Chapter 3
Iain MacLaren threw down his musket and roared like a lion. Prince Charles, the king Charles Edward Stuart, the rightful king of England and Scotland, the man Iain wanted to fight for, the man he was willing to die for, had forsaken the Jacobites.
Cumberland’s troops had outmanned and out-armed the Jacobites. The perpetually wet Drumossie Moor had become even more sodden by the blood of his clansmen, countrymen, and their allies.
Had Bonnie Prince Charlie known the enemies’ numbers? Had he sent his army into battle on this dreaded moor knowing that the enemies vastly outnumbered the Jacobite forces?
Iain second-guessed his decision to leave the best of his warriors at the castle to safeguard his sister as he gazed over the bloody battle.
Not all the bodies were warriors. Some were impoverished tenants forced to fight by their clan leaders with threats of imprisonment, death, or the burning of their homes, and some were hardly more than children.
He was thankful that at least his people were safe on the island of Dorpol, but he would not leave the rest of his fellow Jacobites.
Murray, the commander of the right wing, shouted his war cry to rally his men.
His brigade hollered in reply before running into the oncoming English army in a final attempt to hold them off.
Other Jacobite warriors saw the charge and hurried to join, their war cries adding to the swell of shouts as men cascaded toward the English line.
With sword in hand, Iain rode his horse into the fray with the certainty that he would be killed this day.
All the men alongside him had the same grim knowledge reflected in their eyes, but even so, the Highlanders surged into battle.
Iain glanced to his far left. Why was the MacDonald Unit not moving forward? Had they not heard the command?
With no time for further thought, Iain charged. It felt as though he were possessed as he fought. All conscious thought disappeared from his mind as he focused only on surviving. At some point, the MacDonalds’ battle cry sounding behind him pierced through his haze.
At the sound of their cry, adrenaline coursed through Iain, renewing his vigor.
He continued to swipe at every English soldier he could until a cannon sounded so close to him, his horse reared, and having given the horse his head, Iain lost his loose grip on the reins and fell onto his back.
Wind gushed from his lungs. A moment later, he was gasping for breath.
Sweat dripped off his brows into his eyes, and with shaky hands, he wiped the wetness away.
His head spun as he fought to calm his breaths. He needed to stay alert, ignore the aches and pains from the many cuts and gashes covering his body, and choke down his fear if he wanted to keep fighting.
All Jacobite units were falling fast, and Cumberland’s forces pressed their advantage until the Jacobites fled the field, fighting like madmen as they coursed through the lines of English forces to their freedom.
A voice shouted the command to run them down.
The Irish picquets moved across the moor, bravely intercepting the English so the Highlanders could flee the battlefield.
Iain, dazed and limping from his injured ankle, tried to follow his allies, but before he could make much progress, the government cavalry intercepted and herded the Highlanders south. He could just barely make out flags flying and pipes playing as government soldiers descended on them.
As he fought his way to the edge of the moor, he could no longer hear the screams or see anything other than his next quarry, his mind riveted on the fight and nothing else.
Abruptly, his sword found no more purchase, and he paused to look around.
He stood alone in a muddy field of death.
Shouts rose behind him, and he turned, prepared to fight anew, before slightly relaxing his stance.
There were small pockets of fighting, but none were within a few hundred paces, and it was clear the battle was dwindling.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead but couldn’t calm his frantic heart as he trudged after his countrymen still trying to escape the field, but a movement at the edge of the forest caught his attention. Sir Thomas, one of the enemy knights, had young Duncan to rights.
Iain sighed, remembering the season at Glasgow University when Thomas always picked on those weaker and smaller than himself.
Iain fought his way to where the men were standing.
Thomas glared at Iain and, kicking Duncan out of the way, raised his sword. “Laird MacLaren.”
“Run, Duncan,” Iain growled at the lad, but kept his eyes glued to his enemy.
Thomas laughed and waved his sword about. “I have dreamt of the day I finally kill you and your countrymen.”
Iain’s blood felt like ice as he took his chance, lunging at Thomas to try to strike him with his broadsword before he recovered his balance. The other soldier saw him at the last second and flung the flat of his sword against Iain’s blade, blocking the blow.
