
his stomach, brought a faint nausea, and he took a breath to calm
himself. He would give his utmost to make a good and honorable
fight and make Da proud. that was all he could do.

It grew dark as they waited for Ruairidh to
find out where they were to bed down for the night. After an
interminable wait, he returned and led them to the place they were
to sleep.

“Eat the rest of your food and get some
sleep,” Ruairidh told them in a low voice as he passed among his
men. “The
Sasunnach
are just over there.” He motioned with
his head. “We’ll fight them tomorrow. Be rested and be ready.”

Ailean’s stomach grew queasy again, and he
didn’t want anything to eat.

But Aodh insisted. “You’ll need your
strength, son. Eat.”

He forced himself to eat a few bites and lay
down to rest. In spite of his nervousness, Ailean fell asleep
immediately. He was awakened while it was still dark.

Ruairidh readied his men to move, positioning
them in a row and giving whispered instructions to each of them as
he moved to the head of the line.

“Aodh, you follow me, Coinneach, follow your
da. Each of you, follow the man in front of you. Understand? And
make no noise at all.”

They entered a bog in the darkness, and
Ailean couldn’t see where he was going. He kept his hand on
Coinneach’s shoulder, and Niall’s hand rested on Ailean’s arm. He
slogged along through knee-deep muck and water, trying to maintain
total silence. When they emerged from the bog, Ruairidh led them to
the position they were to occupy on the flat terrain.

Before the sun rose, the Highland army was
arranged in two lines. The men of Clan MacLachlainn were in the
second line, as reserves. A mist enveloped them, and Ailean could
see nothing to the west. He had no idea what would happen next.

Aodh told his sons, in a whisper, to take off
their
féileadh-mòr
so they would not be encumbered during
the fighting. Ailean’s stomach roiled, and his breathing became
rapid and shallow.

He glanced at his father in the gray,
pre-dawn light. Aodh was staring straight ahead. He wore a strange,
wild look on his face Ailean had never seen before. A glance at
Coinneach and Niall revealed they must be feeling the same
apprehension as Ailean himself.

They silently removed their outer clothing
and stood clad only in their mid-thigh-length tunics. Ailean took a
deep, shuddering breath and unsheathed his sword, held it in his
right hand and his targe in his left, leaving his dirk sheathed.
Some of the men had firearms as well as swords, but Aodh and his
sons were armed only with dirks and broadswords.

Shortly after sunrise, the swirling mist
dissipated, but Ailean still couldn’t see much up ahead. The men of
Clan MacGriogair in front of him blocked his view of the
Sasunnach
troops.

The front line started forward. Ailean bowed
his head and said a short prayer asking for divine help. Ruairidh
and the other MacLachlainn tacksmen gave the order for their men to
advance.

Suddenly, there was a loud thunder from a
Sasunnach
cannon in front of them, accompanied by a cloud of
smoke and the sound of musketry. The cannon ball found its target,
and a man in the front ranks of the MacGriogairs screamed. It was
like a signal energizing the Highlanders. Almost as one they
yelled, a fierce, piercing shriek, and they raced toward the enemy
lines. Those who had firearms discharged them and threw them aside,
drawing their broadswords as they rushed across the moor.

A wild, high-pitched yell burst from Ailean,
a sound he had never made and didn’t know he could make. He ran,
swept along with the charge as though the army was a single entity
of which he was a small part.

Ailean’s long legs soon put him alongside the
men in the front ranks of the MacGriogairs. He saw the red blur of
the soldiers in the
Sasunnach
line ahead. As he neared it,
he saw faces of individual soldiers, frozen in fear. Some of them
turned and ran, dropping their weapons in terror.

One lifted his musket and fired at the
oncoming wave of Highlanders. The lead ball smashed into Ailean’s
upper left arm and tore through it. He stumbled, jolted by the
impact, although he felt no pain.

He looked down at his arm as he ran, at the
torn and bloody sleeve encasing it. He raised his eyes again in
time to see a MacGriogair clansman, armed only with a scythe, fall
when a ball slammed into his chest.

The red-coated soldier who shot the
MacGriogair man jumped over a body lying at his feet to reach the
man he’d shot and plunged his bayonet into the wounded man’s
stomach. The MacGriogair man writhed, helpless to defend himself,
but the soldier continued stabbing him, again and again.

Rage enveloped Ailean. He threw down his
targe, and, taking the hilt of his broadsword in both hands, he
swung it up over his head as he neared the soldier. Yelling with
all his might, Ailean brought his sword down upon the soldier and
cleaved the man’s head in two.

He withdrew his sword as the body fell, and
he swung it up again, brought it around and down upon another
soldier, lopping off the hand with which the soldier held a musket.
He raised his sword once more and plunged forward, swinging,
slicing and slashing at the
Sasunnach
in their blood-red
coats, venting his rage upon any of them within range of his
broadsword.

