Clandara (35 page)

Sir Alexander and the Red Murdoch found him, standing alone upon the field, cursing the English soldiers who had ceased their fire for fear of hitting their own horse, while individuals among them took careful aim at the mad Highlander. Balls ploughed into the ground beside him and sang past him; his father seized one arm and Murdoch grabbed him from behind, and the strength of both dragged him backwards and pulled him into a stumbling run. Men were fleeing round them, and the dreaded cavalry were wheeling among the scattered groups too tired or hurt to run away, and their sabres flashed among them. Somewhere on the Moor the old Macdonald of Keppoch was being carried off, dying from a ball in the chest and a smashed arm, supported by weeping Angus Ban, his son, and members of his clan. As the Macdonalds of Dundrenan turned to fight Kingston's troopers, Keppoch died of his wounds in a miserable hut beyond the Moor, and his son crept out to flee to his own home afar off by Loch Lochy.

Trooper Edwards of Kingston's was a young man from the midlands; at twenty-four he had seen service in Flanders and considered himself as seasoned a cavalryman as any in the troop. He had been riding down the fleeing Highlanders and sabring them without so much as a blow being aimed at him when he set his horse at the tall kilted soldier, his officer's coat in rags, helped on by another officer and a red-bearded savage, naked but for his kilt. Edwards thought that the big one was injured, and with a shout to his friend Trooper James to accompany him, he wheeled his horse round and galloped across the heather in pursuit.

He never brought his bloodied sabre down upon their heads because the tall one sprang and caught him by the jacket, tearing him from the saddle. He fell with a frightful yell and it was the last sound he made because James drove his dirk into his throat. Trooper James was not a coward; he saw what had befallen his old friend Edwards and he charged down upon them. His sabre came down upon the upturned shield of the Red Murdoch, its blade slid off the brass edge and sliced deep into Murdoch's bare arm. As it did so, Sir Alexander sprang from the heather where he had been waiting and fired his pistol into Trooper James's unsuspecting face.

“Two horses,” James gasped. “Mount up, Father … Murdoch, come with me!”

“I'll not be coming,” Murdoch muttered. “My arm is all but off, lord.” He sank to the ground and the heather was red where he knelt. “Take the horses and may God go with ye!”

“Murdoch!” James knelt beside him and eased him gently down, folding his own coat under his head. One look assured him that Murdoch would go no farther. The arm was almost severed and the sabre-stroke had cut an artery.

“Leave me now,” Murdoch mumbled. “We've shared the same breast for milk, and I know how a man should die. Farewell, lord, and you, my brother. God go with the House of Dundrenan.”

“Hurry,” Sir Alexander shouted. “He'll be dead in a few minutes! Mount and for God's sake let's ride off. Some of our people are ahead … I'm going to look for Hugh and David.”

They found David, unwounded and surrounded by a dozen trembling, exhausted clansmen in a deep dip in the Moor, so deep that it was almost a ditch and served to hide them from the pursuing cavalry. Hugh was not there nor among the scattered Macdonalds, numbering fifty in all, who were all that could be rallied at the end of the day. It was Janet Douglas who found Hugh.

Henry Ogilvie died at the hands of a Campbell; they met in the desperate mêlée which followed the retreat of the Highland right flank after the massacre by cannon and musketry and the brief and terrible hand-to-hand fighting by the Camerons and men of Chattan against the infantrymen of the first British line. He had fought blindly, killing with the broadsword and the dirk, and sustained wounds in the legs and right arm which he was too confused and fighting mad to notice. When the retreat began Henry fell back with what was left, and as he paused to drag an injured Ogilvie to his feet and help him out of range, the hidden company of Ballimore's Campbells leapt a stone wall to the left of them and rushed among them to do battle. And Henry fell under the sword of one of these. He died immediately; the confusion of the battle and the Campbell war-cry “Cruachan! Cruachan!” ringing out above the crack of musketry and the fierce clashing of sword and axe against buckler were the last things he heard. The scene of the battle and the face of the man who leapt in front of him, his broadsword flashing downwards, were the last things Henry saw. There was a great pain and a cry and then nothing. He lay where he had fallen, surrounded by the dead of his clan, for two days and nights and was buried in one of the communal trenches which served the Highland army as a grave.

