by L. L. Muir
The distance made it impossible to tell, but if he wasn’t mistaken, his cousin, Sween, was there. Of course, it might have only been Morey’s imagination. In fact, he found half a dozen tall forms that might be his cousin.
He wished he had better eyesight. But after a glance back and forth, comparing the readiness of both armies—the well-rested Red Coats versus the seemingly weary Jacobites—he thanked God that he could not see clearer. In truth, if it wouldn’t prove foolish, he would like very much to stand in one place and keep his eyes closed until the battle was over. That way, he wouldn’t have to witness the loss of so many lives that might have been saved if he’d been a braver man.
As he waited for the nightmare to begin, word travelled to his company that Cumberland had ordered No Quarter. No mercy would be offered. No prisoners taken. No life spared.
Upon hearing it, Morey searched the distance for the duke and found the mounted prince faced his way. Of course the royal wouldn’t be looking for him, but Morey hoped mercy hadn’t been removed from offer simply to punish him for his attempt to desert.
Please, God. If Sween is to die, take me instead. Dinnae let my cousin pay the price of my inaction.
A burst of wind brushed past him with such force, it made him turn back to face the battlefield to keep the air from rushing up his nose. Perhaps it was God, he thought, accepting his request. Or perhaps it was only a warning that the wind might be toying with his bugle calls.
Again, he noted the flagging of the enemy. Shoulders slumped behind drooping targes. Weapons pointed at the ground as if all energy would be saved for the moment of attack.
These cannot be the men who fought at Prestonpans! They look as if they’ve walked to London and back in the past few days alone!
“…neither side can show pity,” Campbell was telling his men. “If every man does his best, God can decide who wins the day. Just pray he chooses us.”
Morey nodded to himself. Prayer was the only thing left to him. But he had to pray quickly for he would soon be focused on the orders he was given, on the calls he needed to play. He could be as blind to the rest of it as the battle would allow. Hopefully, if the fighting never reached too deep into the Campbell ranks, he wouldn’t have to watch anyone die.
As he’d been taught by his mother, he prayed for his enemy, though God only knew who that was anymore. He prayed for kin, for Frasers, for Highlanders, for Scotland. At the end, he simply prayed it would end quickly, the victor crowned with as little blood shed as possible.
A blast from the Jacobites caught him off guard. He fumbled with his bugle, brought it to his lips, but the order didn’t come. He glanced at Campbell, consulting with two of his officers. They weren’t ready yet. And then…they were.
The firing of the cannons began like a symphony. An overture. An introduction.
This, Jacobites, it said, is how it begins.
But the Jacobites didn’t answer. Though the pounding of the guns dominated the scene, the sounds that demanded Morey’s attention were the shouts of the Jacobite soldiers.
Confusion. Fervor. Then anger.
Morey didn’t have to see through the billowing smoke to know that they weren’t fighting back!
He couldn’t resist watching the Frasers. Weary no longer, they were poised, raring to be loosed upon the world, but some invisible force held them back. And while they held, they were picked off, one at a time, maybe three at a go. A cannonball propelled one man back through four or five others. They were being slaughtered!
To the left, some rebels broke ranks and ran full out. To the right, there was fighting amongst themselves. Colors of plaid shifted. A new group pushed to the fore and ran full out.
These had to be the men from Prestonpans! This was enough to make an enemy flee! But they got mired in the muddy bog. Swords and targes lowered by men who now had to fight the moor itself.
And while they fought the moor, the cannons fired on. Cumberland’s men moved forward with blades raised, to cut down an enemy already caught.
Campbell gave the order. His fusiliers were to fire. Morey was expected to sound the call.
“Do it!” The hiss came from Mars. He was already beating on his drum, glaring at him, suspicious. The exchange took three seconds, a heartbeat of hesitation that was just enough to soothe his soul. Because of him, his cousins’ hearts would beat once or twice more than they might have.
Live, Sween. Live, damn you!
