High on a Mountain (20 page)

Ailean’s impatience built as the armies
maneuvered to outflank each other. He stood on one foot and the
other, huffed steamy breaths on his fingers to warm himself. But he
was almost grateful for the discomfort of the cold. It served to
distract him from the chilling distress Niall’s words had birthed
within him.

He felt a slight sting on his face, then
another. The rain blowing out of the northeast was becoming sleet,
and he pulled his
féileadh-mòr
closer around his head in an
attempt to shut out the frigid wetness.

Why wouldn’t the
Sasunnach
come closer
so the fight could begin? Ailean worried that if it didn’t start
soon, his hands would be too stiff to grip his sword. He touched
the hilt with his left hand. And the longer the battle was delayed,
the harder it became to push away his growing unease.

A commotion to his left drew his attention.
Prionnsa Teàrlach Stiùbhart rode down the line on a gray horse,
exhorting and encouraging the men. When he drew near, Ailean got a
close look at him.

Ailean had never seen anyone dressed in such
fine clothing. And he, a poor crofter of a small clan, was in the
ranks of service to this noble-looking man. Ailean stood a little
straighter, pulled his shoulders back and listened closely to
Prionnsa Teàrlach’s words. And he took them to heart.

“Be strong! Remember how you put the
Sasunnach
to flight at Gladsmuir! Remember how you defeated
them at Falkirk! This will be another in the long line of victories
over the usurper!”

Ailean watched Prionnsa Teàrlach until he
could no longer see him, and he gathered what strength he could for
the coming combat. He would fight with all he had, for Scotland and
for Prionnsa Teàrlach Stiùbhart.

The
Sasunnach
forces claimed Ailean’s
attention again when they formed their line of battle. A lone man
rode nonchalantly from the enemy line to within a hundred yards,
surveyed the Highlanders, turned his back on them and rode,
unhurried, back to his own line. The rider’s action seemed an
insult, as though he deemed the Highland army unworthy of
concern.

The Highlanders raised a shout up and down
the line, and an answering shout resounded from the enemy lines. A
cannon to Ailean’s right fired at the enemy, and followed by fire
from a cannon on his left. And the
Sasunnach
cannon opened
fire. The first shot flew over the heads of those in the front line
and toward the dragoons arrayed behind them.

Ailean wanted to begin the fight but no order
came for the charge to commence. He stamped his feet and gritted
his teeth as the enemy fire increased and the shots hit men along
the front line of the Highlanders. His anger built as he saw men
fall to the right and to the left, cut down by artillery fire
before they had a chance to fight.

“We’ve got to charge!” Coinneach shouted to
Ruairidh. “They’ll kill us all where we stand!”

“We have to wait for the order!” Ruairidh
yelled.

“We can’t wait!” Ailean said and drew his
sword.

At that moment, a
Sasunnach
shell
exploded behind the front line, spraying some of the men on both
sides of Ailean with jagged pieces of metal. Gabhran MacEòghainn
fell dead, his throat torn away by shrapnel from the shell.

The MacAntoisch clansmen arrayed to the right
of the MacLachlainns began their charge, yelling and brandishing
their broadswords. A war cry burst from Ailean’s throat, and he
bolted toward the enemy, followed by Niall and other MacLachlainns
and Mac’Ill’Eathainns. Energy from a source outside himself flooded
his body, and he raced across the moor, veering to the right to
avoid a boggy area directly ahead.

Lachlainn MacLachlainn’s dun horse thundered
past Ailean. The chief raced to get in front of his men to lead the
wild charge of his clan toward the
Sasunnach
front line. The
chief had not advanced far when a cannon ball struck him and
knocked him from his horse. The dun reared when his rider fell from
the saddle, wheeled and ran back the way he’d come.

Ailean knew before he reached the chief that
his leader lay dead. He stopped at his chief’s side, his fierce,
headlong charge interrupted by a cold desolation, and he stared,
unbelieving, at the mangled body.

Aodh paused beside Ailean, and a groan
escaped his lips when he saw the chief. After a moment, Aodh ran
forward again, taking up the cry that his clansmen were shouting,
“Life or death! Life or death!” Ailean started after him, was a few
paces behind his father when a piece of grapeshot tore into Aodh’s
thigh. He toppled, a stream of blood spouting from his leg. Ailean
fell to his knees beside his father.

