Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One
Charlotte watched from the battlements as Niall and Simon rode off with their uncle Charles to join the rest of the prince’s army, which had amassed just outside of Inverness. From her perch above them, she could see the white silk scarf she’d given Niall as a token—maybe it was the romance novelist in her, but if her “knight” were riding into battle, she wanted to have him wear his lady’s token—and, she secretly hoped, it would protect him since she’d said prayers over it. It fluttered now in the breeze.
Even though she knew that today, according to the history books, was not going to determine Scotland’s fate—that would be tomorrow, April 16th—she was sorely tempted to follow them anyway. Beside her, Greer looked as worried as she felt.
“Ye are sure of the dates?” she asked.
“As sure as I can be.” She said a silent, short prayer that the writers hadn’t gotten it wrong. Which, she supposed, was somewhat ironic since she was still holding out hope that the actual battle could be prevented and history would be changed.
“Tell me again what’s supposed to happen today.”
Charlotte knew that Greer was seeking reassurance that her brothers and uncle would be safe, at least for today. Her friend wasn’t questioning the facts, which was another irony in itself. Once Greer had been taken into their confidence, she had seemed relieved that there was a—somewhat—logical explanation to Charlotte’s presence, even if the possibility of time-travel was still mystifying.
“According to the books, Prince Charlie is going to march to Culloden, line up his troops on Drummossie Moor, and wait for Cumberland to come.”
“I suppose it makes sense to be prepared and ready.” Greer gave her a doubtful look. “But ye said the duke won’t be coming, aye?”
Charlotte nodded. “Today is the duke’s birthday and he’s supposedly celebrating at Nairn.”
“Celebrating.” Greer uttered a curse in Gaelic. “The duke is nae concerned about an upcoming battle in which men are going to be killed.”
Charlotte closed her eyes. She hadn’t told Greer that it would be a massacre and just how many Scots would die. Nor that the Duke of Cumberland would acquire the moniker of The Butcher because he’d give no quarter. That was something that didn’t need to be said, especially if a miracle occurred and it didn’t happen. She opened her eyes and sighed.
“Niall knows and he told his uncle. Maybe when they meet the prince, they can convince him to wait a day.”
“This close to the final clash, I doona think Prince Charlie will be deterred.” Greer shook her head. “He has never been known for his patience.”
Nor for listening to wise council, Charlotte thought, but didn’t voice that either. She didn’t want to jinx the possibility of maybe—just maybe—the prince would take advice for once. History was more like a flowing river then a ridge of rocks. It would only take one small event—just like Ray Bradbury’s butterfly story—to alter the course of history. It could be done. It could.
Still, she wasn’t surprised when, as the sun was setting, a messenger arrived from Niall. Cumberland hadn’t shown and Prince Charlie had ordered the army to march to Nairn and surprise Cumberland with a dawn raid on his camp.
Her heart sank to the bottom of her stomach. That part of history was accurate too. Only the army wouldn’t make it by dawn and would have to retreat before the English saw them coming. Charlotte crumbled the note. It seemed that the battle at Culloden was going to take place after all.
And she was going to be there.
****
Having sent Simon off with most of the Beauly men to find food for them, Niall and his uncle approached the tent that served as a makeshift headquarters for the prince. He’d persuaded his uncle—after last night’s debacle of marching over ten miles only to have to turn back the same ten miles—that making a final attempt to change the prince’s mind about standing his ground here was worth the effort.
Unfortunately, a full-scale argument was in progress.
“Clan Donald has always had the right flank!” the laird, Alex MacDonald, nearly shouted.
General Murray glared at him. “My men are better trained and ye ken it.”
“Much as I hate to agree, Murray is correct,” General Dummond said to Alex. “Ye can join my forces on the left. “’Twill be important for the left to keep the redcoats from spreading out.”
MacDonald shook his head. “’Tis my clan whose lands were ravaged and destroyed by Cumberland—”
“Enough.” Prince Charlie held up his hand. “I concur with Murray. And Clan Chattan…” He looked at Alex MacGillivray. “Clan Chattan will be in charge of the first center line, followed by Colonel Stuart’s brigade.”
If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Niall would have been impressed by the amount of power and authority that was gathered inside the tent. Given that he had no rank and his uncle was a mere lord, he wondered if they’d even listen. On the other hand, they all had wiser heads than the prince, so maybe, if they saw reason, they could persuade Prince Charlie. He needed to try.
“Permission to speak,” he said when the other men had quieted down.
The prince looked at his tartan. “Lovat, is it?” He waved a hand. “Permission granted.”
