by Cathy MacRae
“She was upset,” Alasdair reminded me. He surged out of his chair and strode into the house, his faint shadow falling onto the balcony from his new seat just inside the door.
Alex buried his face in his hands. I patted his shoulder. “Dinnae fash, Alex. It cannae be as bad as that.”
“They’re getting a divorce.” His voice filtered through his fingers.
“A what?” Such a thing was little spoken of in my time. Mayhap people did things differently now.
Alex straightened, wiping his sleeve across his face with a sigh. “I know it’s true because she’s been so weepy lately, and Dad hasn’t been home hardly at all. My friend Tom at school said that’s how it started with his parents.”
“And the Englishman?”
“He’s here to help with some papers. I think they call him a solicitor or something. My dad is from England—though we’ve lived in the States since I was born. I think Mr. Smythe’s in charge of moving and the divorce and stuff.”
I bit my lip, thinking hard. I could easily sympathize with the lad. Though I’d lost my da when I was but eight summers, he’d died in a storm off the coast, not in a deliberate separation. There was bitterness in the house for quite some time afterward as ma had argued with him against going out that day. He’d left her with four children to care for and several years passed before she’d remarried and borne my youngest brother and sister.
’Twas clear Alex felt his family being torn apart with as much finality as death. To try to live with parents so far apart would be a difficult task. I could see no way for me to keep his ma and da together given the short time I had left, but mayhap I could ease Alex’s worst fears. The healing would have to come from his parents.
“Have ye told them how ye feel?” From what his parents had said earlier, I knew he hadn’t, and wondered why.
He picked at his trousers leg. “No. I don’t want to hear them say it’s over between them. I don’t want to have to pick sides.”
“Is it any less real when ye dinnae hear the words?”
“No,” he sighed. “But I don’t know how to start.”
“I’d think if ye’d stay put for more than a moment, they’ll talk to ye. From what I saw and heard after ye darted from the room, I think they are ready to discuss things.”
Alex wrinkled his nose. “I don’t want to be like my friend, Tom. He says his dad doesn’t have time for him anymore. He only sees him twice a month for a weekend.” A muscle in his jaw twitched and I suspected he battled back tears.
“Ye are a braw lad who will find a way to keep ye and yer da close. This cannae be easy for them, either.”
“Yeah.” He kicked the leg of the chair opposite him. “Why can’t they just work things out?”
I placed my palm on his knee. “Lad, ’tis not always easy to know the ‘why’ of someone else’s life. Go talk to them, Alex,” I urged. “Not knowing is eating ye alive.”
Alex nodded. “Yeah, kinda like having to take a medicine everyone says is really vile. You don’t really know until you taste it, right?”
“And the taking of it might make ye better, aye?” I countered, relieved to see the rigid line of his shoulders relax.
“Maybe,” he admitted, though his eyes remained worried. He shuffled to his feet and sighed. “I think I’ll go back to the room.” He glanced up at me. “No one else knows about you, right?”
“I cannae say about Alasdair, but I havenae seen anyone else take notice of me.”
Alex lifted a hand in a hesitant wave, then re-entered the house through the balcony doors. I watched him step inside, then waited for Alasdair to return, hands fisted on my hips. He gave the lad a wide berth as they passed in the doorway, but Alex dinnae seem to notice.
“What is yer problem with the lad?” I asked, my voice a bit sharper than intended.
Alasdair gave me a startled look. “What do ye mean?”
“Och, dinnae look all innocent. Ye dinnae wish to help him, and ye told him a horrible tale about the kelpie that haunts the loch, frightening him. He’s only a lad. Ye dinnae have to be so cruel.”
“When I woke here, almost three hundred years ago, smelling of smoke and no longer with the living, I swore revenge on all the English.”
I calmed. As much as Alex needed to talk to his parents, Alasdair needed to get something off his chest, too. “Can ye tell me of it?”
Even in the dim light I saw his skin flush and his hand crept up to rub the back of his neck in a gesture that was becoming familiar to me. I took his hand, the warmth of it surprising. With a look of wonder, Alasdair stared at me, his dark brown eyes warm, assessing. He cradled my hand in his, fueling a desire in me to have him wrap his arms about me much as his fingers now embraced my hand.