“No, son. Don’t mind me,” Aodh gasped. “You
have to fight. Fight them! Kill them all! Avenge your chief!”

A keening howl burst from Ailean’s throat,
and he jumped to his feet. He ran screaming toward the front lines
of the
Sasunnach
, enveloped in the cloud of choking black
smoke belching from the cannons ahead, unable to see where he was
going.

Other men were hit by grapeshot and fell on
either side of Ailean, but some reached the enemy line when he did.
They wielded their broadswords, brought down the redcoats in the
front line at that spot and continued on to the second line of
soldiers.

A sudden jarring pain in his side caused
Ailean to look down. Blood was spreading from a tear on the left
side of his tunic. He raised his head and caught a glimpse of his
younger brother as Niall brought down a redcoat with one stroke of
his sword. Ailean swung his own sword around to cut down another
redcoat and saw a soldier aim his firearm at Niall’s back.

“NOOOOOOO!!” he shouted as he saw the gun
fire and Niall crumple. Ailean leaped over the bodies at his feet,
ran to the soldier who had shot Niall and plunged his sword into
the man’s body. He pulled his sword out as the redcoat fell and
hacked at the man with a mindless fury.

Then Ailean turned to Niall, who was lying on
the ground, still and quiet.

Ailean groaned as he dropped to his knees at
his brother’s side, and he laid down his sword. He turned Niall
onto his back, and blood poured from the corner of Niall’s mouth.
Ailean cradled his brother’s head on his left arm while he closed
the lifeless eyes with his right hand.

A sudden pain exploded in his head,
accompanied by a flash of light. Blackness descended upon him.

TWENTY-FIVE

“Don’t waste the powder. That one’s dead
already.”

A sharp nudge to his ribs brought Ailean
further into awareness. Someone turned him onto his side, and he
felt his dirk slide from its sheath.

“You took the last one. This one’s mine.”

Vision returned to his one slitted eye that
was still open, and he saw two pairs of legs move away, both clad
in
triubhas
of blue Cambeul tartan. He closed his eye as
pain thrust a jagged spear through his head. Darkness descended and
brought relief.

____________

When awareness returned and he opened his
eyes, night had fallen. He tried to move his head, but its weight
fastened it to the ground. He sank into oblivion again.

His next perception was of redness; his
existence, the world, all was red. He opened his eyes but closed
them tight against the bright light shining on his face. And then
the red faded to black once more.

Ailean’s consciousness ebbed and flowed until
at last he awoke enough to raise his head. The movement launched a
sharp throbbing that pierced his head and made him retch. The
heaving stopped, and the pain receded to an unending, monotonous
ache. Ailean took a few deep breaths and looked up into the night
sky.

Where was everyone? What had happened? His
body was so cold and stiff it was hard to move, but with supreme
effort, he managed to raise himself onto an elbow.

He almost cried out when he saw Niall’s
lifeless form lying next to him. His memory flooded back, and he
saw Niall fall, saw blood pour from his mouth. He squeezed his eyes
shut to push the horrible vision away, but the memory remained
seared into his mind.

A sob built in his chest, but he pushed it
down, down. He couldn’t allow it to come out. Ailean lay back, his
breath coming quick and shallow as he struggled against an almost
overwhelming need to weep. The pounding pain in his head served as
a welcome distraction from the excruciating ache in his heart.

When he’d contained his emotions in a small
inner vault, buried and locked tight, he rolled onto his side
facing Niall. Ailean reached out, touched his brother’s icy cheek
and his restraint gave way, allowed his anguish to intensify. He
clamped his teeth together and swallowed, squeezed his eyes shut,
regained control. He took a breath, allowed his fingers brush over
Niall’s hair.

“I’m sorry, little brother,” Ailean
whispered. “I told you I’d protect you, but I didn’t—”

In a sudden flash, he remembered his father,
and desperation, mingled with pain and misery and sorrow, choked
him, and he couldn’t breathe. Where was Da? And where was
Coinneach? He had to find them. What if…NO! He wouldn’t think that.
He wouldn’t believe that. They were…somewhere. He just had to find
them. Da was hurt, Ailean remembered. Da had been hit by grapeshot.
Maybe he was somewhere and a doctor was taking care of him. Yes,
that had to be it.

