by Uceda, Mayte
“I’ll give him a call.”
“Yes, do that. He’d be happy to hear your voice, even though you haven’t been gone a week yet.”
“It seems like forever to me.”
“Are you not having a good time, sweetheart?”
“Yes, I am. It’s just that everything’s different here. And today is the first day we’ve seen the sun.”
“I’m sure you can handle it, honey. Do your best to appreciate everything.”
“Thank you, Daddy, I will. Give my love to everyone.”
“Take care, sweetheart.”
She and Berta sat in the garden, enjoying the elusive sun. Rebecca’s thoughts turned to the afternoon’s excursion. She wanted to go, but she was also uneasy about seeing Kenzie again and experiencing a rush of feelings that filled her with guilt. She hadn’t done anything, but she felt guilty just for thinking about him the way she was, and for the butterflies she had felt in her stomach when she danced with him and when his hand made contact with her knee.
She thought about Mario and his impeccable style: his designer clothing, his groomed hair, his elegant hands, his slightly arrogant way of treating everyone. Rebecca didn’t mind him being that way with her; it was his way of demonstrating his superiority. Her mother treated her the same way. What irritated her was how he sometimes treated her brother as if he were stupid, just because Enric didn’t have as much experience at the firm.
She compared her fiancé to Kenzie. Good heavens! They were as alike as the sun and the moon—though she couldn’t say which was which. They were so different they were like separate species.
“Earth calling Rebecca.”
“What?”
“Were you on Mars or what, girl?”
“I was just thinking.”
“Well, stop thinking so much, and let’s get ready. They’ll be here for us soon.”
At the appointed hour, they heard the sound of a car stopping in front of the house. Rebecca jumped up. “They’re here.”
Sophie had gotten out of her brother’s truck and stood beside it, waiting for them. She was wearing her long tartan skirt with her white blouse and vest. She’d put her hair into two braids that would have made her look like a little girl if she weren’t so tall.
Berta climbed in the backseat and Sophie followed her, winking at Rebecca when she tried to get in the back too. Rebecca acquiesced and sat up front.
Kenzie was wearing his traditional Highland outfit too, although the black tank top and all the tattoos weren’t really in keeping with the traditional garb, Rebecca thought. He mumbled an almost imperceptible hello. Rebecca had to remind herself not to stare at his tattoos.
They turned onto High Street and headed north out of town on the A862. It was the same highway they’d taken into Beauly the week before.
Sophie and her new friend chatted away in the backseat. Berta entertained Sophie with her broken English, and Sophie spoke slowly and repeated things so Berta could understand. In contrast, Kenzie was silent; he seemed to be concentrating on the road although there was hardly any traffic.
“I don’t think I could ever get used to driving on the left,” Rebecca said to break the ice.
Kenzie looked over at her. “Do you have a driver’s license?”
“Yes,” Rebecca replied.
“Do you want to try?” he said, a mischievous smile on his face.
Her hand flew to her chest. “Oh, no. I couldn’t.”
Kenzie turned on the blinker and slowed down. Rebecca froze. He pulled off to the side of the road, got out, and went around to her side. “Give it a try,” he said.
Sophie and Berta weren’t sure what was going on and paused their conversation to see what was up.
“This isn’t a good idea,” Rebecca said.
“What’s not a good idea?” Sophie asked.
“It’s easy,” Kenzie said. “Come on, I’ll be right here.”
“This,” said Rebecca, with a sweep of her arm indicating the pickup truck, “is really big, and the highway is really narrow.”
“I won’t let you crash. I promise.”
Rebecca gave in reluctantly and went around and got behind the wheel. The seat was still warm from Kenzie’s body heat.
“It works like any other car,” he said. “You can drive a stick, can’t you?”
Rebecca nodded.
“Piece of cake,” Berta said. “You’re a good driver.”
“Are there any roundabouts coming up?” Rebecca asked.
“Not anytime soon.”
“OK.” She released the hand brake, put it in first gear, and got back on the road.
No one spoke for a minute.
“You’re doing great,” Kenzie said.
“Yeah, not bad,” laughed Sophie, “for only going 100 yards and not shifting past third.”
“Go ahead and speed up a bit,” Kenzie suggested.
“Isn’t it OK like this?”
“I don’t have a problem with it, but I think the car on your tail does.”
She saw the car in her rearview mirror, and it made her more nervous.
“Don’t worry; he’ll pass you as soon as you get to that curve.”
As the car passed, the driver gave Rebecca an irritated look and hit the gas.
“Slow down or change gear,” Kenzie advised. “Can you hear how you’re revving the engine?”
Rebecca shifted into fourth gear, and the motor settled in.
“Oh, God! There’s a truck coming.”
“Calm down. There’s more than enough room for both vehicles.”
She held tightly to the wheel and tried to stay as far to her side as she could. When the truck reached them, Rebecca closed her eyes for a second and hugged the shoulder so closely that she almost drove off the road. Kenzie said something incomprehensible and quickly reached out his right arm to take the wheel. Rebecca slowed down and parked the truck on the shoulder.
