Chapter 36
“I’d not expected to see you so early.” Rollo pulled up short at the sight of James.
His silhouette was black and featureless as it emerged from the fog, a startling presence among the still-slumbering camp.
Cold had stolen in during the night, and air bearing the chill threat of autumn collided with ground still warm from the summer sun, enshrouding Philiphaugh with mist.
“I’d hoped to see the men readied for another day of travel,” James said, “but we’ll not cover any ground this morning until the fog clears.” He reined in close to Rollo’s side, and each man could finally discern the features of the other.
“You’d be in a rush to get back to that woman of yours, I suppose. ” An uncharacteristically open smile warmed Rollo’s face.
“Indeed, my friend”—James chuckled—“though I’ll admit—”
There was a sharp popping, discordant in the still of the morning.
In that instant between perceiving and knowing, James wondered if he hadn’t heard a thunderclap.
Time slowed as he turned to Rollo, the specter of a smile still clinging to James’s face.
His friend slowly crumpled and slid, as if deflating.
The sight of scarlet seeping through the blue of Rollo’s coat roused James to himself, a jolt of fury and energy suffusing him like lighting to the thunder that had just sounded.
Rollo hit the ground, and his horse, spooked, reared then bolted through the mist to disappear.
It was in that instant the chaos began.
Gunfire erupted, red flares flashing in the mist that was quickly blackening from the smoke of musket fire.
James was blind to his enemy, but the noise pressed on him as if it rode on the fog, and he knew that they surrounded him.
Startled screams tore through the camp, followed by wordless exhales and the dull sounds of bullets finding flesh, layering notes of terror to the gunfire’s booming orchestra.
Tents popped and burst like living things as Campbell’s Covenanter muskets found soldiers who would never wake from that night’s sleep.
Some of James’s men managed to spring from other tents, racing to find family members they’d left encamped on the outskirts of Philiphaugh, which now raged with gunfire, flames, and shrieks.
“You!” James called to an older cavalryman whose sure hands were buckling his sword at his side. “Sort this man to rights,” he said, gesturing to the still Rollo. Blood pooled black in the grass around him, and James couldn’t bear to know at that moment whether his friend lived or died.
The old soldier knelt at Rollo’s side, and James’s eyes went to the camp, his gaze sweeping over the bedlam. Men raced like ants all over, their senior officers nowhere in sight. “Form a line!” James shouted.
The grim thought struck him that most of the officers had bedded at Selkirk and weren’t there to give orders.
“Men!” he cried again. “Form your line!”
Many finally came to themselves and rallied. “To me!” James called. Retreating slightly, he raced them in the direction of Selkirk, entrenching behind a low knoll that rose like a knobby spine close to the bank of the river.
And then, as if they’d stumbled into the eye of the storm, the sounds of battle faded away and an eerie stillness fell around them. Some of his soldiers made as if to stand but froze at a look and a gesture from James. Stillness in battle could mean but few things.
There was a single shot from faraway, and James shut his eyes. Then another shot. And another. A chill crept along his skin. They heard another lone shot, as Campbell’s men killed their prisoners one by one.
“It’s done for, Graham. They’ve four thousand horses if they’ve a one.
” The voice behind him was ragged. James turned to see a MacDonald clansman squatting grimly behind him.
The lad was still a teen yet, with a single smear of crimson marring his features where he’d used a bloody hand to wipe the sweat from his brow.
Dread spiked through James’s belly as he thought of the hundreds of clansmen MacColla had put in his charge. He couldn’t bear to tally the number of MacDonald men he’d lost that morning.
“Only those who ran fast enough could avoid capture,” the young scout said. “We need to go from here, and now.”
“No,” James said. But then he looked down the line of men, a couple hundred at most, many unarmed and still half naked from their sleep. Irish and Highlanders most of them, and they dug through the dirt now, gathering stones and ready to fight.
“Aye,” he muttered then, and eased his forehead into his hand. So many men lost, and all because he’d been blinded by such a string of victories. He thought of Rollo and wondered whether his friend lived or died.
Inhaling sharply, he whipped his head up to look at the MacDonald. “Selkirk! How stands Selkirk?”
