April 15 dawned, and the pipes screamed out their chant to arms, the men of the clans gathering.
"Mr. Scott," Murray shouted up the staircase. "To arms, man."
Scotty rushed to finish dressing and dashed down the stairs, his claymore and dirk already hanging from his belt. He ran out and, passing a small lake, suddenly stopped.
He saw his reflection. But he was wearing some other sort of uniform in it … with an odd gold symbol above the chest.
And then the reflection was gone and he saw only himself. He moved onward to the site of the battle.
Scott scanned the horizon. The clansmen, those who were even there, were drawn up in a thin ragged line along the field. It was indeed a splendid field—splendid for Cumberland, the duke, unfortunately.
Scotty shook his head in disbelief. The flat, even ground was ideal for moving artillery, and for marching tight ranks of ordered soldiers. For the wild, untamed clansmen, whose only superiority was spirit and daring, it was a disaster.
"Oh, my God," Scotty groaned.
"Yes, Mr. Scott, may God have mercy, for surely Cumberland shall not." Murray wheeled his horse around and set out to seek the prince.
But all he found was O'Sullivan. His jaw set with rage, Murray put his pride aside and begged that the army be moved beyond the Nairn Waters, just a few hundred yards beyond to the soft, boggy, uneven ground that would give them a fighting chance. But his appeal fell on deaf ears.
Slowly Murray trotted back to his men, Scott at his side. And they waited.
About ten a.m. Scott, whose nerves were raw, asked, "Where are they?"
Murray shook his head. "We have a scouting report that the Duke is celebrating his birthday and his men are probably falling down drunk with toasting him. Meanwhile we wait, and wait."
"Why? Surely we could hit them when they are in their cups better than here," Scotty insisted.
"Man, you are right. That may be our salvation."
But again the chain of command was immovable, and the general of the army could not get a fair hearing from his royal commander. And so the men stood around, becoming dispirited and hungry.
Scott watched as the ranks of tired men thinned, many taking the hike back to the town for food and rest. And he wondered where Keppoch was. Were the scattered clans still raiding wild and free in the hills while Cumberland pursued his relentless and disciplined campaign to crush the Scottish prince and his ragtag army?
By midafternoon the prince rode to where Murray waited, his Irish favorites surrounding him like so many courtly sycophants.
"I think it is indeed a fine idea to attack the enemy in his camp. Would you be willing, sir, to undertake such an adventure?"
Murray bowed in acquiescence, not daring himself speech lest he call the prince a fool. Certainly, the time to begin that march had been hours ago. "At least," Murray whispered to Scotty as they rode behind the prince to make final plans, "it will force a retreat from this abysmal spot."
But the night march was more terrible than could be imagined, the few horses they had with them slipping and squealing in the more and more frequent patches of bog. The men did no better, slipping and tearing skin from knees and legs, cursing the dark and each other.
At dawn they heard the drums of the general call in the English camp, and they were too far to strike the enemy a blow before the redcoats were up and assembled. And so they turned and ran away, having accomplished nothing. And still more men left the ranks, seeking a meal here, a rest there, many more discarding their muskets and even their round shields to lighten the burden of the march, heedless of the terrible consequences of this foolishness.
By this time Montgomery Scott knew it was doomed. He knew it was madness. He knew that they were all going to die …
And he looked out upon the tired, frustrated Scotsmen. He looked at their eyes, their weary faces, their haggard expressions.
He had The Sight. They didn't. And still …
They knew. They knew they were doomed as well.
And still they stayed.
Sometimes, he realized, having The Sight didn't make a damned bit of difference. It didn't change what you had to do.
The morning of April 16 found Montgomery Scott still there with his kinsmen. It also found the army of Charles Stuart on the same field as they had been the day before. But there were now fewer men, and those who were assembled were tired and hungry from the fruitless venture of yesterday. And the English army rolled into view, almost seven thousand strong, each battalion marching to the roll of drums and with the briskness of men sure of victory.
