Highland Soldiers: The Enemy

by J. L. Jarvis

  “Will you swear allegiance to the king and acknowledge him as head of the church?”

  Ellen steeled herself with steadfast grace and was silent.

  “Say it, Ellen,” said Jamie in a low voice. “They’re only words.”

  Tears shone in her eyes as she looked at him. “Jamie, I cannae.”

  The dragoon twisted her arms further back with his iron grip, and spoke in her ear. “Swear allegiance.”

  The leader studied her for a moment and then said, “Never mind. She can swear by her actions.” He dismounted and pulled out his flint and steel. “There’s a chill in the air. Start a fire for us, lassie.”

  He thrust the flint and steel at her. Reflexively, she took them with trembling hands. He gestured toward the bible, which lay on the ground, the wind whipping its pages. Her captor released her with a shove to the ground. “Light it.”

  Ellen’s back stiffened.

  The leader echoed the command. “Light a fire for us, lassie.”

  When Ellen did not respond, the leader grabbed her chin in his rough hands and pulled her up to face him.

  “No,” Ellen whispered.

  Jamie watched with horror.

  Marion saw a chance. All were focused on Ellen. Marion bent over and lifted a large rock with both hands. She was close enough to strike the man holding Ellen.

  “Set it down.” The leader clamped his arm about Marion’s waist. She let the rock drop on his foot. He cried out a curse. She pounded her fist back to his groin and took off in a run. In a few strides, he caught up and lunged for her, knocking her down to the ground. She tried to scramble away, but he climbed over her and took hold of her hair. She reached behind her neck and grasped his wrist. She tried to roll over. She fought with her nails and teeth to be free, but he pinned her face down to the ground with his body.

  Marion lay beneath him, unable to see. Ellen screamed, and Jamie let out a deep wail. “Do what you will to me, but leave her alone,” pleaded Marion.

  He replied with a backhanded slap that struck her ear with a painful ringing. She lay still, trying to work through her pain to think what to do next. A rough hand took hold of the folds of her skirts and pulled up. Jamie called out Ellen’s name. A shot sounded.

  The man on top of Marion shifted his position as he lifted his head to see where the shot came from. Sounds of a struggle subsided, followed by rhythmic grunting that made Marion’s stomach convulse. A single sob came from Ellen, and then another shot fired.

  “Your turn, minx,” said the dragoon as he flipped her onto her back like a rag doll in his brutish hands. As he did so, Marion felt the hard shape of his dirk. As she put her arms about him, she slid his dirk from his belt and completed the embrace with the dirk in her hand. He moaned with pleasure and reached up with one hand to paw at her breast while his hand clutched its way up her thigh. Bile heaved to her throat.

  Feeling her spasm, he said, “You like that, do ye?”

  He let out a grunt as she thrust the dirk into his back. When he cursed, she pulled at it to strike him again, but it stuck. He reached back for her hand as she freed the dirk. With a thrust, she sank it into his side. He wrapped his hands around her neck. As he tightened his grip, she gasped and choked. His mouth opened. Sounds came from his throat, the beginnings of words never finished. His grip loosened and he fell upon her, limp and unconscious. She pried his hands from her neck, panting for air.

  Hearing his grunts through the darkness, one of the others laughed. “Kilgour, need some help over there?”

  Marion pushed and squirmed until she was free, then she slipped silently out of earshot and ran into the night.

  Moments later, she heard hoof beats behind her. She rolled down a peat hill. There was a cave not far away. Behind, a voice cursed the soft peat that was slowing the horses. At the foot of a brae was a burn. Once there, she would know her way. She and Jamie had played here as children. As soon as she heard the water trip over the rocks, she knew she did not have far to go. Following the sound to the water’s edge, she soon gained an advantage by being on foot. She deftly maneuvered along the bank, over boulders and around gnarled trees. Not far ahead was a small cave. Just as the horsemen were nearly upon her, Marion slipped inside its moss-covered entrance, edging her way to the back of the cave. Cowering against the cave’s wall, she forced herself to take slow quiet breaths as she listened to the men, now on foot, leading their horses outside the cave.