“My uncle and I have just come in from surveying the troops,” Niall said. “They are tired from nae sleep, exhausted from hiking twenty miles, and they’re hungry. Half of them have gone in search of food or of shelter from the snow moving in.” He paused and looked around, hoping he wouldn’t see disdain on the officers’ faces since such hardships were nothing new for soldiers. Their expressions were neutral, though. He took a deep breath. “I think our chances of defeating the English would be better if we continued it on another day.”
“You expect us to retreat?” the prince asked.
“Temporarily,” he replied carefully, “until the men have time to recuperate.”
Murray tilted his head. “’Tis something to consider. We could go back to Dalcross—”
“Ye’ve always wanted to fight on that ridge,” Colonel O’Sullivan interrupted. “We had this conversation before.”
“It makes sense to take the higher ground,” Murray argued, “and have them come to us.”
O’Sullivan shook his head stubbornly. “On the moor, we have room for the Highland Charge.”
“Aye, there is an advantage to going on offense rather than defense,” Drummond put in.
Niall gave his uncle a desperate look. They were getting entangled in war strategy, which was totally missing his point. His uncle cleared his throat loudly.
“Gentlemen. Your Highness. Perhaps if ye allowed the troops to disperse for today, ye will have time to come to an agreement for tomorrow.”
“Cumberland will make camp if he doesna see the Jacobite army on the moor.” Niall looked at the prince, hating to faun, but desperate to prevent this battle from happening today. “Ye could then put into play your idea of surprising them at dawn.”
The prince eyed him with more acumen than Niall had given him credit for. Slowly, he nodded. “I rather like the idea—”
“Your Highness!” A soldier burst through the tent’s fold. “The English are on the edge of the moor!”
****
Charlotte stopped the buggy a good quarter mile from the battlefield. The last thing she needed was to be seen and sent back to the castle. She’d had a dickens of a time trying to persuade the stable lad that she had an important errand in Inverness that couldn’t wait. When she’d finally gotten him to hitch up the horse, he’d gallantly offered to drive her in himself. She’d spent more precious time—she had more than just the five miles to Inverness to cover—convincing him that she would be fine, there were no brigands on the road this early in the morning and she was used to handling the buggy. That was partially true since Niall had let her handle the reins on occasion and the horse was not temperamental. In any event, it didn’t matter. She had to get to Culloden.
She pulled her cloak closer as she started to walk. The wind had picked up, blowing drifts of snow from yesterday. The cold drizzle that had been falling this morning was turning to sleet. Miserable conditions for soldiers on foot, but maybe not ideal for cavalry either.
The sound of cannon made her jump. When the second one went off, she started running. She rushed past some boulders and then skidded to a stop at the edge of the moor.
The English formed a solid line on the far edge, their infantry in the middle and the dragoons along each edge. A solid sea of red was packed behind the front line, stretching back as far as she could see. They were not moving, but they were firing their guns.
On the Scots side, a terrific roar went up and the men in the center started sprinting forward in a charge. To the left, some men were not moving and others appeared unsure what to do. To the right, those soldiers had joined the charge only to collide with the center which had suddenly veered into them. Chaos quickly ensued, men milling about as orders from different directions were shouted.
Charlotte watched in horror as the English took advantage and moved forward, their guns and horses quickly encircling and overpowering the Scots whose charge had been bungled.
History was playing itself out in front of her just as it had been written.
She searched the field for Niall and finally spotted the tartans of the Frasers off to the right. She caught sight of the white scarf she’d given him. He was still on his feet and still fighting, even though the ground around him was littered with the wounded. And then his head snapped back as he clutched his shoulder and fell.
Charlotte tried to race forward, but her feet felt leaden and she couldn’t move, as much as she willed herself to. She was living the nightmare that had haunted her. She couldn’t run. Only this was real. She had to get to Niall.
Then, suddenly, there was quiet. No shouts, no cries of dying men, no trampling of horses’ hooves nor clashing of swords. Time was standing still.
Her limbs loosened and she found herself moving amongst soldiers who stood still as statues. Reaching Niall, she knelt beside him. The white scarf was covered in blood. She quickly felt for a pulse and found none. Niall was…gone? He couldn’t be! Not after—
“Doona fash.”
Charlotte stilled. Where had those words come from? Nothing was moving and all was quiet save for that voice. Slowly, she looked up.
The auburn-haired woman she’d seen by the river—Bridgid—stood beside her. Charlotte blinked. “What…what are you doing here?” She shook her head. “Never mind. Can you help me?”
“Aye. I brought ye here. Now ye will return.” The woman lifted both arms high. “Gum faigh thu sith, Taibhse à Culloden.”
“What…what does that mean?”
Bridgid smiled. “May ye find peace, Ghost of Culloden.”
And then, white mist swirled around her.