“I’ve come from there. Covenanters are rousing every innkeeper and publican in the town, searching for Royalist officers.”
“How do you fare in the woods, lad?”
“I cut my teeth sneaking through trees to escape blackguards like these Covenanters,” the boy said, puffing his chest.
“I’m away to Selkirk.” James jumped up and leaned one foot along the side of the low ridge. “Can you lead these men to safety?”
“Me?” Doubt muddled the boy’s features. “Aye.” He hesitated. "I can lead them. But”— he eyed James impatiently palming the hilt of his sword—"you cannot go, sir. Covenanter soldiers even now wend through the town looking for you.”
James ignored the comment. “Don’t fear, lad. You’re fleet, a mere couple hundred men.” He flashed the young man a smile. “You can fly from here.”
He stared dumbly at James.
“You can lead these men through to safety.” He nodded firmly, clapping the MacDonald on his shoulder. “You’ll do it, lad. And now.”
James vaulted over the rise and ran into the mist.
He’d found a horse and raced it to Selkirk, abandoning the animal just outside the town’s limits. Shouts and gunfire came only intermittently now, and James dreaded what carnage he’d find in the streets. No battle was lost that still raged, but silence portended only one thing.
He heard men approaching and ducked into the shadows between two buildings.
James clung close to the wall, and the gray stone cooled his sweat-soaked shirt, gradually steadying his heart, which still pounded from his flight out of Philiphaugh.
The sounds of the men’s conversation amplified as they grew near, and then gradually faded away.
James spent a moment trying to orient himself, pinpointing in his mind where he stood in relation to the room he’d let the previous night.
Gunfire cracked close, followed by more distant reports.
Seconds passed, and shots erupted once more, and again they’d come from two different origins.
It would be a volley, James thought, between two groups of men, and a volley meant some of his officers were still alive.
Looking right and left, he eased from his hiding spot and jogged toward the sound of musket fire. He slipped his hand into his sword’s basket and wrapped his fingers around the grip. He may not have a musket to hand, he thought, but his sword would be all he needed.
He had to double back twice among the winding alleys of Selkirk, but he found them in short order. And he’d been correct in his assumption. A firefight raged between two knots of men, with a cluster of three of his Royalists holding their own against a like number of Covenanter soldiers.
James thought he’d need the element of surprise, some agility, and a tremendous amount of luck if he were to best three armed men.
Their muskets would be impotent at close range, and it was how he would make his initial charge that James wondered at now.
If he could get at the enemy between shots, he might have a chance.
But with Parliament’s sympathies and funds flowing to the Covenanter cause, the enemy’s red-coated soldiers used paper cartridges instead of powder horns, enabling them to get off three, perhaps four shots in a minute.
James estimated that would give him no more than fifteen seconds to strike.
The gunshots from his Royalists seemed to thin, and James thought he needed to act now before they ran out of ammunition.
“Blast it all,” James muttered. When he saw the building, he knew what he had to do.
The wooden structure sat just to the side of the Covenanter soldiers. With its two stories and gabled roof, it was unremarkable but for one element: A single-story entryway protruded from its facade like a low-slung building in miniature, complete with its own peaked roof.
He scowled, preparing his body for a drop from such a height. “Blast it to hell,” he repeated in a resigned whisper as he snuck around to the back.
Giving silent thanks that he’d taken to wearing his tartan to battle, he began to scale the rear of the building, his powerful legs free to stretch and reach with ease.
A brick chimney flanked by two small windows on each floor made finding handholds simple, and James was soon pulling himself onto the roof.
He inched along on his belly, both to elude notice and to avoid slipping from its sharply angled slope.
James edged as close as he dared, and peeked down to the top of the small entry hall below.
It would be a single-story drop to its roof.
Then, if he managed not to slide from its sharp peak, it would be another single-story leap to the ground.
Where he’d take on three armed soldiers with naught but his blade at his side.
He cursed once more under his breath.
The Covenanters shot and reloaded and shot again, and began to work their way slowly forward as their relentless attack was answered less frequently by the Royalists. James could see his men in the distance, and their frantic gestures made plain their alarming lack of ammunition.