“No,” said Iain, holding his hand up as though he could change history by denying it. “No. No. It isna true.” He backed away some more. In a moment he would turn and run, and Angus could not let him do that. There was no telling what he might do.
He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Iain’s waist, trying to avoid touching his injured arm. From somewhere he found the strength to hang on to the distraught man until his legs gave way and they both collapsed on the ground in a heap, and Iain stopped struggling against Angus’s grip and gave way to his grief.
It was more than two hours before Angus finally got to eat, and then the food tasted of nothing, but he ate it because he knew his body had to have nourishment. Then he went to see Alex, praying that he would wake, but not just yet. He couldn’t bear to tell his brother that Beth was dead, not just now. Iain accompanied him, his face hard and set now as he took the grief inside him to deal with later. Angus had told him everything, holding nothing back. Later Iain would find it a comfort that Maggie had not died alone, and had not been raped before she died. But for now nothing could comfort him, so Angus turned his attention to Alex instead.
He occupied the only bed in the small room shared by all the clansmen, and he lay there unmoving, his face and lips white, the only colour the livid bruise on his forehead. His leg was heavily splinted and bound. Kenneth, a bloody bandage tied haphazardly round his head, was sitting on a small stool by the bed, but stood now and moved out of the way to let Angus take his place.
“He’s alive and his pulse is steady, but it’s a worry that he hasna roused at all,” said Kenneth. “We tried to get him to drink, but he couldna swallow and we were feart of drowning him. We’ve been wetting his lips, but we canna do more until he wakes.”
The unspoken thought that he might die without waking at all roared silently in everyone’s minds. Or that he might wake and be an idiot for the rest of his life. Angus turned to look at the others, aware that all his movements and thoughts were slow and sluggish. He had to do what Alex would do, were he awake. What would Alex do? Count the men, then raise their spirits. Give them hope that they could get through this, that the cause was not dead. Angus looked fuzzily round the room.
“Robbie’s dead, and Simon and Dougal are missing,” said Alasdair, correctly surmising what Angus was doing. “Everyone else is here.”
No. Duncan was not here. Why were they not mentioning Duncan? He needed Duncan to be here now, he would know what to do. He had always known what to do.
Angus was too exhausted to realise that the men were not mentioning Duncan out of consideration for him. Angus knew Duncan was dead. They all did. There was no point in drawing attention to it. And his brother was on the point of collapse.
Very gently, Kenneth guided Angus away from the still figure on the bed and over to the corner, laying him down and drawing his plaid over him as though he were a small child, waiting for a few moments until the young man’s breathing became soft and regular. Then he signalled silently to the others to leave the room, and took up his place on the stool again, his pale blue eyes clouded with grief and anxiety.
When Angus awoke the next morning, feeling much better for his ten hours of unbroken sleep, he set about devouring a huge bowl of oatmeal porridge and bringing himself up to date.
Of all the men who had returned, only himself and Alasdair were completely unscathed. Several men had minor wounds. Kenneth’s head wound was, as he had said, superficial. The ball had been dug out of Iain’s arm, along with some chips of bone. Graeme had been slashed across the face and had lost an eye, but the socket had been stitched and he claimed to be having more trouble with rheumatics than with his injury. Simon and Dougal had both been seen after the retreat began, and it was surmised that they must have been killed by the Campbells or the dragoons who’d attacked as they were leaving the field.
It could have been a lot worse. Some of the clans were severely depleted. The MacDonalds and Camerons had suffered heavy losses, although Lochiel, at first thought to be dead, was later discovered to have been carried alive from the field by his men, having had both his legs broken by grape shot. The mood of the men began to revive as more and more trailed in, swelling the numbers to nearly four thousand. Amongst them was Lord George Murray himself, who was of the opinion, along with the vast majority of the men, that the rebellion could be continued from the mountains, albeit in guerrilla fashion for the present, until more monies could be collected.
