Ghosts of Culloden Moor 21 - MacLeod (Cathy MacRae)
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MacLeod
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor (No.21)
By Cathy MacRae
www.cathymacraeauthor.com
AMAZON KDP EDITION
PUBLISHED BY
Short Dog Press
MacLeod © 2016 Short Dog Press
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor © 2015 L.Lytle
All rights reserved
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION
BOOKS IN THE SERIES
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EPILOGUE
A note from the author:
MORE BOOKS by Cathy MacRae
About the Author
DEDICATION
To the residents of the Isle of Raasay
h-uile la sona dhuibh ‘s gun la idir dona dhuibh
(May all your days be happy ones)
Book Description
I was known for a time as Hugh MacLeod. I was only sixteen when I joined the glorious cause that ended not only Prince Charles’ bid for the Scottish throne on the bloody field of Culloden, but my life and secrets as well. Too young to enlist, I followed my older brothers into the Glengarry Regiment, hiding from them until I faced the English and `twas too late to turn back. Though I’d prefer my boon to be a chance to deflate the Duke of Cumberland’s arrogance for what he did to my family after the war, I will settle for a few moments with the prince.
BOOKS IN THE SERIES
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor
1. The Gathering (by LL Muir)
2. Lachlan (by LL Muir)
3. Jamie (by LL Muir)
4. Payton (by LL Muir)
5. Gareth (by Diane Darcy)
6. Fraser (by LL Muir)
7. Rabby (by LL Muir)
8. Duncan (by Jo Jones)
9. Aiden (by Diane Darcy)
10. MacBeth (by LL Muir)
11. Adam (by Cathy MacRae)
12. Dougal (by LL Muir)
13. Kennedy (by LL Muir)
14. Liam (by Diane Darcy)
15. Gerard (by LL Muir)
16. Malcolm (by Cathy MacRae)
17. Cade (by Diane Darcy)
18. Watson (by LL Muir)
19. Iain (by Melissa Mayhue)
20. Connor (by LL Muir)
A NOTE ABOUT THE SERIES
Although the individual stories of Culloden’s 79 need not be read in strict order, The Gathering should definitely be read first to understand what’s going on between the Muir Witch and these Highland warriors from 1746.
The Reckoning, Number 79’s story, will finish the series.
The names of Culloden’s 79 are historically accurate in that we have used only the clan or surnames of those who actually died on that fateful day. The given names have been changed out of respect for those brave men and their descendants. If a ghost happens to share the entire name of a fallen warrior, it is purely accidental.
MACLEOD
CHAPTER ONE
The sight of the sea took my breath away. I closed my eyes and drank in the tang of salt in the air, the muffled crash of the waves against the shore bringing memories of my youth flooding back. Cool fingers of air caressed my cheeks and ruffled my shoulder-length hair. My eyes opened, still in awe of the view, sighting the familiar Cuillin Mountains across the sound on the Isle of Skye, their peaks dark against the late afternoon sun. ’Twas a sight I’d seen every day of my sixteen years as a child on the island, and not one a mere three hundred years of ghostly existence could erase from my memory. I was on the Isle of Raasay. I was home.
Movement in the water caught my attention and I smiled at the play of a small whale as it breached, the sparkling water rolling like diamonds off its dark, wet hide. Gulls screeched overhead, drifting drunkenly on the wind. The scene was heartwarmingly familiar, and yet startlingly different. A pier led to the water where a large boat docked. Its brilliant white sides and glassed-in upper deck were unlike anything I’d seen before.
A number of people disembarked and headed my direction. They chatted amongst themselves, happy sounds as they strolled nearer. Their clothing and conversations alerted me to the fact I was in recent times. The bright, slick material of their coats and my inability to discern male from female at a distance brought to mind the tourists I’d seen lately at the Culloden Visitors’ Centre. Clad in breeches and bundled shapeless against the cold, it took me a moment to discover the group was made up of two women and three men, and one I was fair sure ’twas a lad from the way he plodded a wee bit behind the rest of the group. He shifted a sack suspended on a strap across his drooped shoulders, the slippery whisper of material reaching my ears in the clear air. One woman in the group slowed her step and, angling her body toward the lad, motioned with a flick of her wrist for him to catch up.