He had to find Da and Coinneach,
had
to.

Ailean tried to rise to his feet, but his
head spun and forced him to lie back. When the dizziness subsided,
he raised himself and propped on an elbow again. He peered into the
darkness at the pinpoints of fires around the perimeter of the
moor. Vague shapes of objects close by became visible at times when
the clouds parted and allowed light from the sliver of moon to
penetrate the black night.

Ailean tried to get his bearings on the
unfamiliar ground. He remembered that past the park, the ground
slanted downhill toward the River Nairn. Thoughts of the river
brought an overwhelming desire for water; he had to have water,
felt as if he would die if he didn’t get water at this moment.

He inched toward the river, pulled himself
along on his belly. In front of him was a mound of tartan-clad
bodies. He turned his head away, veered around it. He couldn’t look
at those bodies, afraid of what he might see.

He crawled along until he saw the form of a
soldier ahead, holding a musket on his shoulder, the bayonet
prodding the sooty sky. The sentry turned and walked toward a
nearby fire. Ailean resumed his advance, an inch at a time. When he
was too tired to go farther, he rolled into a clump of thick weeds
and slept.

Ailean awoke in full daylight. And as soon as
he opened his eyes, he remembered. A groan escaped his lips at the
thought of Niall. He covered his eyes with his hands, wishing he
could push the awful sight of his brother’s death from his
mind.

The memory of Niall’s face when he was a
little boy floated from the past into Ailean’s mind, a smiling face
surrounded by blond curls, looking so much like Coinneach-òg.
Except for one thing: Coinneach-òg was physically robust and firmly
rooted in life, while Niall had been a dreamy boy with an
other-worldly outlook. A series of images of Niall as a child
passed in succession through Ailean’s memory.

Himself and Coinneach laughing at Niall’s
first clumsy attempts to handle a broadsword. Niall running to meet
them when they were returning from a cattle drive, before he was
old enough to accompany them. Niall playing his fiddle at Ailean’s
wedding. He saw the shy smile that was ever present on Niall’s
face, the blue eyes that seemed to see into forever.

Gone. All gone, wiped out in an instant by a
ball from the musket of a vile
Sasunnach
soldier.

But Niall wouldn’t have been here if Ailean
had listened to him. Ailean had told him he had to do the honorable
thing, had to fight. It was Ailean’s fault Niall came here and
died. The knowledge of his responsibility for Niall’s death was too
much to bear. Ailean panted, rubbed his eyes, tried to push the
memories away.

A shout from the moor claimed his attention.
He parted the weeds and looked through them. A group of redcoats
walked over the battlefield. They stopped and poked their bayonets
into the bodies of Highlanders strewn across the moor.

As he watched, Ailean realized some of those
bodies still held life. One soldier laughed when an arm was flung
up in a vain attempt to ward off the bayonet, and he repeatedly
stabbed the man. Another grabbed a man by his hair, raised him and
slashed his throat with a knife.

Other soldiers dragged some of the wounded to
a low rock wall, propped them against the wall and shot them. One
redcoat must have seen movement from one of the men he had shot. He
bashed the man’s skull with the butt of his musket.

Ailean ground his teeth in impotent rage. He
had no strength, no weapon, and knew he could do nothing to stop
the murders. He could be of no help to the wounded men. He tried to
tear his eyes away from the gruesome sight but could not.

After the soldiers moved to another part of
the moor, Ailean lay face-down in the weeds, gasping, fighting to
stifle an overwhelming dread that threatened to engulf him. The
redcoats must have won the battle. How else could they have gone
unchallenged over the battlefield dealing death to helpless
Highlanders? But if they had won…

Da! Where was Da? Was he…was he there on the
battlefield, one of the bodies the soldiers were abusing? And
Coinneach? NO! It couldn’t, it
mustn’t
be true!

For a moment, Ailean couldn’t breathe,
struggled but couldn’t get his breath. He rolled onto his side,
curled his body, drew in his head and arms and legs. With muscles
clenched tight, he lay immobile as wave after wave of torment, both
physical and emotional, washed over him. Long minutes passed while
he lay oblivious to his surroundings.