Prince Across the Water (4 page)

This was a new and worrisome thing. “Yer heart?”

Overhead a kestrel hovered in the clear air, its wings beating furiously. Granda handed me his dirk. “My heart hurts seeing ye so unarmed,” he said. “And I told myself, Duncan better have this. After all,” he finished with a twinkle, “ye never know what sort of trouble we might run into. Even if we're only going to see the prince and no going to the actual war.”

“Thanks, Granda …” I began and could say nothing more.

“And remember this, lad: Hold that dirk before ye when ye charge. A Highland man makes his charge from strength. We want high, solid ground and the wind at our back. Will ye remember that?”

I nodded. Then, with a delighted grin, I slid the dirk into my belt, feeling a man indeed.

We caught up with the others after a bit, but remained in the rear, for Granda was really quite lame. But so long as I had that dirk stuck in my belt, as solid as a knife in cheese, I was happy wherever we marched.

The familiar rocky cliffs of the glen soon gave way to more open land where prickly yellow gorse marked the roadside. Great scrubby fields of green lay all around. But without those familiar cliffs to guard me, I suddenly felt exposed and unprotected. At least the Roy, that lovely, lazy river, still ran along beside us. I longed to stop and fish for some speckled trout, but I longed even more to meet the prince.

As if he understood my homesickness, Granda started to talk. “Did I ever tell ye, lad, about the Sherramuir fight? About the glorious days of the '15 when we fought for the Stuart King?”

“Once or twice, I think.” Dozens of times more like, but I was happy to hear the tale again now that we were on the march.

He smiled, the gap between his teeth as broad as a king's highway, and launched into his familiar tale. “We followed the Keppoch then as now,” he said, “though he was a younger man in those days.”

“As were ye, Granda,” I said.

That made him laugh. He touched his sparse grey hair, where one strand had to do the work for ten. “As was I.”

We were both so engrossed in the tale of the clans' last rising in 1715 against the first German George that we weren't watching where we were walking, and suddenly I looked up to see that we had fallen well behind the rest of the men. Taking a tight grip on Granda's arm, I quickened our pace. He took a deep breath and let me drag him along.

“It must have been a grand sight,” I said, knowing what was coming next but never tired of hearing it.

“It was that, laddie,” he said, never letting on that he was winded. “The pipers played a pibroch, the cry went up, ‘Claymore!' and forward we all charged—the brave MacDonalds, and with us the Stuarts, the MacKinnons, the Camerons, and the rest.”

As he spoke, I could almost see the clansmen charging, their swords raised, their targes at the ready, plunging right into the redcoat line.

“The English fired,” Granda said, “a sound deafening to the ear and shattering to the eye. Clouds of smoke enveloped us all around. When the smoke lifted …”

“I know this part,” I said, though indeed I knew it all. “Ye turned and saw yer best friend, Murdo, dead beside ye, a musket ball right through his head.” I tried to picture it and failed.

Granda nodded, adding as he always did, “And I didna think, ‘Poor Murdo,' I only thought, ‘Thank God that isna me lying there.'” He put his hand on his forehead, marking the place where Murdo had been hit.

I could almost feel the pain driving through my own head as he spoke, and even raised my hand above my eyes, as if I, too, had been shot. But, of course, there was nae blood. This was but a story after all. “So what did ye do then, Granda?”

“What could I do?” He shrugged. “I said a quick prayer for Murdo but I couldna stop. No there. No then. I was a warrior, and we didna stop for our dead till the day was won.” His face looked graven, like a headstone.

“So …”

“So we ran on, and a stone's throw from the enemy, we pulled up long enough to loose off a volley of our own.”

“Did ye kill many?”

“I didna take time to see. The heat of battle was on us. We threw away our muskets and drew our swords. Some even flung off their heavy plaids. Another shout of ‘Claymore!' and we charged the redcoats like crazed bulls.”

“I'll bet it was a braw fight, Granda.”

“Well, some of them fled like frightened doves, and some stood to face our steel. I skewered one man while he was trying to reload his musket. Another I smacked in the face with my targe, then threw him on his back.”