  *

  Just after dawn, Marion stepped inside the farmhouse. Margaret rushed to her. “Marion! Where is Jamie?”

  “Mum.” She had been strong through the night, but no more. With the helpless face of a child, she said, “Jamie’s dead.”

  When the story was told, her mother sat in her rocker and stared at the fire, while tears pooled in her father’s eyes as he sat at the table and stared at his hands. It was a good while that passed before anyone spoke of what had to be done.

  “I must tell Ellen’s family,” she said.

  “Aye. Bring her father and some men to help bring the twa souls home to be buried.”

  “Father, you ken we cannot. The English Royalists will not let Covenanters bury their dead.”

  A deep sob came from Margaret as she wept her first tears.

  Archie said, “Och! I will not leave a child of mine on the moors for the crows,” he stopped, unable to compose himself.

  “No, Father.” She rushed to put take hold of his hands to console him. “We must wait for the gloaming. Then we’ll go find him. ‘Tis no but a few miles from here.” Her eyes teared.

  “We used to play hide and seek there. Och, how we’d go crawling and climbing. I hid last night in a wee cave Jamie found years ago. It saved my life.”

  A long silenced passed.

  Archie tamped down his emotions. “Tonight, then.”

  Chapter 3

  May 4, 1679, Two Weeks Later

  Five Highland dragoons in gray waistcoats and plaids rode southwest from Glasgow atop pale gray horses. The officer in charge sat tall with broad shoulders and a comfortable confidence. From his blue bonnet, dark hair was pulled into a tie at the nape of his neck. Looking straight ahead, he spoke to his men, who flanked him two on each side. Keeping pace with the ensign’s brisk canter, they rode with abandon, invigorated by the bracing wind that swept over the moorland. Rounding the top of a gently sloped hill, they came upon the ashen remains of a Beltane fire from a few days before. Charlie flashed a broad smile. It was, by far, his most dangerous weapon. He cocked his sand colored head as though deep in thought, but a mischievous grin lurked just beneath the surface. “Alex?”

  “No,” Alex summarily answered, for he knew what was coming. Alex was older by a year, with the mighty build and bearing of a formidable warrior, which made him an unlikely subject to tease. But everyone has a moment of weakness at some point in his life. For Alex, there had been only one—one which Charlie remembered in brilliant detail.

  “Hughie, you remember, do you not?”

  “No, I saw nothing,” said Hughie, holding up a flexed palm to distance himself.

  “Och, aye, now I recall, Alex.” Charlie took his time, grinning broadly. “Remember, Alex, when you drew the oatcake marked with coal?”

  Even Duncan, the quietest of the group, had to suppress a snicker.

  Charlie went on, “Three times. You only had to jump over the flames three times. But you just about did a damned sword dance over the flames.” He smiled with unbridled pleasure. “‘Twas a braw dance, that was, laddie.”

  Alex lunged forward to urge his horse over toward Charlie, but Duncan grabbed the bridle of Alex’s horse and stopped him.

  “Aye, it was,” Charlie said, relishing the moment. “And when your plaid caught fire, it burned brighter than the bonfire. Or maybe it was just the reflection from you bare arse when you pulled the burning plaid off!” By this time, not one of them could keep from laughing.

  Alex said dryly, “Aye, laugh all you want, Charlie. But if
you had some bollocks of your own, you’d do the same to protect them.”

  Unscathed, Charlie grinned.

  They rode along quietly for a moment or two, until Callum, their leader, said, “Do you not want to ken where we’re going?”

  Duncan said, “South.”

  Callum glanced at him sideways and proceeded as though the answer were yes. “Archbishop Sharp was murdered yesterday on his way to St. Andrews. He was in a carriage with his eldest daughter when a band of Covenanters shot him, then dragged from his carriage and—in front of his daughter—stabbed him sixteen times until he was dead.”

  Hughie said, “In front of his daughter?”

  “And they call Highlanders barbaric,” said Duncan.

  Charlie cocked an eyebrow. “Daughter? What does she look like?”

  Alex pulled off his bonnet and swatted Charlie with it.