“Will you try for Dun Caan, this time?” One of the men asked, canting his head to the man next to him. “I’d like to get some shots of Skye’s skyline from the summit. I need ‘em for an article in the emag. Hiking the Highlands in Winter, or some such.” His words dinnae fall on my ears the same as the speech from my day and time, but I had adjusted to the changing sounds over the years.
The other man shrugged. “Not a bad hike to the top, but the weather won’t stand for it this time of year, I’m afraid.”
The first man looked around him and I caught my breath. But he dinnae notice me. “It’s cold, but not too bad, and it looks like the snow’ll hold off a bit longer. Why don’t we see how it looks in the morning?”
“Yeah, maybe. I’m not dressed for sleet if the storm moves in.”
His comment made me question my own clothing. A quick glance downward told me I still wore the coat and breeches I’d stolen as I headed off to war two hundred and seventy years ago. I dinnae miss my kirtle, but the breeches were filthy from sitting too long on my backside, and the coat was threadbare and faded. Oddly enough, though the wintry air made my cheeks tingle, I wasnae cold.
I brushed as much of the dirt and dust from my breeches as I could and straightened my coat across my shoulders, trying not to drag my fingers through my ill-kempt locks. Squaring my shoulders, I waited for the group to reach me with their curious looks and silly questions asked of the tour guides I’d seen at the Culloden Visitors’ Centre who dressed in the attire of my day.
Without sparing me a glance, the group strolled right past, laughing at murmured words I couldnae hear. Had I been vain, I’d have worried they made jest of my raggedness.
I was a bit disgruntled by their lack of friendliness, however. Stepping forward, I planted my feet fully on the path, hands fisted on my hips as I glared at their backs. The lad hesitated, casting a glance over his shoulder. He ignored the woman’s repeated urge for him to keep up, staring at me with puzzlement in his narrowed eyes. The woman gave him a sharp look, then glanced at me and past.
“Stop dallying, Alex. What on earth are you staring at?” With a hand to the lad’s shoulder, she captured his attention and they rejoined their companions.
Och! That was a fine welcome! For a moment I considered striking off on my own, but I remembered that no matter what I did or dinnae do, my time here was limited, and my time beyond that uncertain.
I shrugged and followed the tourists up the path to Raasay House, the home the MacLeod chief had built to replace the old tower castle ten years before
I was born. I remembered the pretty, three-storey building with its vegetable garden planted over the old castle site. I’d played there with my brothers and sisters whilst my ma cooked meals for the chief and his family. We’d been no poorer nor richer than the others on the island, but we likely ate better than most.
I glanced up, eagerly looking to the house as it nestled in a pleasant low spot, framed by trees and hills. Raasay House faced me, but it was a far cry from the building I remembered.
A large entry crouched beneath pinnacled gables and wings flowed seemingly unending to either side. The house I once knew was now an impressive manor, and I felt a swell of pride of the chief’s obvious affluence. But a chill of doubt crept over me as I realized the building which once faced north, now faced south. The nip of smoke from one of the many chimneys fueled my memory of the year after Culloden when many homes on the isle had been burned, often with their inhabitants inside. Had Raasay House suffered the same fate?
The six newcomers had almost reached the entrance to the house. I hurried up the trail, my boots—bound with strips of cloth to reinforce the worn soles—making no noise on the rocky path.