I had my dirk out now, shoving it into an unseen enemy, acting out my granda's story as we strode along.

“So it went,” he said, “hack and hew and run the man through. There was blood—aye, there was blood everywhere—like a flood in the gutter it was. And the awful, pitiful cries from the wounded lads.”

“Did they cry out for their sweethearts?” I had never asked any such question before.

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “They cried out for their mothers,” which surprised me. His jaw got strangely slack for a moment, then he blurted out, “And a pitiful sound it was, too.”

Pitiful crying? What happened to Scots courage?
It was hardly a comforting thought. So I stopped thinking about it at all.

Just then Da dropped back to see how we were doing. His face was slick with sweat though the day was cool for August. It was as if the coming war was a fever raging within him that had not yet broken.

“How's the leg, old man?” he asked, swiping a hand across his brow. If he noticed my dirk, he didn't comment on it.

“What is a leg when we march to glory,” Granda said.

“Och, ye never change,” Da told him, shaking his head.

I stared at Da, suddenly wondering:
If he were wounded in a coming battle, would he cry for Ma or his own mother?
Then I gave a short grunt, almost a laugh. Da knew his duty and he was a great fighter. He would have the courage the lads of the '15 lacked.

“Can I march up front with ye a wee while, Da?” I asked.

He cocked his head to one side and looked at me with a steely gaze. “I'm no yer da on the march,” he said, “I'm yer leader, lad. Leader of the Upper Glenroy villagers. And dinna ye forget that.” Then his eyes went soft, the color of a dove's breast. “Besides, yer here to keep an eye on yer granda and keep him out of trouble. Can ye manage that?”

I nodded.

“That dirk in yer belt should see you both safely through,” he added, and ruffled my hair with his big hand.

6 THE KEPPOCH

So we came down the last part of the glen, the soft purple of heather turning an odd brown in the shadows. Beside us the Roy still ran its old course over a rocky bed. A black cock, startled by so many men passing, rose up in noisy flight.

Just as the gloaming was spreading its red glow over the hills, we reached the Keppoch's house at the foot of the glen where all of us were to meet. There we were joined by marchers from other villages, armed men in dark tartans and caps, all running together down mountain paths like brooks flowing into a rushing river, some three hundred of us in all.

I had never been to the Keppoch's house before. It was the grandest place I had ever seen. Not like our village's wee stone cottages, with their two rooms and a byre attached, the Keppoch's house was two stories high, made of huge grey stones. It had at least a dozen windows with real glass staring down on us like the eyes of giants. An orchard planted about the house was heavy with apples and pears, some ripe and some not yet ready for eating.

What must it be like, to live here?
I thought. I couldn't begin to imagine it.

Our fellow clansmen, there before us, gave a whoop of welcome as we funneled down into the orchard. Some called out to Da and Dougal by name, others just raised a hand. Big men they were for the most part, broad and brawny, thick-bearded, in tartans as varied as the weavers could make them, and blue bonnets. I saw but a few young lads, though none as young as I. Even the smallest of them already had the beginnings of a beard while I was still as soft-cheeked as a girl.

And then the Keppoch himself came out of the house to greet us. He looked splendid, his fine red-and-black plaid fastened round his waist with a leather belt and over it a tartan short coat. From the belt hung his sword, dirk, and pistol, while a horn of gunpowder dangled from the sash that was flung over his shoulder. He took off his blue velvet bonnet to reveal a mane of snowy white hair, and when he waved his bonnet in the air, a cheer went up.

I called out loudest of all.

“Welcome, my brave lads,” he announced in a hearty voice. “Ye've answered yer chieftain's call and the honor of that will shine bright on ye and yer sons for years to come.” He put a hand out to a young man of some twenty years near him, who had a new beard like a clipped hedge. “My son Angus Ban and I offer ye welcome three times over.”

Angus grinned and nodded at us. Even from the back of the tangle of men, I could see he hadn't his father's striking looks, for he was plain-faced, with deep pocks on his cheeks that spoke of some childhood sickness. But nevertheless he stood tall and proud in his black-and-red plaid and I soon forgot that he was a homely man.