From Creagan Glas the watchers saw the Prince's army break and flee. Janet and Fiona Mackintosh stood holding fast to each other, and as the lines below them thinned and scattered and the belching cannon roared, Fiona hid her face and wept like the other women and many of the men who watched with them.

Janet's eyes were dry; the agony in her heart was too intense to express itself in tears; instead she stared down over the smoking Moor, blackened with bodies, and did not move or speak.

Only when the cannon were silent and the distant yelling of the clans had stopped did they hear the drums of the Duke of Cumberland's army beating the advance along the line, and see the redcoats moving forward in correct formation, marching over the dead and wounded until they stood upon the ground held that morning by the Highland army. Only then did Janet turn the trembling girl inside her arm towards the Moor below.

“It's over,” she said. “Come down now, and we'll take our horses and see what has become of James and Hugh.”

“I couldn't watch,” Fiona whispered. “When I saw them falling and the men turning back I couldn't bear to watch …”

“Where did you leave your mount?” Janet asked. The crowds upon the brae were dispersing now, muttering among themselves. Some of the women of Chattan were wailing, their plaids pulled over their heads.

“Hurry back to Inverness, ladies,” an elderly man advised them, shepherding his wife and daughter with him. His name was Farquharson, and two of his sons had fought on the Moor that day. He never knew the fate of either. “Don't waste time here; I've seen some of the English cavalry riding out after our soldiers. It's not safe to stay so near the battle now. Come, Annie and Margaret, make haste!”

“My sons,” his wife moaned. “Where are my sons? …”

“There are the horses.” Fiona pointed to the horses tethered below the brae among some bushes. “The bay gelding over there …”

Janet had begun to run, pulling the girl after her. Everywhere people were slipping and stumbling down to the hollow, and some were seizing horses and riding off with them. “Come on,” Janet shouted. “They're stealing the mounts! Come on, for God's sake, or we'll be left stranded on foot here!”

She grabbed the reins of the gelding, and led it to where her own mount was tethered. “Here, get up,” she said. “Hurry, I can't hold both!”

“Where are we going?” Fiona said. “How can I find Hugh? …”

Janet looked up into the white and drawn little face, the mouth quivering like a child's; she reached up and squeezed the girl's cold hand.

“We'll go together,” she said. “Hold him now; I'm going to mount.”

“Give me a place.” A man came to her stirrup and caught the strap. “I've walked for miles … I'll never get back in time.”

“We're going to the Moor,” Janet said. “Not Inverness. Let go my stirrup!”

She pulled her horse round, and, followed by Fiona Mackintosh, began to ride out of the shelter of the brae and down towards the River Nairn. They crossed by a stone bridge, and, moving at a steady canter, began to round the edge of the Moor behind the former English position. And that was where they met the first of the refugees from the battle. Suddenly men came at them out of the heather; men in rags without weapons, running and stumbling, panting like animals, men staggering from wounds and falling, only to rise and try to walk a few yards farther. And seeing the horses they waved and shouted, some crying piteously for help. Fiona was the first to stop. She reined in and jumped down, going to the aid of a wounded man who had fallen only a few feet away from her. And immediately others surrounded them, and her horse was caught by half a dozen hands so that it reared and plunged with fright. Janet would not have stopped. Janet knew that their only chance was to ignore the men on foot, to ride over them and the wounded and to stop for nothing. But now she had no choice. She came back to the place where Fiona knelt, watching helplessly as the desperate Highlanders fought over who should have her horse, and the wounded man in her arms groaned and twitched in pain.

“Why did you do it! Why did you stop! Oh, God, don't you know they'll never let us mount again? … Stop that, you damned thief! Leave my horse alone!” She sprang up and ran the few feet to wrestle with a big, wild-bearded man who was struggling to climb on her mount's back.

“Hold back! Mackintoshs hold back!” The man in Fiona's arms managed to shout the order, and sullenly it was obeyed.

“What are you ladies doing?” the wounded man asked them; his face was grey with pain and he gasped as he spoke. “Don't you know the English Dragoons are riding down everyone they find … man, woman or child? They're killing them all … For God's sake go back before some of their horse come up. I'm done, girl, can't ye see that and let me be?” Fiona bent over him, the tears running down her face.

“I am a Mackintosh of Glendar, niece of Glendar himself. I will not leave you.”