Sunlight glinted on large glass windows with rounded tops. It wasnae like Malcolm MacLeod to put all these windows in. ’Tis nae possible to defend the place with such luxuries, pretty though they were, and I remembered well the stories of the bitter feud between the MacLeods of Raasay and the MacLeods of Dunvegan, across the water on the isle of Skye. And, with the aftermath of Culloden in mind, the chief wouldnae have neglected protecting his own. Why, a bairn could toss a rock or two and scoot inside the broken window quick as an otter nipping under water.
A small door on the side of the rocked portal opened. “Welcome to Raasay House. We’ve been expecting ye.” A young woman waved the group closer. “Mind ye dinnae let the cold inside.”
They quickened their pace, jostling their bags from one hand to the other. One of the men took a stance in the doorway, holding it ajar for the others. I hurried, only a few paces behind the last as they filed inside. With respect for the solid portal, I jumped over the threshold as the man released it to swing shut in my face. I flinched against the anticipated crack of the wood against my elbow as I raised it to counter the closing door, wanting a moment alone with the lad for a chat about his rudeness. But the sting of injury never struck, and I watched, mouth agape, as the door passed seamlessly over me and closed behind.
It had happened enough times in the past two hundred and seventy years at the Culloden Visitors’ Centre that I shouldnae have been startled. But I’d anticipated a return to my earthly body in my quest to do my heroic deed. ’Twas not to be. I was clearly still a ghost.
CHAPTER TWO
I tossed my head, indignant. “’Tis a fine kettle of fish ye’ve dropped me into, Soncerae,” I fumed into the empty air. The wee witch hadnae implied my task would be easy, but I hadnae thought my presence would be met with such indifference, either.
“Ye perhaps expected open arms and a clear path to yer heroic deed?”
I faced the voice. The lights around me dimmed and the living, breathing souls in the house appeared frozen in time. Soni drifted effortlessly through the glass-paned window, robed in black, a green mist trailing her heels like a loyal pet. Her long hair floated behind her, sparkling with tiny snowflakes, the hood of her cape cast back over her shoulders.
I rubbed a hand through my own grimy, short-cropped mane. It was a gesture that recognized the sacrifice of my long curly locks the night I’d determined to follow my brothers. The same night I’d shed my gown and identity as Sorcha MacLeod who was banned from the adventure—as it had been described to me—and donned a borrowed jacket and breeches to become Hugh MacLeod, Jacobite patriot.
“Up to yer usual parlor tricks, I see,” I scowled at the young witch. She was considered the mascot of the congress of 79 ghosts who haunted the Culloden battlefield. The others doted on her and she was welcome to bask in their devotion. She dinnae need mine. “Ye promised a hale body,” I reminded her. “And to be seen by the mortal folk.”
“Yer ability to be seen or not willnae affect yer task. Those who need ye will know ye are there. Ye will receive the same boon as the others if ye complete yer task,” Soni replied serenely, not seeming to take offense at my brusqueness.
“Aye. A heroic deed for the ear of the prince,” I returned, waving my hand in the air, not ready to let her close enough to see my secrets. “I dinnae say I wasnae interested in yer plan. I marched with the Glengarry Regiment that day, and I have a few choice words I wish to whisper into the ear of the prince.”
“’Twas interesting for a MacLeod to follow Prince Charlie,” Soni mused.
“’Twas not about being Protestant or Catholic,” I retorted. “’Twas time to have a Stuart back on Scotland’s throne, not a German king.”
“The MacLeods of Skye supported the crown,” she noted, her voice curious.
Anger simmered, prickling my skin. “I suppose ye will tell me their loyalty was what protected the MacLeods of Raasay? I know better, witch. I know what happened here.”
“The Culloden Visitors’ Centre has taught ye much. Few of ye dared enter its doors, though I doubt there are any among ye who needed the reminders.” Soni shuddered, remembering, as I did, her first visit inside the museum. Ewan MacFie had followed her inside, and the vivid depictions had cut them both to the heart.
Soni tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. “Did ye know the prince was quite shocked by the atrocities that followed Culloden?”