“It doesnae matter about me. Tell me of the war,” he suggested, his voice gruff. He cleared his throat.
Recognizing a procrastination when I heard one, I gave him a narrow look. “Why would ye ask about that?”
He shrugged. “I dinnae leave home and family to follow the prince, and I would like to hear why a lass such as yerself did.”
“Did ye not support him?” I asked, a bit archly.
“Would that bother ye?”
I considered his question. “Nae. It may have once, but it has been too long. I no longer harbor the dreams and prejudices I once did.”
“Tell me about it,” he encouraged. We seated ourselves in the cushioned chairs, fingers still entwined. The sensation was a novel one for me, tingling and soothing at the same time. I’d been scarcely old enough to be courted when I left home, and few lads were brave enough to think of courting a lass who could handle a bow and arrow or a knife better than they could. I left my hand in Alasdair’s grip, reluctant to end our contact.
“My brothers made it sound so grand. Grand and… .” I waved my free hand about in a vague gesture, unable to put my thoughts into words. “’Twas something larger than my life here, middle child—and a lass at that—passed over unless there was some chore to do or some devilry my brothers needed a scapegoat for.”
“Your brothers picked on ye?” he asked, his voice half-teasing, half-protective.
My laughed, remembering the pair of them fondly. “Och, aye, they did. My two younger sisters likely became perfect wives, always helping around the house and with my wee baby brother. I dinnae care about such things. I wanted to shoot a bow and arrow, throw a knife, run and climb trees better than my brothers. And they let me follow them about as long as I dinnae tell Ma about their adventures.”
Alasdair’s teeth flashed white in the faint light and I continued. “When they left to fight with the prince, I cropped my hair and stole a set of breeches and jacket. I pocketed my knife and half a loaf of bread from the evening meal, and set out, determined to join them on the battlefield.”
“They did nothing to stop ye?” Alasdair’s brow furrowed.
“They dinnae know I followed them. They’d taught me to track, so ’twas no problem following them. And while it took much longer than I’d suspected, I was too stubborn to quit. They met up with others headed to Inverness to join the Jacobite cause, and I stole into camp late one night, exhausted and hungry. A man I befriended told me I reminded him of the son he’d in an earlier battle and gave me some of his food and a pistol he’d taken from a government soldier.”
Memories surfaced. My chest tightened, breath harsh, and I steeled myself against the onslaught of emotion. Though I’d denied it, too little had changed since that fateful day. I dinnae care that Alasdair hadnae fought for the prince. I cared deeply, however, that so many lost their lives at Culloden that day and in the weeks following.
“Lord George Murray placed us on the left flank. The men were affronted, angry to lose their traditional pace on the king’s right, a spot given to the MacDonalds by Robert the Bruce, himself, four hundred and fifty years before. I’d taken a position with the Glengarry Regiment, men under the Duke of Perth’s command. Lord Murray’s order put the Duke i
n a difficult position, struggling to contain the disgruntled soldiers who buzzed like a hive of angry bees in danger of erupting at any time.”
I closed my eyes, envisioning the moor as the sun dispatched the icy morning mists. We’d stood in our ranks, sinking deeper and deeper into the frigid, swampy ground, awaiting the command from the prince. Sunlight winked on the Hanoverian bayonets and canons as I checked my pistol and sword with a shaking hand. War was not what I’d expected.
“We waited for word to attack. Through sleet and wind, mixed with periods of sunshine, we watched the government army form up across the moor. They fired at us and I saw men fall around us. The men grumbled as no word came to move. When the command finally came, I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my coat and took a step forward, my legs shaking so badly I could hardly to walk.”
My legs trembled in response to the memory. The smell of smoke and blood mingled with the cloying odor of the churned boggy ground rose up to choke me.
Alasdair tugged at my hand, moving me from the cold chair to the warmth of his lap. With his arms wrapped around me protectively, I breathed deeply, instantly losing the fear of the memory.