And still the Scots were not assembled. Insanely, the clansmen were still arguing over position. Scotty wanted to strangle them.
The rolling thunder of the artillery barrage started, and men fell to their screaming death, their fellows plowing the ground in impatience like tethered horses waiting for the command to charge.
"Please, my prince," someone begged, screaming at Charles as he rode by, "give the command to charge."
Murray echoed the plea, but in the confusion all that was clear was that the Scots were being shot to pieces as they stood.
From somewhere the cry of "Claymore" came, the pipes blaring in a cacophony as each clan filled the sky with their own battle hymn. But the command was slow to make its way down the field, and the clans broke into the charge piecemeal, presenting no front to the enemy, but rather rushing to certain death by little bits.
Scott was thrown in the air as a ball struck the horse on which he sat, killing the beast. Stunned, Scotty crawled to his feet. The men around him were charging into the enemy rank. He drew his claymore and ran seeking the enemy line, but in the press there was no room to swing a broadsword, and at the front the English, in tight ranks, bayonets fixed, were stabbing their way through the crazed clansmen, incurring few losses themselves.
Spun around and around by half-crazed clansmen who rushed past him with passion but no plan, Scott grabbed vainly at men's shoulders, trying to stop the hopeless charge, to organize even a small unit. And a voice within him screamed, It's hopeless! You'll fail! And a voice responded, I don't care! I do what I must, and I don't care!
He put his back into his work with renewed zeal, trying to stem the aimless charge. Maybe even a few men could take the cannon, to stop the slaughter. But no one would stop, no one would hear him. Finally he was thrown to the ground, where he groveled in the mud, trying to avoid the trampling tide of men who threatened to crush the life from him.
And as certainly as the line had broken and surged toward the enemy, it turned to flee the relentless army of death.
When he was finally free of the sweating mass of men, he ran with all the rest of them, ran from the battlefield, for it was clear there was nothing left to do. He didn't notice the warm sticky wetness that soaked down his side.
He finally fell, his breath screaming from his lungs like sulfur.
"Mr. Scott! Mr. Scott!"
"Megan, oh, Megan. What are you doin' here, lass?" he gasped as her face focused through the red haze. He looked about. He had run from the battlefield to well past Culloden House before he fell. The firing was over but for random shots. Men and women from the town had come to seek their dead and aid their living. Or strip the bodies of their little wealth.
"Oh, Mr. Scott, ye are hurt. Ye must move. Come, man. Quickly. The Sassenach dogs have already begun the slaughter of the survivors." She dragged him to his feet, and they staggered off together.
"Here," she said, dragging him to a small cave, more a crevice in the rocks. There was already a body huddling in the dank mud.
"Seamus, you survived!" Scotty cried out, reaching for the lad, until his own wound drove him to the ground.
The boy had a bloody bandage on his head, torn from his lady's shift. And his eyes were not focused.
"Ah, he has a concussion," Scott said, his voice milky and thick with pain. "Don't let him fall asleep. Keep him up, lass. Do you hear me?"
"Ay
e, Mr. Scott. I shall. Come, let me bind your wound as well."
They lay huddled and still for two days, praying in fear each time they heard the sound of men, Englishmen bent on murder of the remaining rebels.
"Dare we go back to Inverness?" Megan had whispered at one point.
"Perhaps there is a general pardon," Seamus had offered hopefully, his recovery the miracle of youth.
"I dunna know," Scott groaned. "But I do know that we need food and water or we will die here."
At nightfall Megan sneaked out for water. Scott felt the hand of death on him as he lay in the dark, waiting for her to return.
"Seamus, are you there?"
"Aye, Mr. Scott. That I am," he answered. He was speaking clearly now, and Scotty was filled with hope that he would mend.
"You must return to your apprenticeship. Make a life for yourself, lad, and for Megan, too. Promise me."
