Prince Across the Water (20 page)

“Ye canna kill the Highland spirit!” called his companion, half a head shorter.

Next to him was a wiry old man, his beard more white than grey. He was hurling rocks at the enemy and screaming, “We'll show ye how to fight like men.”

But the English just stood, calmly reloading their guns, preparing to fire again.

“For God and St. Andrew,” I shouted, ready to join in one last, mad charge. There was a bloodred haze over the field. I took a deep breath.

27 THE KEPPOCH

Close to my right, I suddenly heard someone cry out, “Get him up! Take a leg there, Iain!”

It was a familiar voice, like a lifeline, and me about to drown in a river of blood. The haze before my eyes lifted and I turned toward the voice. Running to him, my legs were suddenly as spry as they'd been in the early morning. The rain parted like a curtain, and there was Angus Ban standing over his father's body.

The Keppoch fallen?
It was as if the earth had cracked wide.

Angus Ban had the chief by the head and shoulders while an old, grizzled clansman—Iain at a guess—was trying to take hold of his legs, which were slippery with rain and mud.

“Let me help, sir,” I called, rushing to their aid. Sliding my dirk back into my belt, I took a grip of the Keppoch's left leg, leaving Iain to the other.

“Yer a fine sight to see, lad,” Angus Ban told me. “Where's yer young friend?”

A droop of my head answered him. Then I really looked at the Keppoch. He had a bloody wound in one arm and another—much worse—gaping in his chest. I couldn't tell if he were breathing or not. “Is he alive?”

“Barely,” Angus Ban said grimly. “But we'll no leave him here for the sassanach to finish.”

“No if I have to carry him myself, sir.” Though the one leg was slippery with mud and rain, I swore I would not let it go.

“It willna come to that, lad.”

With Angus Ban walking backward and Iain and me going forward, we carried the Keppoch like so much butchered meat. He was not a light burden, with his sodden plaid and jacket, his great sword and brace of pistols. But just as I hadn't taken the dying captain's sword, I knew we couldn't dishonor the Keppoch by removing his weapons just to make things easier for ourselves. Not while he was still alive.

“Hurry! Hurry!” Angus Ban said, trying to keep us moving. “Before those damned guns start up again.”

We were certainly going as fast as we could, but the boggy ground kept grabbing at our feet, the dead bodies strewn over the field kept getting in the way. We had to warn Angus Ban each time where to step and which way to go or he would have fallen backward over them.

“Hurry, both of ye,” Angus Ban said again, before glancing down at the Keppoch, whose lips were moving, though no sound came out. Then he added, “Not far, Father, not far.”

Not far to where?
I wondered, but didn't dare ask. I needed all my breath.

There was another crash of muskets and a ball smacked the water between my feet. I jumped and let out a frightened sound. The Keppoch's body tensed.

“Leave me!” he croaked. “Save yer own lives!”

“Wheesht, Father!” Angus Ban told him. “I'm no bairn that ye can tell me what to do.” Then he said to Iain and me, “Keep moving. Hurry. Hurry.
That
way.” He tilted his head toward the edge of the moor where there was a stand of trees.

When other retreating clansmen saw who it was we were bearing to safety, they formed a ring of swords around us to keep off any redcoats who might give chase. I didn't recognize a one of them, except by their badges.

“It looks bad,” a bald man told Iain.

“Shut yer mouth,” Iain replied. “He's not deaf, ye know.”

“Hurry,” I said, picking up Angus Ban's cry. “Hurry.” Because it
was
bad. Anyone could see that. And because the Keppoch's leg was a dead weight about to slip out of my hands.

We hurried, if a snail's pace could be called hurrying.

“There's cavalry coming up on our flank to the left there, Angus,” Iain said. As soon as he spoke, I heard the ominous drumming of hoofbeats.

“Pay nae mind,” Angus Ban ordered. “The prince has men in reserve who'll keep them at bay.” Then he said down to the Keppoch, “Almost there, Father.”

My arms felt on fire. My back was aching.
Not far
, I told myself.
Not far
.

Now the smoke was clearing, and by turning my head to the left, I could see the Highland line.