To his right, he saw two redcoats staring at
him, transfixed. Ailean turned and charged toward them, his sword
raised overhead. One dropped his weapon, turned and ran, but the
other aimed his firearm at Ailean’s face and pulled the trigger.
The shot whistled past Ailean’s head. He brought his broadsword
down as the soldier turned to run. Ailean’s sword struck a glancing
blow that sliced into the man’s shoulder, and he screamed as he
fell to the ground.

The sound pierced through Ailean, and he
stopped, his rage spent. He stood trembling and looked around at
the severed hands and arms strewn among bodies of red-coated
soldiers, some lying still and quiet, others writhing and moaning,
like the one lying at his feet. Other clansmen still flew past,
chasing the fleeing
Sasunnach
, but Ailean’s strength was
gone, dissipated in the soldier’s scream.

NINETEEN

The yells, screams and clangs of swords
striking muskets faded from Ailean’s hearing, and the running men,
weapons glinting in the early morning sunlight, receded from his
sight, leaving a reddish haze surrounding the scene of carnage.

He didn’t know how long he had stood there
when a hand gripped his arm. Ailean tore his eyes from the grisly
milieu and turned toward the person who had grabbed his arm. He
tried to focus.

It was Da, his face and hands and arms
bespattered with blood. Ailean glanced down at himself and saw that
he was bloody, too.

A moan from the soldier at his feet caught
his attention. As he regarded the wounded man, pity for the man’s
suffering stirred in his heart.

“He needs help or he’ll die. What should I
do?” He fell to his knees beside the soldier and looked up at his
father. “Help me, please. What should I do?”

Aodh knelt and looked at the soldier’s wound.
“We need something to staunch the bleeding. Tear a strip from the
bottom of your tunic.”

Ailean pulled off his tunic and stood naked
as he ripped a strip from the bottom of it. He followed his
father’s directions as they tried to stop the bleeding and save the
soldier’s life.

“There,” Aodh said. “I think he will last
until we can find a doctor for him.”

“How are we going to get him to a doctor,
Da?”

Aodh thought for a moment. “Go fetch our
féileadh-mòr.
”

Ailean put his tunic on as he sprinted to the
piles of fabric lying on the ground where they’d dropped them. He
grabbed their clothing and ran to Da’s side. Aodh took Ailean’s
féileadh-mòr
and shook it out.

“Here, help me fold this.” Aodh gave Ailean
the corners of one end while he held the other.

They folded it lengthwise, then crosswise,
and laid it on the ground beside the soldier, who was now
unconscious. They lifted him onto it, and, for the first time since
the ball hit Ailean, a lightning bolt of pain shot through his arm.
He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out as they lifted the
makeshift sling and carried the
Sasunnach
soldier to an area
where men were receiving medical care.

“Aodh MacLachlainn,” a voice shouted behind
them. “Your son is down.”

Aodh’s head turned toward the voice. It was
Gabhran MacEòghainn.

“He’s lying yonder.” Gabhran pointed toward
the west.

“Which son is down?” Aodh yelled back.

“Your eldest, Coinneach,” Gabhran
replied.

“This man will get help here. Come along, we
have to see to your brother.” They laid the soldier on the ground
and took Ailean’s
féileadh-mòr
from under him.

Aodh ran as fast as he could. Ailean tried to
keep up but he was losing strength, and he lagged behind. They
stepped this way and that to avoid the dead and wounded men strewn
across the ground. They made their way in the direction Gabhran had
pointed and found Coinneach lying on the ground.

“Coinneach, where are you hurt?” Aodh asked
as he knelt beside his son.

Coinneach moaned. Aodh checked for wounds
over Coinneach’s body, then turned his son’s head to the side,
revealing a bloody tangle of hair. A musket ball had creased his
skull above the left ear, and Coinneach was barely conscious.

Aodh examined the laceration, sat back and
took a deep breath. He looked at Ailean for a long moment before he
spoke. “I think he’ll be all right. He will just need to rest until
his senses return. Help me. We’ll carry him to the doctors.”

As they carried Coinneach on the makeshift
sling, the loss of blood from his wounded arm continued to weaken
Ailean. When they neared the place where the doctors were caring
for the injured, his knees gave way. He stumbled, and they almost
dropped Coinneach.

“Careful. We don’t want to add to his
injuries,” Aodh said. He frowned as he scrutinized Ailean more
closely. “Are you wounded?”

“My arm.”

“We’re near enough. Lay him down here. And
you sit beside him.”

Ailean sat on the ground and weakness
overwhelmed him. Aodh found the rent in his sleeve and tore it open
to reveal the wound that still oozed blood. While they waited for
medical attention, Aodh worked to stop the bleeding.