Janet came up to her.

“Do as he says!” She knelt beside the dying Mackintosh.

“Were you near the Macdonalds of Dundrenan? We're looking for the Chief and his sons …”

He shook his head. “They took the left line today. I heard some of the men of Clanranald saying it was unlucky. Not as unlucky as the right, where we stood. Lady, take Miss Mackintosh out of this place. My people won't take the horse from her when they know who she is. Mount up behind her and begone while there's still time. I'm their tacksman, and if I die while ye're still here I cannot answer for them then …”

“I'm going to find the Macdonalds of Dundrenan,” Janet said. “I'm not leaving the Moor until I do. But I'll do it better alone and on foot. Here!” She turned to the big man who had tried to take her horse; he stood sullenly and stupidly by its head, one hand holding the reins, watching his officer on the ground.

“You can have the mount,” Janet said, “if you take Miss Mackintosh back to Glendar. The Lord Glendar will care for you there and help you back to your own glen. As for the gelding, let two men take it, and make what speed they can. Come, Fiona, leave him now and get on my horse!”

Fiona stared up at her and shook her head. “I will not leave him,” she repeated. “I shall stay with him until the end and then I am going to go with you and find Hugh. I heard what you said. I'm coming with you.”

“Ah, no,” Janet said gently. “No, you're not. I was mad to bring you this far. You're not staying here to be raped and cut to pieces by the English.” She turned to the man half lying in the girl's lap. “These men will obey you. Give the order!”

He raised his head, and gathering his ebbing strength he called out to the big Highlander.

“Take her! Ride for Glendar! As for the other horse, two wounded men may have it!”

The bearded man came up and between them he and Janet dragged the struggling, shrieking girl to her feet and Janet held her while he mounted.

“I'll find Hugh,” she promised. “Be sensible now, you've done your best. I can hide and wait until they've gone … it's easier for one. Hold still, or I'll have them tie you to the horse!”

“I said I would die with him,” Fiona wept. “I want to die … I want to stay here and die with my own people and with Hugh.” She was choking and hysterical, and when the clansman reached down and lifted her up in front of him, she sobbed and let herself be taken.

“God go with you,” Janet called out, and the next moment the horse was galloping away back towards the river and the bridge.

She knelt in the heather, and the dying man whispered to her: “They've taken the other horse. You're on foot now and alone. Take this, lady. Ye may need it.”

She took the pistol from him, and hid it in the belt of her dress under the red cloak.

“On the left of the line,” Janet said. “Nearer to Culloden House than here.”

“Look in the little bothies,” he whispered to her. “Many wounded took shelter there … But if you hear horsemen hide yourself. All ours fled with the Prince … there's none left now but the dragoons.”

As she began running onward through the heather, Janet heard a new sound, a sound so strange and full of unfamiliar pitch that she stopped for a moment to listen. After a moment she went on while the dreadful noise grew louder. It was the crying of hundreds of wounded men, and now she found herself passing little groups of dead and injured as she walked, and in the distance, near the centre of the battlefield, she heard the crack of shots and frightful cries. She crawled forward through the grass, and only a hundred yards away she saw three English soldiers shooting and bayoneting the fallen enemy.

For a moment Janet's tremendous self-control gave way; she hid her face in the short heather and fought the impulse to spring to her feet and scream and scream. The moment came and she conquered it; she lay very still until the noise and shouts abated, and when at last she raised her head and looked above the ridge, the soldiers were gone and no one lying near was moving now or crying out. All through that long afternoon she picked her way through the human debris of that battle, in which a thousand of the Prince's men had lost their lives. The Camerons and men of Chattan, the men of Atholl and the clansmen of the Duke of Perth lay all around her, and she ignored them, turning away from those who were still alive. Not till she saw the Macdonald setts lying on the reddened ground did she begin to search among the dead. Many times she threw herself down and hid as the English cavalry patrolled the battlefield, searching for prisoners or for the living among the heaps of dead, and when either were found they were killed without mercy. It was growing late when Janet found the first little bothy about half a mile from the rise on which Prince Charles had watched the battle. It was a crude hut without windows, thatched in peat, mud-walled and floored, and when she staggered to the opening she saw movement in the darkness and heard the sound of someone groaning.