“Easy, Sorcha,” he murmured. “Ye are safe, now.”
I nodded, gaining strength. “We slogged forward, the ground sucking and pulling at our feet. Icy water reached halfway up our legs, filling our boots until our feet were too numb to feel the cold. English soldiers in the line opposite us fired and men around me crumpled to the ground in agony. I discharged my pistol and a man across from me fell from his horse.”
“Yer shot?” Alasdair asked as I paused, distracted from my tale by the tingle in my blood that wasnae from the crisp, cold air.
“Mayhap. I truly dinnae know whose shot killed him. ’Twas certainly my intent to do so, though it cost me the little bit I’d eaten earlier to see it done.”
Alasdair smoothed my hair. “Tis not uncommon for the bravest man to be sickened by death. What happened next?”
“As we ran out of ammunition, men reached for swords, axes, scythes—whatever they had. But the murky ground before us was now a swamp, and we halted. For a few minutes, the men resorted to hurling insults at the government soldiers who were as stuck in the mire as we were. They eventually pulled back to seek a better enemy to engage, and we turned to view the whole of the battle.”
I buried my face in his jacket, breathing in the sweet mix of smoke and something that was peculiarly Alasdair. “’Twas too late to change our position. The Jacobite line to our right had been overwhelmed. Men scrambled about, fleeing the field. Royal dragoons crossed the boggy ground, cutting down Jacobite soldiers without mercy. There was nothing I could do to help. Smoke from the canon and guns surrounded us. I could no longer see my brothers.”
Run, lad! A man I dinnae know had grabbed my arm, jerking me out of my hopelessness. I struggled to keep pace, my boots churning through water red with blood. I stumbled and fell, scrambled to my feet. The whisper of steel and the thud of hooves surrounded me, echoing in my head. Gunfire crackled and men grunted in hand-to-hand combat, keened in mortal pain.
No further words were forthcoming. I could not relive the moment I died. “Mayhap I was wrong,” I choked. “I dinnae wish to recall it further.”
He nodded sagely. “I willnae ask it of ye, then.”
My breathing eased. For long moments Alasdair simply held me as my past faded. “Tell me what happened here.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
His grip on my fingers tightened then loosened. I slid back to my chair. He leaned forward and shoved his hands between his knees. “I dinnae follow Chief MacLeod when he left Raasay for war. My wife had just died in childbirth—our second bairn—and I couldnae bear to be parted from wee Duncan.”
“Your son?”
He nodded. “’Twas difficult to know what to do. The urge to do my duty as a soldier for the chief was strong, but he had nothing but kind words for me that day—the day before he set out for Inverness.”
“Ye knew him?”
“Aye. He offered to have Duncan stay here at Raasay House where he could be cared for by his wife and others. But his ma’s loss was too fresh and I hesitated.” He drew a deep breath. “My decision was finally made to follow the chief and his men, but two days after I left Duncan at Raasay House, word came of the defeat at Culloden. I came back.”
“Was he … was he well?” I could hardly breathe for the catch in my chest as I awaited the next part of his story.
“Aye. Though a bit ill from greetin’ after I left. The chief’s lady wife suggested he and I stay here until the men returned. But we soon learned there were many who would ne’er return.”
“There were few MacLeods killed that day at Culloden,” I remarked.
“Not all who dinnae return died at Culloden. The government marked all who were Jacobite supporters—captured a few, killed more.”
“Leaving many here to fend for themselves.” It was a statement, one I’d learned in my determination to discover my family’s fate.
“What do ye know of what followed?” Alasdair asked.
“Och, I’ve haunted the Culloden Visitors’ Centre for the past two hundred and seventy years. There isnae much I dinnae know.” I paused, the familiar sensation of dread pooling deep inside. “Except what happened to my family. Did ye know them?”
“Mayhap. In the weeks after Culloden, most of us on Raasay banded together as the English did their best to destroy us as they searched for the prince.”
“My ma’s name was Tavia, and she had three wee ones—my sister, Fiona, and the two youngest. Fiona was twelve summers, the bairns five and three.”