"I promise, but do not take on so, man. You'll come, too, and be there to stand godfather to our children." The boy crawled over to him.
"Ah, lad," he said, holding Seamus's hand, "I doubt it. Remember that the spirit of the rebellion is more precious than its success or failure. The Scots may lack the English wealth and ambition, but the spirit of this land will be evermore the heart and courage of a Britain united." A fit of coughing silenced the engineer. Neither man acknowledged that Scotty was coughing blood.
Megan returned with water, and after a while they all slept. Late in the night Scotty awoke in pain. He had no doubts about his condition. In the cold of the night he felt a shimmering, and he knew it was over. He rose and dragged himself out of the cave and onto the moors. To see the stars one last time.
The stars …
And a voice, a gentle voice, said, "The stars. You know them, don't you?"
"Home. My … home," he whispered. "Blessed lady … my home …"
She floated before him, as ethereal as before. "You remember."
"Yes." It was an exhausted sigh. "Yes. I remember."
"Why didn't you remember before?"
"Because …" He sighed. "Because if I'd remembered … I couldn't have helped. I didn't want to remember, because I wanted to … to do something …"
She smiled. "You did."
"It was hopeless. I accomplished nothing. I fought in a hopeless cause."
"That was your accomplishment," she said, and reached down to cool his brow.
And the stars shone through her …
Chapter Fifty
The Sky, 1942
THE G-FORCES PUSHED AGAINST Chekov as his plane hurtled higher and higher into the air. It was an exhilarating feeling, even though it was an infinitesimal fraction of the power that was possessed by the Enterprise. This was truly flying.
He glanced at his wingmen, taking pride in the way they kept in formation. Then Chekov sighed inwardly. He could not recall a time when he had such regrets.
His squad made its rendezvous with the transport, a Consolidated B-24. They were maintaining a sort of radio silence, breaking it for orders and instructions, but keeping the sky free of the kind of chatter that was typical of bombing runs. There was no point tempting fate.
Chekov was praying there would be no combat. Please. It was all he asked. Because if there were combat, he could not possibly try to shoot others out of the sky. It meant that he could not participate in defending the B-24. It meant … he did not want to think about what it meant.
And then he heard a voice that chilled him, crackling over his radio.
"Uncle Vanya to Cherry Orchard," the transmission from the transport crackled in badly accented Russian, "we have contact."
"Oh my God," said Chekov.
"Pavel?" another voice broke in.
"Kirk?" Chekov answered. His heart sank. Of all people. Of all times. When the time came to break off from the squadron … well, Chekov was just going to have to hope that the others would protect Kirk in the event of problems.
"Good to hear from you, Pavel! So this is where they scurried you off to!" John Kirk sounded nauseatingly jovial.
"Don't worry, John. We'll take good care of you," said Chekov weakly. His heart pounded. Again his path crossed with John C. Kirk's.
Soon they had crossed the front and were droning over enemy territory. The air had been getting more turbulent all the time, and now they flew blind in thick clouds.
Chekov looked at his instruments. This was it. This was the perfect time to break off. Sweden was accessible. The RAF would be there within minutes. If he peeled off now, the rest of the squad would be compelled to continue without him. If he waited until the rendezvous, the others would very likely want to follow him down.
He bid a silent farewell to all that he was leaving behind. "Uncle Vanya—" he started to say, in preparation for telling them about his nonexistent engine problems.
But Kirk's voice came back quickly, "Yeah, I see them."
Chekov blinked and then his eyes widened in alarm.
German. Fockewulfe Fu-190s. The swift, maneuverable fighter was the finest in the air. But it hadn't been tested against the YAK. Chekov watched the compact little German birds swoop in, and he wasn't sure at all that his wing was their match.
"Enemy at three o'clock," Chekov's wingman yelled, his voice high and tinny through the tiny speaker. But already Chekov had his hand pressed to his throat mike …
And he froze.
His mind screamed at him to peel off. To get the hell out of there. It wasn't his fight.
