Prince Across the Water (11 page)

His voice cut through me like a soldier's sword. I took one step, then another; I felt I was wading through mud, not water. At last I grabbed her legs, choking on a sob as I did so. How could this cold, limp body be my dear daft sister, my sweet companion of so many years?

We lifted her up between us, grunting as we did so. She was unbearably heavy for one so small, as though the Sidhe were clinging to her skirts and wouldn't let her be taken. But in truth it was all the water soaked into her clothing that was weighting her down.

We set her on the grass and made her modest, her skirts pulled down over her legs, her hands crossed on her breast. Then Ma knelt over her, tears dripping onto Mairi's face, mingling there with the water.

Granda's face went as grey as ashes round a campfire then, and for the first time I thought he looked truly old. Which was odd, seeing that he'd seen many dead men in the '15, but maybe this was different, for there was no glory in it, none at all.

“I'm sorry,” I began, ready to haul it all onto my own shoulders. “If the fit hadna taken me …” I tried to say more, but my voice caught in my throat, like a rag on a nail.

“It couldna be helped,” Granda whispered. “It couldna be helped.” He said it over and over, as if repetition could make it true.

“Och, my poor wee lassie,” Ma said, weeping. “What did ye think ye were doing?”

But I knew. And knowing just made it worse. Mairi had been reaching out for her prince. And he had taken her.

II. CHOPPING NETTLES

March–April 1746

Fie, now Johnnie, get up and run!

The Highland bagpipes mak' a din!

It's better tae sleep in a hale skin
,

For it will be a bluidy mornin'!

—Scottish folksong

15 PRACTICE

The months after Mairi's death dragged out slowly, like a bad dream that wouldn't end. We healed as best we could, but it was not easy.

I tried hard to remember everything about her, the way her hair had looked like summer wheat with the fringe almost covering up her eyes. The way she leaped about, clapping her hands, and singing tunelessly. But the only thing I could recall was her face grey with death, and her hair floating like seaweed in the peaty waters of the Gloaming Pool. It was a sight I could not forget.

Ma leaned more on Scripture and old mottoes in her grief. She scrubbed the cottage till her hands were red and raw. Granda threw himself into work on the farm as though the cows, which we brought down early from the shieling, were better companions than us. Ma and Granda hadn't exactly forgotten Mairi, but they seemed bent on trying.

On the other hand, Andrew and Sarah hardly noticed Mairi had gone, and that griped me even more. Surely they were old enough to understand. Yet Sarah, especially, kept talking about Mairi as if she'd just run off for an hour and would be back soon, with a handful of flowers to strew about the cottage door.

I had many an argument with Andrew and Sarah both, furious that they acted so childishly. I turned my back on them at the end of such fights. And all the while, I felt guilty, for fighting with them, for being alive instead of Mairi.

Only Ewan would talk to me about it, saying, “She was the best part of ye, Duncan, for all that she was daft.”

I think the whole family felt torn, a banner ripped in two. Nothing but Da's return could mend us, or so I believed.

But Da didn't come home.

The sparse harvest turned into a wicked and painful fall. Everyone in Glenroy went to bed hungry and arose weeping. We worried about what winter would bring. Granda grew too thin and too old over the harsh winter to help.

And still Da didn't come home.

Word arrived back that—while the Highland folk suffered—our armies were doing well enough, chasing the redcoats from Scotland and following them right down into the heart of England. That, at least, gave me hope. I looked forward to hearing more.

Word of those successes was carried by travelers, tradesmen, and tinkers. I waylaid every one of them, bringing them home to share our little food. Granda and I questioned them well into the night and they told us everything they knew.

But nothing came from Da.

Of course I knew he couldn't write, but he could have gotten someone to write for him. Or someone to carry a message. That he didn't made me angry with him, furious.

Ma worried he was dead. But I never once believed he had died. I didn't feel the ache for him under my breastbone that I did for Mairi.

“If Da is to die before I can tell him of my anger, I will give God my back as well,” I told Ewan as we met to practice our swords.