Line!
What had been full of glorious warriors such a short time before was now a huddle of frightened men. Few Highlanders still stood upright, and those who did clumped in ragged groups. Several of them were falling back into defensive formations. But the greater number were simply running toward us, toward safety, as fast as their weary legs could carry them. And who could blame them? Surely not I.

Suddenly, directly ahead of us, I saw a well-ordered body of soldiers in blue uniforms, their muskets primed and at the ready.

“Angus Ban,” I whispered, “we're done for. Look behind ye.”

He turned his head, then gave a short, sharp snort of laughter.

“Dinna fear, laddie,” Iain said for him, “those are the Royals, loyal Scots like ye and me. Only they've fought in the king of France's army so they're wearing his uniforms. They've come home to stand by the prince.”

The French? Have they arrived at last? The prince will like that
, I thought.

“Stand,” growled one of our guardians. “And that's all the Frenchies have done—stand. While the rest of us charged and died.” He spat to one side.

Even as the man spoke, a squad of red-jacketed English dragoons came galloping across the moor in pursuit of the fleeing Highlanders, heading straight toward us. I saw them raise their sabers, glinting wickedly in the feeble sun.

I was so terrified, I almost let the Keppoch slip from me. But in one efficient motion, the Royals swung their muskets about and unleashed a booming volley at the redcoats. The English dragoons swerved sharply aside and pulled back out of range, their horses kicking angrily at the air.

“Did ye see that!” I cried, hope returning. “The English horsemen fled. They
fled
!” I held tightly to the Keppoch's leg, suddenly full of strength again. “My da says …”

Angus Ban shook his head. “They have time and territory on their side, lad. They dinna need to put themselves in danger. Och—didna the Keppoch warn about this ground.” His voice broke as he spoke his father's name.

The Royals opened their ranks, allowing us and other fleeing Highlanders to pass through. Then they closed ranks behind us.

“Are we safe now?” I asked Iain, hope flaring in my heart.

He looked grimly toward some redcoats who had suddenly surged around our flank, trying to engulf us. Our own Scots cavalry galloped off to meet them, but they were badly outmatched, like a handful of straw hurled into the face of a flood.

“At least we're no longer on boggy ground,” I said. Instead it was hummocky and covered with scratchy gorse.
But much better
, I thought,
than muck and mire
. “Are we close yet?”

“There!” Angus Ban replied, tilting his head toward a flimsy hut about two hundred feet further along, partly hidden in the trees.

We staggered toward it, conscious that a battle still raged around us, but determined to find safety for the Keppoch. When we got there at last, Iain kicked open the door and we managed to get the chief inside.

28 THE OLD BOTHY

The hut was low, dim, and damp, the walls green with mold and the thatched roof half fallen in. The smell was awful, like a byre that hadn't been cleaned for months. There were a few bits of furniture—several broken chairs, and a battered oak table in the one room. A half-dozen wounded men were already sheltering inside, sitting on the floor, their backs to the leftmost wall, all so badly off, none could lift a hand to help us.

Gently we lowered the Keppoch onto the table, which looked almost too rickety to support his weight, yet—amazingly—it held, as if borrowing some of his own strength.

“There, Father,” Angus Ban said, “we'll be fine here.”

Though how anyone could be fine in this low, damp place, I couldn't even begin to guess.

The Keppoch lay still, his arms and legs hanging loose over the table ends. Exhausted, I stared at him while trying to rub some life back into my aching arms.

“Father?” Angus Ban bent over his father, then laid a hand on his cheek. The old man's mouth hung open; there seemed to be no breath passing between his lips. Drawing his hand slowly down over his father's brow, Angus Ban lovingly closed the Keppoch's eyes for the last time. He whispered, “Good-bye, Father.”

“Godspeed,” I said.

Angus Ban looked up, nodding. “Godspeed, indeed.”

Only then did I notice that the MacDonald men who had guarded us on our retreat were now crowding in the doorway. One stepped forward and said softly, “Angus Ban, our duty is done here.”

“Aye,” Angus Ban agreed wearily. “Ye've served yer chief well, all of ye. Good luck to ye now.”

The men turned and rushed away.