“Did you close your eyes?” Kenzie half-closed his own, intensifying his stare.
“No . . .” mumbled Rebecca.
“Yes, you did. You closed your eyes,” he insisted.
“I told you it wasn’t a good idea.”
“Yes, so I see.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry . . .”
“Hey, don’t scold her,” his sister said. “It’s your fault for making her.”
Kenzie got out and went around to the driver’s seat. Rebecca had already slid back over to the passenger side by the time he got there.
For the rest of the drive, Sophie tried to include Rebecca in her conversation with Berta, since her brother had shut his mouth and wouldn’t open it again.
They took the A9 motorway to the exit for Culloden Road, which skirted the town of the same name and would take them to the battlefield that was to be the site of the concert. They moved deeper into the countryside. Houses grew sparser until they disappeared completely. Then it was only fields and moors on the horizon.
A brown-and-white sign told them they had arrived. “Àrach Blàr Chùil Lodair,” it read, and under that, “Culloden Battlefield.” Two large Scottish flags on tall poles flanked the entrance.
WAR DRUMS
Kenzie parked in a lot full of cars and a couple of buses. They headed to the visitor center so Berta and Rebecca could get their tickets and look around the center. The girl at the front desk welcomed them with a big smile, although the smile seemed to be directed exclusively at the masculine member of the group. Through a thick layer of makeup, they could see a pretty girl, blond with blue eyes.
Kenzie returned the greeting. “How are you, Sarah?”
“Waiting for you to call me back,” she teased.
He grinned.
The blonde took note of his two new companions. “I wish I could get out of here and see you all play
, but there’s a lot going on today.”
“Another time, maybe,” he replied.
“I’ll have to be content with listening to you from here.”
Sophie and Kenzie immediately drew attention from the site’s visitors, with some asking if they could take their picture. Knowing they were a curiosity for the tourists, the siblings were happy to oblige.
Before the rest of the band arrived from Inverness, the girls had time to explore the visitor center. They read panels explaining what triggered the battle, the various sides that rose up, and how the troops were dispersed. They wandered around the exhibits at random, and Kenzie had to disentangle the jumble of information that formed in their heads about the defenders of the House of Stuart, the House of Hanover, Bonnie Prince Charlie, and the band of Highland clans that supported the Jacobites.
“Bonnie Prince Charlie,” Kenzie explained, “was the nickname of Prince Charles Edward Stuart, son of James the Third, legitimate heir to the British throne. The majority of his supporters, the Jacobites, were Scots from the Highland clans, and their goal was to restore a Catholic king from the House of Stuart to the throne. The opposition was the royal army under the command of the Duke of Cumberland, a son of George II and a member of the House of Hanover. Here, on the field of Culloden, was the final battle of the Jacobite uprisings.”
Kenzie approached a large interactive model that showed the positions of both sides. “The Jacobites arrived at Culloden three days before the battle. They’d had a long march with the clan chiefs and were tired and hungry for lack of provisions. They spent several nights exposed to the elements, sleeping on the cold, wet April ground. The majority carried rudimentary arms: swords, axes, shields . . .”
An elderly couple stopped to listen to his account. So adept was Kenzie with his explanations that people mistook him for an official guide. His voice was soothing, yet charged with emotion. Rebecca listened to the smooth, deep tone of his voice, marked by the cadence of that region of Scotland. He spoke softly, directing his remarks to his guests, but little by little he was surrounded by a growing number of tourists.
“The morning of the battle,” he continued, “the Jacobites were exhausted. Moreover, they weren’t a well-trained army. Each man followed the orders of his clan chief, and it was difficult to coordinate everyone. On the other side, the British army was made up of professional soldiers recently returned from wars on the continent. They were well equipped and had all the provisions they needed. The night before, they’d even been honored with a special banquet to celebrate the duke’s birthday.”
On the model of the battlefield, Kenzie indicated the positions of the clans, Charles Stuart, and the Duke of Cumberland and his troops.
“The morning of April 16, 1746, was cold and rainy. The British army broke camp at dawn. They were well fed and well rested. They formed orderly rows when they reached Culloden, seven to eight thousand of them. The Jacobites numbered just over five thousand.
“The armies faced each other, separated by three hundred yards of muddy moor, which would soon prove to be a major problem for the Highlanders’ charge, at which they were known experts. With the wind against them and in a pounding rain mixed with hail, the Jacobites’ chance of a victory looked improbable.”
Kenzie paused to take a breath; he seemed to be at ease with the expectations his speech was building.
“First came the artillery attack, twenty interminable minutes under cannon fire. The majority of the Jacobite casualties came in these first minutes. The wind sent waves of artillery smoke over them, blinding and disorienting them. In the middle of this confusion came a volley of lead. The Jacobite artillery was down to only two cannons. They had no choice but to charge, even though many would be shot down before they engaged the enemy.”
The cluster of people who had stopped to listen to Kenzie’s narration held their collective breath, waiting to hear the outcome. They were aware that a battle had been fought here, but they didn’t know the details of the conflict. The words of the Scot transported his listeners back in place and time.