The arrival of the prince was eagerly awaited, but instead of the man himself, on the morning of the nineteenth a letter was received in which Charles thanked his devoted followers for what they had done and informed them that he now intended to return to France and bring back an army. In the meantime, he wrote, ‘let every man seek his safety in the best way he can’.
This news travelled through the clansmen like wildfire, prompting an initial reaction of disbelief that the prince could abandon them in so offhand a manner, which was quickly followed by outrage. Why would he desert an army that was daily growing in strength in spite of the setback at Culloden? Men began to mutter that the prince had clearly never had any intention of coming to Ruthven, that he had encouraged the clans to rendezvous here in the hopes that Cumberland would follow them and allow him to escape the country.
Whatever the reasons for Charles not joining them, one thing was very clear; the rebellion could not continue if its leader was in France. Inexperienced in military affairs as he might be, Charles was the focal point of the rebellion; without him it had no cohesion.
The next day, dispirited and fearful of the revenge Cumberland’s rampaging army might now wreak on their lands, the men started to leave Ruthven and head home to try to rebuild the shattered fragments of their lives.
While many of the clans made their way home as unobtrusively as possible, several hundred of the MacGregors gathered together, those who had fought under the Duke of Perth and under Lochiel, and those who had arrived too late to take part in the battle of Culloden. Then, aware that this was possibly the last time their normally fragmented and illegal clan would be gathered in such force, they marched defiantly and openly along the southern banks of Loch Ness, colours flying and pipes playing, the sprigs of fir identifying them as MacGregors stuck proudly in their bonnets.
A troop of frustrated redcoats shadowed them on the northern bank of the loch but could do nothing to halt their brave march. Neither could the Campbell militia, cowering in Finlarig Castle, or the men at the posts in the mountain passes. Once south of Loch Ness they said their farewells and fragmented once more, making their way separately to their homes.
Alex, travelling in a cart with Iain, was unaware of all this. On the last day at Ruthven his eyelids had fluttered slightly and he had sighed once, after which the men had found, to their immense relief, that when water was dripped slowly into his mouth he would sometimes swallow it. Once or twice he moaned softly, but in spite of this initially hopeful development, he showed no further signs of rousing during the long journey home, and the clansmen began to seriously doubt that he would ever recover consciousness.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When he woke it was night time, and he was at home, although he had no recollection of how he had got there. He knew it was night time because a candle was burning somewhere in the room and by its glow he could see the reed thatch above him, and by that he knew he was home. He lay still for a while, just staring upwards at the pattern of the reeds and trying to assess the damage to his body.
There must be damage, he knew that, even though there was no pain, because his limbs had a leaden heaviness about them that came only from lying in one place for a long time. The pain, if any, would come when he tried to move, so for now he remained still, instead contenting himself with reconstructing the last events that had occurred before he had been magically transported home.
He remembered fighting, slashing and hacking at everything that moved. He remembered the blood, and the rain, and the enemy cl
ansmen running at him. He had stabbed Richard’s horse, he remembered that. Had he killed Richard, then? Or had Richard inflicted the wounds on him that he would surely feel when he tried to move? He stared at the thatch again, willing the clouds to dissipate from his memory.
He had not killed Richard, nor had he stabbed his horse. But he had seen him, across the field. And then…nothing.
He blinked, and then continued his contemplation of the ceiling. His eyelids were growing heavy and he forced them open, needing to pull together what he already knew so that he could work out what he needed to find out. Duncan was dead. Angus had been alive when they retreated. And Beth and Maggie were safe. Some of his men had survived the battle, they must have done to bring him home. And they would have got Beth and Maggie out of the bothy and brought them here. So, he needed to find out how badly injured he was, and who else had survived the battle. Everything else could wait, for now.
He now became aware of another presence in the room, someone who he realised had been there all the time, since before he had woken. He tried to speak but his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, which was bone dry, and he realised then for the first time how thirsty he was. How long had he been unconscious? He swivelled his eyes, but could see only further along the ceiling and a little bit of the top part of the wall.