The treacherous Scot cursed, “Jacobite horse dung, you can all go to hell.” His cold gray eyes narrowed, and he launched at Iain, raining down a frenzy of blows in quick succession.
Iain blocked and jabbed, thrust and parried, but he couldn’t find a break in the Redcoat’s training. It had been wrong of Iain, wrong of all of them, to think they could match the enemy’s skills.
Iain tried to draw in a much-needed breath, but his throat was dry, and his tongue was swollen.
He had to make do with his painful pants, the air rasping in his throat.
His arms ached, turned to slabs of great heavy stone, as his sword grew heavier by the second.
The adrenaline he had felt earlier that day had fled him as quickly as his strength had, and he could sense his body was ready to give out.
Thomas parried Iain’s half-hearted strike and pivoted, the point of his blade whistling through the air straight toward Iain’s chest. Iain drew on every last bit of strength he possessed and raised his blade.
Too weak to completely block its trajectory, he only managed to change its direction, and he felt the cold steel rip through his side.
He didn’t know if the injury was serious; he couldn’t feel the pain.
He stared at the Englishman who came to Thomas’s aid—the Sassenach, whose gleeful cry floated out over the field of slaughter.
With one last effort, Iain raised his sword, knocking Thomas’s weapon free, and brought his blade down on Thomas’s head.
Thomas ducked but not quickly enough, and Iain’s blade cleanly sliced his ear from his head.
Thomas’s howl attracted the attention of one of his men, and he hastened toward him. The Redcoat Sassenach clubbed Iain over the head, and he plunged face-first into the mud. An image of his sister filled his mind. Maeve was smiling at him with love-filled eyes.
Be strong. He sent the thought out to her, willing her to live a long and happy life.
A strange sense of well-being enveloped him. He knew he was going to die half-buried in the cold Moor, but that brought no fear. Instead, his heart ached for all the other dead, the young men who should still have had a lifetime to enjoy.
Darkness claimed him before he could say one final prayer.
***
Abby’s heart beat against her ribs so vigorously, she thought it would bounce out of her chest at any moment.
Her eyes took in a strange vista, but her shattered mind could make no sense of it.
Where was she? As if her hearing had caught up with the rest of her vision, a crack blasted through the stillness of the night.
She jumped and screamed, but more blasts covered her shrill voice.
She pressed her hand over her mouth; she had to stay in control of her fear.
She couldn’t be sure another scream wouldn’t be heard.
Drizzly rain fell on Abby’s head and on the open land before her.
The lush marshland was objectively beautiful, but it sent a spike of dread through her nonetheless, and she shivered from the cold or shock—she wasn’t sure which.
Where was she? She should have been with her sisters and brother, warm and cozy, not freezing to death in the great outdoors of who only knew where.
Her head ached, and burning tears fell from her eyes.
Abby squeezed her eyes shut as more blasts vibrated through her body.
Guns. The blasts were from guns. Her eyes snapped open, and with her other hand over her heart, she twisted her head in all directions.
Definitely gunfire, and there were a lot of them.
Louder booms sounded. Her eyes widened, and she froze.
Cannons? It sounded like cannons. Stifling another scream with her hand, she dove for cover, and an icy fist of fear tightened around her chest.
She silently thanked the lone pine tree now in front of her for giving her some cover as she huddled under low yellow-flowered shrubbery.
As her gaze flitted around her, she discovered she was on the edge of a battlefield. Realizing her breathing had become pants, she tried to slow her breaths.
She inhaled deeply and forced herself to exhale slowly, but her heart kept pounding against her ribcage and cold sweat beaded across her forehead.
She peered through the foliage, frantically scanning the chaotic scene before her.
Thankfully, she was some distance away from the battle, but as she watched men fall to the ground, a retch escaped her throat.
It quickly blended with the cacophony of battle cries, gunshots, and clanging swords echoing across the field.
If there had been any doubt about her predicament, the screams and anguished cries coming from all directions made it perfectly clear that she had been thrust into a situation of life and death. She covered her face with her hands. “I want to go home.”