“Ye, too, Iain,” Angus Ban said quietly, so that no one else in the dim, smelly hut could hear but the three of us. “Go now, quickly. Go back and tell my stepmother what has befallen. Bring her my father's sword.” He unbelted belt, sheath, and sword from his father's body. “Tell her I'll come when I can and if it is God's will.”

Iain nodded.

I moved away so they wouldn't think I was eavesdropping on purpose, though I heard it all anyway.

“Tell her that if things go hard with her—as I fear they will—to shelter in the cave at Loch Trieg. She knows the place. Tell her to rely on my brother Ranald in all things. He's only twelve, but has a canny old head on those young shoulders.”

“I should stay,” Iain began. “For yer father's sake. For the chieftain.”

I turned to look at them, wondering what the answer to that would be.

“My father is dead,” Angus Ban said brutally. Then, as if to soften what he'd just said, he added, “Nae, man. I am yer chieftain now, so ye must obey
me
. I want ye to live for Scotland and for the Keppoch MacDonalds. We need men of yer strength for the tasks ahead.” He clasped Iain's arm.

Iain nodded again and drew away. Then he stood a moment looking out the open door. Just before he went through, he turned and said, “For God and St. Andrew.” Then he was gone.

I was surprised at how quickly he'd left. But Angus Ban himself surprised me even more. Pulling the two pistols out of his father's belt, he set about loading them with powder and bullets.

“Sir,” I asked, “do ye mean to continue the fight?” For if he was going back to the lines, I would, too. “I'll go with ye.”

He looked up as if finally remembering I was still there. “What's yer name, lad?” he asked me.

“Duncan MacDonald,” I replied. “Of Glenroy.”

“Well, Duncan of Glenroy, if this sorry day hasna made a man of ye, nothing ever will.”

“I dinna feel much like a man,” I said slowly.

Angus Ban rammed the loaded pistols into his belt, then looked at me again. “Aye, I know what ye mean, Duncan. But feeling sick at a slaughter means ye have a good brain in yer head, and there's nothing unmanly in weeping for the dead.” He nodded as if agreeing with himself. “But this is nae time for philosophy. When the redcoats get here, they'll put a torch to this place, and to everything else for miles.”

“But yer father …”

“Gone to his rest,” said Angus Ban. “And honorable it is. Nothing can disturb him now.”

“What about these brave men?” I gestured to the wounded lying against the walls.

He leaned forward till his mouth was near my ear and whispered, “There's none here who can be moved without great pain, Duncan. Look at them. Chest wounds and gut wounds. The worst. This is nae hospital but a mortuary. They'll all be dead before nightfall.”

I gazed around the hut, squinting in the dim light. He was right, and I knew it. Indeed, half of those who had been alive when we arrived were already dead, slumped over or fallen to the floor. The others were scarcely moving. But to just go without them …

“Cumberland doesna mean to leave a Highlander standing. It's madness to stay here with the dead and the dying, lad. They'd tell ye that themselves, if they had the breath.” He looked around slowly at the men in the hut. “To stay would only add two more to Cumberland's count. A grand gesture signifying nothing.”

I tried to take in what he was saying, and failed. He put his hand on my shoulder and the weight of it made me tremble.

He looked deep into my eyes. “In France they say
sauve qui peut
, every man for himself. That's what we've come to now. It's all that stands between Scotland and complete ruin: the saving of a few good men from this debacle. We must choose to live, lad. Go home and help rebuild our poor ruined land. Ye must do it. And so must I.”

I nodded. How strange that leaving felt even harder than staying. “What about the prince, sir?” I asked. “And the throne?” I gulped and gestured to the men. “Has all this been for nothing?”

“We will get the prince safely away,” he said. “I am going to him now. And there's always another day for our fight. But first we must survive this one.”

“Right, sir.” I took small hope from that. Ewan and his da would not have another day.

He took what I said for agreement, though I wasn't sure how I'd meant it. “So, good luck to ye, Duncan MacDonald of Glenroy. I hope ye wish me the same.”

I tried to smile and couldn't. “Good luck, Angus Ban MacDonald of Keppoch,” I said, and saluted him.

He turned and slipped out the door and—as I watched—sprinted for the cover of the nearest trees.