With an effort he turned his head, feeling the stiffness of the muscles in his neck straining as he did, and then he could see the bedclothes and the figure seated on the stool at the side of the bed.
Angus. He must have been there for some time, for while his bottom was firmly planted on the stool, his upper body was resting on the bed, his head pillowed on his folded arms, fast asleep. Alex looked at the tousled fair hair and tried to smile, but his lips cracked painfully so he stopped.
He had to move, he knew that, to find out what injuries he had sustained. His right arm was lying on top of the bedclothes, and was within his line of vision. It seemed intact, which was something. He wiggled his fingers experimentally and then, by an enormous effort of will, raised his arm a few inches.
It was too much. The arm slumped down onto the bed, rousing the sleeping Angus, who sat up, instantly alert. The brothers looked at each other for a few seconds, and then Angus leaned forward, peering into Alex’s eyes as though unable to believe they were open and focussed for the first time in over a week.
“Alex?” he said.
Alex moved his tongue, trying to moisten his mouth before speaking, and then Angus was lifting his head and holding a cup of water carefully to his lips. He let the liquid trickle into his mouth then swallowed painfully, repeating the action until he felt he had some control over his tongue.
“Enough,” he croaked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Angus put the cup down and leaned over the bed, his eyes full of excitement and anxiety.
“You’re home, Alex. You’re safe,” said Angus slowly and clearly, obviously unsure whether his brother was aware of where he was, or even if he was truly awake at all.
“How long…” he began painfully.
“You’ve been home for four days,” Angus said, anticipating the question. He stared straight into Alex’s eyes. They were definitely focussed, and he was listening. He could hear, then, and reason, to some extent at least. “You were kicked by a horse, here.” He pointed to his own forehead. “And your leg’s broken, but it’s been set and the wound’s healing well. After the battle we went to Ruthven, and then home. D’ye think ye could eat something, Alex? Ye havena eaten in ten days.”
Ah. That would explain some of the extreme lethargy he felt. That and the fact that he hadn’t used his muscles for ten days. Maybe he really did only have a broken leg and a cracked skull then, instead of the multiple disabling injuries he’d feared. He smiled, and saw Angus’s eyes light up with delight. He also saw the lines of fatigue and worry on the young man’s face, and realised that with Duncan dead he would have had to take on the burden of the chieftainship, temporarily at least, in the most difficult circumstances imaginable.
“Ye’ve done well, Angus,” he said. “I mind about Duncan. Who else?” He ran his tongue across his lips to moisten them, felt his eyes closing again and strained to keep them open until his question had been answered.
Angus hesitated, as if unsure whether Alex was fit to receive this information.
“Robbie Og’s dead,” he said after an alarmingly long pause during which Alex started to think there must be no survivors other than himself and Angus. “I tellt his mother, and she’s taking it well, considering. Simon’s missing. Kenneth saw him when we started to fall back but no one’s seen him since, and he didna come to Ruthven. Everyone else is here. Iain took a ball in the arm, Kenneth has a wee scrape in the head. Alasdair and me werena injured at all.” He said this last almost guiltily. “Graeme came back wi’ us too. He’s lost an eye. Dougal came in just as we were leaving Ruthven. We’d given him up for dead. He was wounded by a sabre in the chest, and he says he’d have bled to death but for a redcoat, who took him off the battlefield on his horse.”
“What?” said Alex incredulously, roused from incipient sleep by this unlikely news.
“Aye. The redcoats were running all over the field, stabbing at everything that moved. Dougal was trying to crawl away, then he said he saw this shadow over him and he looked up and saw the redcoat, a dragoon it was, and thought he was dead. He tellt him to please make it quick. But the man looked about, then he got down and threw Dougal over the horse and rode off into the woods wi’ him. Then he bound his wound up and gave him a flask of water and some bread, and tellt him to lie low until it was dark. Then he rode away. There’s a few others came into Ruthven that said the same kind of thing happened to them. Most of the redcoats were like animals, they said, but some of them seemed sickened by it, and they helped us when they could.”