Alasdair’s look turned introspective. “That was her name. I remember it. She was here in the beginning. Her husband—”
“My step-da,” I interjected.
Alasdair nodded acknowledgement. “He took her away to America—her and the lasses—though I was already dead.”
I pounced on his statement as his voice trailed off. “What do you mean, ‘the lasses’? What about my wee baby brother?” Shrill-voiced, my words betrayed my concern.
Alasdair caught my gaze. “Ye asked earlier about me using the shower for myself.”
“Ye said ye couldnae wash away yer past,” I replied slowly, recalling his earlier statement, wondering what this had to do with my wee brother.
“Are ye sure ye have to know?”
Have to know? Such a different question from did I want to know. My head screamed at me to tell him no, that I dinnae want to hear another word about his past. My heart thudded slowly, full of trepidation. For centuries, I’d worried about my family, begged God to know what had happened to them. Now? I feared it too painful to know the certainty and opened my mouth to tell him I wished to speak of other things.
But the empty place in my heart pulled at me, pled with me to give it knowledge and closure.
“I want to know, Alasdair—if ye can tell me.”
“I know the tale, aye. Can I tell it?” His face fell and shadows lined his face, turning him into an auld man, wrung with bitterness.
He stared over my shoulder. “The twa wee bairns—my Duncan and yer brother, Calum—often played together, the older of yer two sisters or another lass having the keeping of them whilst yer ma and I did our jobs. ’Twas a terrible time, the summer of ’46. Men who’d gone to war for the prince were often captured on their way home and imprisoned, fined, or worse. Part of the troubles were because the Duke of Cumberland wished to not only teach the Highlanders a lesson they’d never forget, but to destroy us completely.
“His men were turned loose to root out the Jacobites in any manner they saw fit. Looting, burning, rape, murder. Men, women and children—it dinnae matter—and there were few men here to protect them.” Alasdair bowed his head. “But the worst was the price on Prince Charles’ head.”
“Why was that worse?” I asked, bewildered. Was the carnage and mayhem not enough?
“The MacLeods of Dunvegan din
nae join the prince, and that helped protect many of us from the butchery—for a while. But the duke dinnae want the prince to escape, and he set a price of thirty thousand pounds on his head, and rumors spread like wildfire of his whereabouts.”
Silence, charged and tangible, sparked around us. “What happened?”
“The MacLeods on Raasay were known to have sided with the prince, and it was believed he had taken refuge here. Men, lads, anyone able to guide a boat to the island, came in search, partly to curry favor with the king’s men, partly because of the auld feud. At first they simply harassed us. When they dinnae find the prince, the scoundrels took to looting. When we protested, they stole or slaughtered our cattle and sheep, and burned our houses, leaving us to die in the cold—or sometimes in the fired houses.”
I swallowed past a painful lump in my throat. Everything I’d read or heard was being shown as truthful. I’d feared it to be so, prayed it wasnae.
Minutes or hours passed. Alasdair drew a deep breath.
“At the end of June that year, the prince fled from South Uist to Skye with the help of Flora MacDonald. A few days later, he landed on Raasay. He wasnae here long before he headed to the mainland, but the duke sent his man, Captain Ferguson—a man with a well-earned reputation for cruelty—to track the prince from his landing point on Skye.
“He dinnae find the prince, and from his ship anchored off the coast of Raasay, Ferguson allowed his men to run wild on our island. Their presence increased the violence. In the end, they left the beaten, homeless people to starve.
“And they burned Raasay House. The wee lads were playing in the garden that day. Soldiers from Ferguson’s ship, the HMS Furnace, marched to the house, their wagon loaded with gunpowder. Some dragged the barrels inside, others took lumber and nails to hammer the windows and doors closed. The noise frightened the lads. The lass who watched them had been taken away by a soldier, leaving them unattended.
“The lads ran inside. I arrived and searched the garden for them, fought with the soldiers who taunted me with lies of the lads’ whereabouts. Finally, Duncan called to me from an upstairs window. By then, the house was in flames.”