“What happened?” someone said.
Kenzie pointed again to the model. “With piercing screams, the Highlanders charged the British army at full speed, wielding their swords and axes above their heads. The Scottish charge intimidated the British troops, and a group of Scots managed to cross the front line in the initial confusion. They numbered around six hundred men. But soon they were caught between the front line of red soldiers”—he pointed to the model—“and the second line. Within minutes they were practically annihilated, and in less than an hour the battle was over. Those who didn’t die from cannon fire and shrapnel were taken down by muskets. More than twelve hundred Jacobites died, many others lay injured, and more than three hundred were taken prisoner. One English witness later wrote: ‘The moor was covered in blood and following the slaughter, our blood-spattered men stood in pools of blood, looking more like butchers than Christian soldiers.’ ”
A disconcerted murmur spread through the crowd. Rebecca couldn’t take her eyes off Kenzie, and Berta was concentrating hard, trying not to miss anything.
“The injured were finished off with bayonets, and those who deserted were chased down by the royal cavalry, who killed everyone in their path, including civilians. Many of the prisoners were shot; others were hanged from the wooden rafters of the Old High Church in Inverness, then drawn and quartered. It was the last pitched battle on British soil, and it was also the end of a way of life: the clan system. With the Act of Proscription, the use of the tartan, the kilt, the bagpipes, and our language was prohibited. The cruelty of Cumberland—known after that battle as The Butcher—and his troops was so horrific that no army ever has claimed the victory at Culloden.”
With that, Kenzie concluded his history lesson. The people slowly dispersed, murmuring among themselves, reflecting on the horrors of war. Berta and Rebecca were a little shaken by what they’d just heard. Undoubtedly, it was an important part of Scotland’s history and key to understanding the sentiments of its people.
“You’re a very effective narrator,” said Berta.
“It was horrible,” Rebecca said, still looking upset, as if she hadn’t yet left the bloody moor.
“I can take negative feedback,” Kenzie quipped.
“No, I didn’t mean you, I meant . . .”
“I know,” he said and smiled.
Rebecca had been about to say something further, but she caught the joke and returned a small smile.
“Shall we head out now?” Sophie hurried them along. “It’s a beautiful day, and I want to enjoy the sunshine and fresh air.”
They went outside, and the setting of the bloody battle unfolded at their feet. They, and no doubt others who had been listening, felt different than when they’d arrived a half hour before. Kenzie’s words resounded in their heads. They walked in silence toward the center of the field. This barren place, flat and exposed; a heavy rain and a strong wind; the outnumbered Scots, exhausted and hungry. . . So much blood had been spilled here, it was as if they were walking on an enormous burial ground.
“This is Memorial Cairn,” Kenzie told them when they stopped in front of a large stone monument. “It was erected in 1881 in memory of the dead.”
They read the inscription: “The Battle of Culloden was fought on this moor 16th April 1746. The graves of the Highlanders who fought for Scotland and Prince Charlie are marked by the names of their clans.”
The graves, scattered over the moor, each consisted of a simple stone pounded into the ground and worn down over time. As the visitors got closer, some of the clan names engraved on them became clear. Clan Ferguson, Clan MacDonald, Clan Stewart, Clan Fraser, Clan MacKenzie, Clan MacLaren . . . They even saw a grave marked Mixed Clans.
Kenzie also showed them where the fallen soldiers of the British army at Culloden, just over fifty of them, were buried.
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“It must have been a nightmare,” said Rebecca, who was imagining the elevated places on the moor, now covered with a green mantle, full of human remains. “Do the graves correspond with the exact place they were buried?”
“No one knows for certain,” Kenzie said. “But it’s likely, since the people from the area buried them. It’s possible they identified the bodies by their clan markings.”
Rebecca realized they were alone; Berta and Sophie had lagged behind.
“Did the clan MacLeod participate in the battle?”
Kenzie stopped and looked at her, intrigued. “Why are you so interested in all this? It’s all very far removed from your life in Spain.”
“I don’t think it’s a question of countries,” she replied. “It’s a question of humanity. It doesn’t matter where you’re from; those who died here were people like us. They were afraid and they had families who were waiting for them, yet they fought to the death for a cause.”
“It’s possible most of them didn’t have any choice but to follow their clan chiefs, whom they’d sworn to serve,” Kenzie said. “To be under a chief’s protection had its obligations.”
A couple of young girls approached them. Giggling, one of them asked Kenzie, “Can we take a picture with you?”
“Sure,” he said.
Rebecca was pressed into service to take the photo. Kenzie put an arm around each girl’s shoulders and smiled.
“Thank you,” they said in unison and left, whispering between giggles and looking back at the Scotsman in his kilt.
“Do you ever feel like you’re wearing a costume?” Rebecca asked.
“No, not really,” he said and smiled. The sunlight brought out the blue in his eyes and deep copper highlights in his hair. “Only when this sort of thing happens.”
Rebecca tried not to stare at him openly, but she couldn’t help glancing at him while he spoke—a completely acceptable social practice, she assured herself.