Angus stopped, and took his brother’s hand. Alex was losing the fight against sleep now, and his eyes were closing in spite of all his efforts.
“Tell Beth…” he managed to say before he slid off into sleep, leaving Angus with the realisation that it had not even dawned on Alex that Beth could be listed among the casualties. Of course it would not. She had been in a safe place, and Alex had not seen how Cumberland’s men had run wild after the battle.
It seemed his brother was going to recover, which was a miracle. He had spoken coherently during his brief period of wakefulness, and had understood everything Angus said. It was marvellous. Angus vowed to put off telling Alex about Beth for as long as possible, a few days at least, even if he had to lie to him. He could not face that news until he was stronger.
In the end he was only able to put off the dreaded event for a few hours. Alex woke again at dawn, and this time he was able not only to drink some water, but also some soup, which Alasdair had kept simmering over the fire ever since Angus had delivered the joyful news.
Then he lay back propped on the pillow and surveyed Angus’s happy face and Iain’s pale, serious one. Dougal was lying in his own bed, still recovering from his sabre wound. The others were out hunting, gathering wood, and performing the many tasks that had been neglected while they had been away fighting. Alex was fully awake now, as he had not been last night, and his instincts were awake too. Something was wrong.
“Where’s Beth?” he said, so unexpectedly that Angus almost dropped the soup bowl, recovering just in time to prevent it crashing to the floor.
“She isna here,” he said evasively.
“Aye, I ken that,” his brother replied. “My eyes are working fine, even if the rest of me isna yet. Ye must help me get my arms and legs moving later. Where is she?”
“I…er…” Angus began, suddenly realising that even as a child he had never been able to lie when transfixed by that dark blue gaze, and that he could not do so now, either.
“What’s amiss?” Alex said, his voice sounding stern in its hoarseness.
“Tell him,” said Iain suddenly. “It willna get easier wi
’ waiting.”
Angus shot Iain a look of anguish. He couldn’t do it. And he couldn’t not do it. He sat down heavily on the stool at the side of the bed and looked down at the ground and tried to think of a gentle way to break the news.
“Tell me what?” said Alex, alarmed now. He tried to sit up, but his arms would not support him and he slumped back on to the pillow.
“She’s dead,” said Iain, his voice made harsh by grief. “Maggie too. Angus went back for them, after he’d seen you on your way to Ruthven. They’re all dead.”
Alex stared at Iain as though he was speaking a foreign language. Then he looked at the bowed head of his brother, and in spite of the discomfort it caused him he reached across and gripped his hand, forcing Angus to look up at him.
“Tell me,” he said. “All of it. Tell me.”
Angus told his brother about how he had got to the bothy, and what he had found when he reached it, his voice blurred by tears, while Alex lay as still as a statue and listened, the only sign that he was still awake the fact that his eyes were open and that he blinked from time to time. He told him about what he had seen when he went into the hut, and how he had found Maggie and what she had told him about the baby, the sergeant stabbing her and Beth’s retaliation.
“At least she didna suffer, Alex,” Angus said after he had recounted what Maggie had told him about Beth’s shooting and about the fate of the others. He was gabbling somewhat now, unnerved by Alex’s silence.
Alex turned his head.
“Did ye bury them?” he asked.
Angus looked up and saw his brother’s dead eyes, and his blood ran cold. He had expected Alex to rage, or cry, or deny it as Iain had. Not this complete lack of any emotion at all. His brother had always been volatile. This was not his brother.
“I buried Maggie, aye, as best I could,” he replied. “I…I couldna find Beth. There were a lot of bodies in the bothy, and I didna ken which was hers. I’m sorry, Alex, I couldna bury them all, I…”
The Storm Breaks (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 4) Page 37