It couldn't be his fight.
And if he peeled off, he might even escape alive …
And John Kirk might not. Probably would not.
Two potentially divergent timelines. The no-win situation that he'd been dreading had finally caught up with him.
One choice was no choice.
"Cherry One and Three, peel off high and right. Lead them away from Uncle. The rest, follow me," he said, rolling left and diving low, coming up behind a pair of German planes.
He fired short precise bursts, aiming purely for the wings.
The skies were alive with planes, intensive firing from all over. His squad was outnumbered, and Chekov fought down mounting panic.
The sky flipped around him, and he kept looking at the transport plane. So far it was flying unscathed …
And then a German plane swooped down from nowhere and opened fire on it.
Chekov cried out in alarm as he saw the bullets strafe the sides of Kirk's ship. He broke formation and power-dived toward the German plane, firing from the rear. He blew the German's tail off and the plane spiraled downward. Chekov prayed that the pilot was able to eject.
"John," Chekov shouted, "get out of here. Go high. You have the ceiling," he yelled in English.
"I've got the guns, too," Kirk answered with a determination so familiar that Chekov's heart hurt.
"No, Keptin," he yelled back, "get out of here. You have to save yourself."
"No, Pavel!"
"You have your mission, damn it," Chekov argued again. "Harriman must get to London," he reasoned. "Please."
"Damn you, Pavel," Kirk answered with frustration. "You're right! And I'm not a captain yet!"
"Go!" Chekov shouted as he banked upward to intercept another German plane.
He rolled to the right, pirouetting gracefully out of the way of a German plane, and one of Chekov's men blew the plane out of the sky.
What a waste, thought Chekov, what a waste. Using technology for war and destruction instead of the good of humanity. What a goddamned waste.
There were more coming in. He allowed himself a second to watch John Kirk's big transport bank up, putting on the "juice" for a run across the border to Sweden.
His men were taking out the Fockewulfes like flies, the new YAK-1 showing its stuff and the Red Guard proving itself equal to any unit in the air.
Then the big long-range bomber was diving out of the sky, her guns blazing, and the Fu-190s were scattering like hens in a farmyard with a fox after them. Bu
t one pass was all Kirk could afford with so high level an ambassador on board, and with a dip of his wings to Chekov, he soared off to freedom.
"We did it!" Chekov cried out.
And then his left wing was blown off.
Chekov turned in alarm to see the smoking stub that was all that was left of his wing.
The plane spiraled downward. Chekov fought furiously, but he was utterly helpless. Every warning signal on his control board was going berserk.
"Oh hell," he muttered. This was in no way going to get him to Sweden.
The clouds around him had turned fierce, buffeting him. Thunder rumbled around him, and he heard Kirk's voice over the radio shout, "Chekov! Your men say you were hit! I'll come get you!"
"Nonsense!" replied Chekov. "Just a little turbulence. You come back here, Kirk, I'll flatten you."
"If you're sure …"
"I'm sure."
He waited for five seconds, then opened the cockpit and ejected.
He was barely clear of the damaged plane and pulled the cord. He felt the jerk as the parachute shroud deployed. He wondered how long he would survive in the freezing water. The blood was still oozing and he felt weak. He looked up at the black blot of the silk canopy above him. The rain had stopped, and through a break in the clouds Chekov could see the stars.
Then he saw nothing.
Chapter Fifty-one
WEYLAND SAT on his throne and studied the two men who stood before him. The Klingon was being supported by Kirk, and they both looked as if they'd been through hell. Their clothes were somewhat tattered, their skin dirty and abraded. Throughout the great hall natives of Cragon were peering at the two outworlders with unconcealed interest.
"You've been through a bit, haven't you?"
Kral stabbed a finger at him. "Because of you! Anything we've been through, it's because of you."
"Really," said Weyland calmly. "I didn't force you to come to my planet. I didn't create the Klingon and Federation enmity. I didn't cause people to die."
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