  “They were led by Hackston of Rathillet and Balfour of Kinloch. The others were poor men—probably weavers. At least one of them is from Ayrshire, so we’ve been sent here to find him and anyone with him.”

  “He’s in Ireland by now, I’ll wager,” said Duncan.

  “Aye, I’ll wager you’re right,” Callum said.

  “But Callum—I mean, Ensign MacDonell—” said Duncan, with a hint of sarcasm.

  Callum cast a wry look sideways. They’d all been boyhood friends, but he outranked them now. While his friends did not mind, it made Callum a bit uncomfortable. Knowing this, they took turns raising the point now and then for their own entertainment.

  Hughie grinned as he watched Duncan, whose only sign of amusement was a slight curve at the corner of his mouth. A gentle breeze brushed blonde strands back from Hughie’s brow, exposing the fresh face and bright eyes of one who still found excitement in battles. At seventeen, Hughie was sure he had lingered too long at home, and was excited to be on this adventure. “Callum, what are we to do here if the weavers we seek are in Ireland?”

  “Our orders are to quash any Covenanter activity that we find.”

  “And I’m sure there’s a brilliant plan to accomplish that,” Duncan said dryly. He was a practical man, which some mistook for pessimism. But in matters of battle he was most often right.

  “Aye,” Alex laughed as he brandished his sword. It caught the light as he sliced the air deftly toward imagined Covenanters. “We’ll accomplish the task with the well-applied tip of my sword here, here, and… here—Sorry, ma’am. I was aiming for your daughter. You, uh, might want to tuck those back into place.”

  When the snickering subsided, Callum explained, “The curates have a list of everyone in the parish. We’re to investigate those who fail to attend Sunday services.”

  Duncan lifted dark, knowing eyes to meet Callum’s. “Investigate. In English, does that mean to beat or hang them?” he said dryly.

  “We will not harm anyone without good reason. We’re not like that, and you ken it,” said Callum sternly.

  “We may not have a choice,” Duncan said.

  With a spark in his eye, Charlie said, “Aye, we do. We’ll just ask them politely to trot their wee arses into the English kirk. I’m sure that will work nicely.”

  “I say we use the same manners they used on our parents when they were wee children. Thousands marched into our homes with their civilized manners and burned our chapels and families. But we are the barbarians,” said Duncan.

  Hughie said, “Now we’re marching onto their land and forcing them to go to a different church. How is our cause any better?”

  “You ask too many questions,” said Charlie.

  “No,” said Callum, “It’s a fair question. The difference between the Presbyterians and us is that we fight for our clan. If our clan takes on the king’s cause, then that cause is ours. We honor our clan, for without our clan and our honor, we are nothing. It’s simple and true.”

  Alex said, “We can keep our minds simple enough—some of us more easily than others,” he said with a sideways glance toward Charlie, “but dinnae expect welcoming hugs when we get there.”

  With a sharp look, Callum said, “That’s why we will not let down our guard, ken?”

  The men all gave a nod.

  Callum went on, “I ken you’ve all heard of what goes on—robbing, reiving, and the like. That will not happen with us, or you’ll answer to me. And that goes for the women. Treat them like our own.”

  “That’s been my plan all along, to treat them like me ain!” said Charlie. He hastened to hold his arms up in defense toward Callum. “I was joking!”

  Callum laughed. “I meant, you sorry swine, to treat them like we would treat our own women—such as our mothers and sisters, Charlie.”

  *

  They made camp on a hill overlooking the farms of Dunross. While they worked, Callum said, “We’ll bide here for a while.”

  “And do what?” Alex asked.

  “Watch and wait.”

  Alex, looking unusually serious, said, “Can you not tell us more about the man we are looking for—perhaps what he looks like?”

  “Aye.” Callum looked at him frankly. “We got a detailed description from the Archbishop’s daughter and servants: average height, average build—wearing bonnets or hats.” Callum rolled his eyes.

  “Well that narrows it down to half the stinkin’ men in Scotland,” said Charlie.

  “Aye, but I do have a name,” Callum added.