His eyes opened wide and I could see the fear in them. “Dinna say that, Duncan,” he warned “For yer sake and ours.”

“Och, God knows I dinna mean it,” I said. But, just in case, I whispered under my breath, “Just let him stay away for all I care. I'm doing the work of a man now.” Which didn't make sense, of course, as I had wanted to be on the march with him.

Around that time, I began to think:
If I am a man doing a man's work, then surely I can go with the army on my own, and my cousin Ewan, too
. Ewan had done his own da's farming on their plot of land. Like me, he was tending to his da's chores.

We talked of it ceaselessly, Ewan and I.

“Look at my arm,” I would say, showing him the new muscles got from the harvesting, got from being a year older.

He showed me his own muscles, bunching up when he clenched his fist. Then he punched that fist into my arm.

We grinned at each other, man-to-man.

Now that the winter chores were done, Ewan and I figured we would head out after the troops.

“It will be one less mouth to feed.” That would please Ma.

“We'll earn a white cockade for our bonnets,” he added, “sewn by the ladies of Glasgow and Edinburgh, just like the other men.”

And
, I thought,
I'll find Da and tell him how he'd hurt Ma by not sending word. How he hurt us all
.

“Brothers?” I said, holding out my hand to Ewan.

He spit in his hand and grabbed mine. “Brothers.”

To this end, we practiced our sword and knife fights daily whenever we could get loose of our chores, but told no one of our plans. We didn't want our mothers to talk us out of going. As they were certain to try.

But though we'd sworn we'd be off at once, it was weeks later, winter still shaking its rough head at us, and still we hadn't gone.

Once again Ewan and I were practicing with our wooden swords. It was one evening after the cows had been milked and their muck carted away. We were on a patch of weedy ground on the far side of a copse to the east of the village, where nobody would see what we were about.

“Ha! Caught ye again!” Ewan announced. “That's three times!” He sliced at the empty air with his sword. Unlike a real sword, it didn't whistle as it came down, but made a whuffling sound, like an old dog.

I stepped back and laid my hand over the spot where he'd bruised my ribs with the edge of his sword. I bit my lip to keep the pain inside.

“If we were in battle, ye'd surely be dead by now!” Ewan laughed.

“Nae, I wouldna,” I told him, a red flush coming to my cheeks.

“Would!”

“I'm too angry to lie at peace!”

“Angry? What for? Prince Charlie's army is heading toward London and then fat Georgie on the throne will have to pick up his skirts and run. What's to be angry for?” Ewan looked at me oddly.

“Because we're not there, ye ninny!” I raised my sword and jumped at him, swinging wildly.

Ducking aside, he smacked me across the back with his wooden blade. I stumbled forward, fell, and this time hadn't the spirit to get up. Instead I sat on my haunches, my head hanging low. Ewan was definitely quicker than me. And older. And stronger. As many of the redcoats would be. As most of them would be. The very thought made me shiver.

“This is nonsense,” I said, angry more at myself than Ewan. “Redcoats dinna fight with swords and targes. They use muskets. Why are we practicing with these?” I could not find pleasure in anything.
My anger is like a fox caught in a lure, chewing at its own foot
, I thought.

“Dinna be daft, Duncan. A musket shoots once and needs reloading.” Ewan sounded like his father, for over the winter his voice had deepened. Down the wooden blade came again. “Besides, once ye've learned how to use the sword well, killing King George's men will be as easy as chopping nettles.” He grinned.

“There willna be any redcoats left for us at all if we dinna get moving soon,” I reminded him. “And none of the MacDonalds will welcome us then.” I stood slowly and put my hands on my hips and said like an angry clansman, “Och, ye've come for the whiskey and the cheering, laddies, but what fight have
ye
fought?”

“So we miss out on the redcoats, there will still be raids against the Campbells and such,” he chided.

“Who's the daftie now?” I said. “Prince Charlie will bring peace to the Highlands and the clans will leave off their quarreling. They'll be no glory left for us at all, Ewan MacDonald.”