Just then some of the Keppoch's womenfolk appeared from the house, offering cups of whiskey to drink a toast, and offering us sprigs of heather for our bonnets that would mark us as MacDonald men. The women were dressed in fine green gowns with gold trimmings and white roses pinned to the front. One of them was huge with child. She was quite young and I wondered whose wife she was.

Close by, a half dozen freshly slaughtered bullocks were roasting on spits over enormous bonfires. The smell of it filled my nostrils. My stomach began to grumble, like a spring torrent running down a hillside, for I hadn't eaten more than a handful of oats since morning, being so excited to be on the march.

“Here, laddie,” Granda told me as the Keppoch made the toast, “To the King Over the Water.” I took a sip of the whiskey. It nearly knocked me over, the taste bitter and sweet at once, and the sharpness like a second breath in my mouth. I coughed and coughed until I could catch my own breath again.

Granda laughed. “The Keppoch's whiskey is better than our poor stuff. Never mind. Ye'll get used to it once yer a man.”

It was long past my dinnertime, though of course the summer sun was still high. The night birds, though, had just begun making passes across the sky.

Soon we were all settled on the grass, enjoying platters of meat and sweet ale. I had found a place near my father, though I was careful not to speak to him. Granda joined me, but he was quiet, too, I guessed for much the same reasons.

Da looked well at ease among the men, though I couldn't forget his sharp words with Granda about doing his duty. Yet he seemed to be enjoying himself here. It made me wonder.

Then the Keppoch and his son walked amongst us, congratulating each man on his loyalty and on the state of his weaponry. The Keppoch was our laird, and his son would be after him, therefore they were far above us in station. Yet here they were, speaking with all of us as if we were equals.

“Eat heartily, lads,” the Keppoch boomed with a wide grin. “Ye'll no feast like this again till we set the rightful king on his throne.” He lofted his tankard over his head. “To the King Over the Water!” It was the second time we had had that toast.

“And to his son, the bonnie prince!” Angus Ban added.

“The king!”

“The prince!”

The men's voices rang across the valley, and mine along with them.

I am not ashamed to say I had three portions, for walking starves a man. After, there was laughing and singing, led by the laird's piper. He played loudly, his cheeks puffing like a bellows, as he walked around the encampment. The men were all seated in circles at each campfire, and as the piper neared them, they raised their voices in song. Of course I sang along with them. Ye would have thought the prince's victory already won.

My father alone didn't sing but sat staring into the flames of a campfire where he sat unmoving.

“Come, lad,” Granda said to me, “let's give yer da a bit of cheering up.” I think he'd been made bold by the beef and the whiskey and—to tell the truth—I had been, too. Besides, the crackling fire was making more remarks than Da. So we got up and went over to Da and sat down on either side of him.

The singing had quieted a bit by then, but the piper was still playing pibrochs and the men at their small fires were still laughing and occasionally humming along.

“Yer stinting on yer food, Alisdair,” said Granda, pointing to the half-finished beef. “It will be a long march before we get as good. Is something ailing ye?”

It took Da some time to answer and I couldn't tell if that was because he was angry with us or didn't know himself why he was in such a black mood. But at last he said, “All this cheer seems a bit beforetimes. Does nobody see anything but a good romp ahead?”

Even three helpings of beef had not lost me my senses, and I knew better than to say anything in answer. But Granda plowed ahead, making a furrow where there should have been none.

“These men have come at the call of their chief, and we should have joy in that,” said Granda. “It was that way in the '15, too.”

“And well ye remember how that turned out,” Da said. “Yer own best friend, Murdo, killed and nothing gained by it.” He threw the last bit of whiskey in his cup at the flames and for a moment the fire flared up, sizzling loudly. “A German still sits on the throne of England and Scotland, son of the one ye wanted to overthrow, and it's thirty years later.”

Granda was as silent as if Da had slapped him across the face. Then he answered, “Aye, men died. But we all die in time. I believe it's better to die in battle fighting for the rightful king than to live on, as I have, to a troublesome old age.”