  “A name? Well, you might have mentioned that sooner,” said Alex.

  “James McEwan,” Callum said with a sly glint in his eye.

  “See that farm down there? That’s where he lives, and that’s where we will quarter ourselves when the time’s right.”

  *

  Archie Ferguson was a tacksman, with one of the larger farms in the area. Because of this, his farm was often used to host Covenanter meetings. But today it was quiet, except for the usual workings of the farm. People were once again going about their everyday work, but now Jamie and Ellen were gone. Four weeks had passed, and the weeping was over—except for occasional moments when, in an instant, tears would well up unexpectedly. But the grief was still fresh.

  Janet Ferguson greeted Marion and her mother and accepted the basket of shortbread Margaret offered. They sat outside weaving straw baskets and talking, sometimes as though nothing had happened. It bothered Marion to feel this way, but it was the way to go on, she supposed, else her grieving mind would unravel. And there was something comforting about hearing the two older women talking about other things—normal things—that concerned other people in the kirk.

  “They’ll be crying the banns for Thomas Blackwell and Agnes Bell.”

  “No! Agnes?”

  “Aye.”

  “With Thomas—the minister’s son?”

  “Well! I dinnae ken they were even courting.”

  The two women were so engrossed in the news that they barely noticed Marion get up and leave. She made it past the corner before she vomited. Wiping her mouth, she leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, catching her breath, her palm on her abdomen. As she salvaged her composure, she sensed something and glanced up to discover the dairymaid, healer and midwife, Grizzal MacRorie, standing not far away, staring at her.

  Since childhood, Grizzal had frightened Marion, with her brusque and often hurtful ways. “Some people just dinnae like children,” her mother had told her. But Marion thought this woman simply did not like people, for as Marion grew up, Grizzal continued to express her annoyance whenever it suited her and regardless of its effect. But today it was Marion who had little patience. She met Grizzal’s eyes squarely and said, “Have you no work to do?”

  The woman stared straight back at her and, with a knowing look, said, “Aye.” But she made no move to leave.

  “Then why dinnae you go do it?”

  “Och, I was just thinkin’ o’ sumpin’ me mither used to say.”

  Not wishing to seem rude, but in no mood to hear more, Marion gave a polite nod and walked b
ack toward the house.

  Behind her, still within earshot, she heard Grizzal say, “What’s done in the corner will come to the hearth.”

  Marion needed no help feeling queasy, but she willed herself to get past the door, around the corner, and far enough past the buildings and workers to somewhere private where she would not be further observed. Her head spun for a moment. She clung to a tree. No, I will not boak here.

  She walked past the byre through the field densely dotted with yellow buttercups in bloom at her feet. She came to an oak, where she leaned on the far side of it, wiping her tears. Then on she walked into the shade of the woods, where no one would hear her weep. Tears freely flowed as she found herself by the cool water. She pulled the fillet from her hair and dipped it into the water, then pressed it to her red eyelids and cheeks as she continued along the worn path. The path was well traveled, but not at this time of the day, when the farmhands were working. No one would trouble her now. She followed the path to a high cliff from which water poured as if from a spout between two steep walls of rock. Marion stopped to be sick again, then finished her climb to the top of the falls, where she stood and watched water pound the rocks far below.

  She leaned against a large tree and cried out, knowing that the roar of the waterfall would drown out the sound. No, it could not be, and yet she had wondered, but tamped down the thought and the fear that now roiled inside her. It could not be true, but when Grizzal as much as said it, she knew that it must be. She was with child—an unmarried sinner. Before long, it would show and bring shame on her parents, who had endured so much heartache already. The kirk folk would judge her, and her parents as well. She wept until she could cry no more. She gazed at the water approaching the falls, and a strange calm came over her. The water was smooth, almost as if it were still, and it soothed her. She stepped closer to watch it. The power of it mesmerized her. Closer yet she stepped, wondering at the way the clear water seemed to slow just before it sprayed over the ledge in a seemingly solid white mass. Her handkerchief slipped loose from her hand. Caught by the breeze, it billowed and seemed for an instant suspended in air before resting on the surface until the water swallowed it.