“I’ve heard and read as much,” I allowed, having pored over the manuscripts printed on slender pieces of colored paper stacked on table tops as well as the detailed accounts for anyone to see at the museum. Notwithstanding Ewan’s horrific experience in the Visitors’ Centre, I found much there to enlighten me.
Soni clasped her hands before her and took on a scholarly air. “The prince is said to have defended the Duke of Cumberland, saying, ‘Surely that man who calls himself a Duke and pretends to be so great a general cannot be guilty of such cruelties. I cannot believe it.’”
“I cannae believe he defended the bastard.” I refused to call the duke by his title, knowing him too well as The Butcher for his acts of cruelty towards the Jacobites. “The man ordered all prisoners and wounded shot where they lay on the battlefield. Then he marched to Inverness, littering the trail with the bodies of Jacobite supporters, or any he and his soldiers suspected of being such. He showed no quarter, man, woman or bairn.”
Soni tilted her head. “Perhaps ye would prefer a few words with the Duke of Cumberland instead of Prince Charlie?” Her eyes were teasing, but I dinnae smile.
“I would prefer fisticuffs, but I’d have to descend into the deepest parts of hell to find him.”
She nodded. “Ye are passionate about what happened to yer kin. I am sorry yer brothers are listed as those fallen on the battlefield. No family should lose three children in one day.”
My heart constricted as though clenched in a brutal fist. “They told me I was too young to take up arms. They teased me about the hardships, but I dinnae listen. They were right. I was colder and hungrier than I’d ever been in my life the day I stared across Drumossie Moor, a pistol in my hand. I would have given anything to have been back home doing my chores.”
“Do ye wish to continue? Ye have only a day, mayhap two at most, to accomplish yer heroic deed.” Soni’s sympathetic expression pricked my pride.
I shot her a narrow look. “I am still leery of yer plan, though if wee Rabby trusted ye enough to accept yer offer, I’ll allow I can do the same.”
“Alexander Fraser was allowed to prove to the lad my intentions are sincere. Are ye in need of reassurance as well? I thought ye and I parted on amicable terms on the moor.”
“What happens when this is over?” I asked, my mouth suddenly dry.
“Ye must answer that for yerself,” Soni replied gently. “Ye havnae been gone from Drumossie Moor verra
long. Give yerself a few moments to adjust. For, even were ye to choose not to complete yer task, ye cannae return.”
I shuffled my feet on the smooth floor. “I dinnae know what lies before me, but I’ve had my fill of years haunting the moor, and I am ready to have a few words with our bonnie prince.” I gave her a confident look. “I will see this through. Though how I can accomplish much when no one can see me, I dinnae know.”
Soni’s image faded, the green mist spiraling toward the ceiling. “Young eyes can often see what older ones cannae. Look to the wee one, lass.”
Her voice faded away and she was gone before I realized she’d called me lass.
CHAPTER THREE
The room brightened and normal sounds of the house returned. No one appeared discomfited to have been set aside whilst Soni and I had our wee chat. But it took me a moment to shake off the unworldly feeling.
What had Soni said? Those who needed me would know I was there. I glanced at the group of people in front of me. Not one of them seemed to be aware of my existence. I shifted my gaze to the lad. The lad could see me. He peered at me again over his shoulder, a frown on his face.
“Pay attention, Alex. Cease your fidgeting and stop staring into space.” The woman gave his coat sleeve a straightening tug and turned her attention back to the woman from Raasay House. After a last glance in my direction, the lad followed her lead.
“The original building was a three-storey tower castle called Kilmaluag Castle—or Tor Ian Ghairbh—which stood on this very spot,” the tour guide was saying. “In 1720, the tower was pulled down and the first Raasay House built next to it.”
The first Raasay House? This dinnae bode well. I slipped closer, wanting to catch every word. The lad took one step to the side as though he thought to block me, but I edged to my left, dodging him neatly.