“Aye, and cats will leave off chasing mice.” Ewan laughed. “That's a dream, Duncan. If ye carry on like that, ye'll end up as silly as …” His voice trailed off and he looked abashed.

He couldn't have hurt me more if he'd jabbed the point of his sword right into my heart, though it was almost a year since Mairi had died.

“I only meant …” he began lamely.

“Aye, I know what ye
meant.”
My voice was stone, but my insides had turned to soured milk. “Yer a hard, mean lad and ye'll make a hard, mean man.” I gave him the kind of look my da often gave me. “My sister's gone and yer making a joke of it. I thought better of ye, my cousin and brother-in-arms.”

He turned a pale color, tried to say something to make amends, but I gave him my back.

And the worst of it was, Mairi wasn't really gone. Not completely. I had seen her the last time I'd had a falling fit. But I couldn't tell Ewan that. I couldn't tell
anyone
. They'd have thought me mad.

16 RETREAT

Ewan and I made up, fought again over small things, and made up once more. We were cousins and sworn brothers. Who else would we talk to?

We were persuaded to stay by small things: His ma had a rough cough, my granda was slower, older. Who would tend the cows? Bring in the peats for the fire? The water from the stream? We were our families' men, now. How could we desert them?

Ewan and I still practiced with our wooden swords, a feeble hope now, no more than a game. One of these times I came back home over the brae with the setting sun spilling light as red as blood across the hills.

Granda was standing by the cottage door, looking south and west, his color better than I'd seen in months.

“Is everything all right?” I called out.

He pointed down the road where I could see the back of a stranger heading out of the village. “Better than all right. A tinker's just been by with news. Our men are not far from London now.”

“London!” I was both excited and worried. If the prince's men made it all the way to London, what use would they have for Ewan and me? “Would the traveler not stop for something to eat?” I wanted to talk to him myself.

“Nae, lad, he was just passing through. But he told us that our men have swept through a dozen English towns on their way to the capital, like a river gushing down the mountainside. They've sent the redcoats running for cover and old Georgie packing his crown.”

I clapped my hands, just as Mairi would have done. This was great news. “Oh, Granda, we should be with them!”

“Aye, lad, we should be there.”

For a moment we were both silent, staring at the darkening hills. We were full of wishing, though wishing and knowing are two sides of a great glen, with a lot of land lying between.

“Da will be with them, won't he?” I thought a minute. “He's never been so far from home.”

Granda looked thoughtful. “Aye …” he said slowly, leaving unspoken:
If he's still alive
. “Aye.” Then he smiled, which caused crinkles around his eyes. Clapping me on the arm, he said, “Duncan, my lad, think on it. How different this is from the '15, when we Highlanders were forced home with our tails between our legs.”

“Ye were still brave, Granda. No dishonor to ye. Retreating in the face of overwhelming odds …”

“Aye, but this time our men will catch King George by the collar and pitch him off his throne.”

“Aye, and Charlie will sit in fat George's place.”

Granda frowned at me the way he did once when I'd made a rude noise in church. “Nae, nae,” he corrected. “He'll dust the throne off and keep it for his father, King James, when he comes across the water.”

“Aye,” I said, though who was King James to me, who'd been just a handsbreadth from the prince? “And then everything will be put right.”

Granda grinned once more. “Everything will be put right,” he said, smacking his lips as though looking forward to a dram of whiskey in celebration.

Everything will be put right
, I suddenly thought,
except Mairi will not be here when a real prince reclaims his throne
.

Ma was hunched over the grate, scraping out the ashes when we went inside. By the bunching of her shoulders, I could see that the news the tinker had brought had not made her happy.

“How will they ever get home?” she fretted as she worked. “London's so far from here. Hundreds and hundreds of miles. What are they thinking, going all the way down there, leaving the safety of Scotland for England's dangerous roads? The Stuart has his Scottish throne now. What does he need more?” She gathered up the ashes, still talking to the hearth and not to us. “Och, I sometimes think men are like bairns off into the woods without a care as to what they'll find there.”