Morey brought his bugle to his lips. He blew the call. Another order. Another call. He couldn’t stomach watching anymore, but he would do his duty. After all, his actions meant nothing…now.
He should have tried to stop the madness before it began. May God forgive him, he’d put the honor of one man above the lives of his clan. With blood now flowing, the bodies on the scales seemed quite equal to him now.
A cannon sounded from across the battlefield. Then another! The Jacobites roared and charged toward the bog. It might have been impressive had so many not already fallen. As it was, the rag-tag army was already defeated. Despite their speed, more were caught in the mud, some stepped on their fallen comrades to cross it. But now, at least, they were able to fight back.
Morey was so relieved for the Highlanders’ sakes, he forgot to worry about himself. The fight was coming to him!
Campbell gave the order to advance. Morey began the call, but his bugle was knocked out of his grasp with a clang, and he quickly turned to look for it. Blood spit out the back of a captain’s neck, splattering across the left side of Morey’s face.
No time to wipe it away. Must find my bugle. Grandfather’s bugle!
He searched frantically as if the instrument were his only weapon, his only defense against the oncoming enemy.
The enemy? No. Death was the enemy, no matter the hands bent on delivering it.
There, under a leg, something shined up at him! But a pain stopped him from reaching.
So frustrating, to be shot while trying to free one’s bugle.
The bullet bit into his left arm. A dark, rapidly growing circle of blood engulfed the bright yellow cords on his shoulder. Something snapped against his head. He fell straight back to the ground as if he had no legs at all.
God help any man who found his bugle before he did.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Morey awoke, the sounds of the battle had ceased for the most part. Guns still fired, but randomly. It had been obvious whom God had chosen to be the victor, and Morey’s prayer for a bloodless resolution had gone unanswered.
His horn. He remembered seeing it under a leg. It couldn’t be far. But alas, he couldn’t seem to move. So tired…
~
He woke to pain and groaning and found that the groaning came not from him. There were voices. Two men chatting away as if they didn’t hear the wounded man. Someone grunted. The groaning ceased. It didn’t take genius to know why.
Cumberland’s men were murdering the wounded.
Morey was wounded! Ah, but luckily, he was wearing the enemy’s uniform.
“How many of them?” asked one man.
“Seventeen,” replied the other.
In the ensuing silence came a hail of gunfire. Distant, but not so far away that he couldn’t hear the bodies fall to the ground. No quarter indeed.
The two soldiers chatted again, moving nearer. “This one’s still bleeding.”
“Hold! There, ye see? He’s one of ours.”
“A gonner for certain.”
The joke was on them. He wasn’t a gonner. And he wasn’t a Hanoverian, either.
~
When Morey awoke yet again, it was to full on darkness. But then the darkness moved and startled him. He didn’t think he’d made a sound, but the blackest shadow turned and lowered its hood. If it was Death, Death was a young lass with tears in her eyes.
“Please,” he whispered. “Help me.”
The lass seemed surprised. “Morey? Is it you?”
The agony of his head wound prevented
him from thinking clearly. “Do I ken ye, lassie? Forgive me if I doona remember yer name. And forgive me for any dishonor—”
“Ye have no reason to remember me,” she said in a rush, “so ease yer mind.” She squatted beside him, noted the wound on the right of his head and smiled through the tears she’d already been shedding. “I am right sorry for it, Morey, but there is naught I can do—”
“There is!” He winced at the hot knife of pain that sliced through his noggin for raising his voice. “I cannot seem to move, but I wish only to have my bugle placed in my hand. It would be a comfort.”
She nodded, stood, and searched the ground. After a moment, she reached and straightened with his grandfather’s bugle clasped in her hand like a great prize. Triumph! She returned to him and fumbled with his arm.
Disappointment filled his eyes with tears. “I cannae feel it.”
“Sure ye can, Morey Fraser. Ye feel the cold of it, aye?”
“Aye. The cold. I can feel the cold!”
“That’s yer bugle, laddie, all but frozen to yer hand. Ye’ll not lose it now.”
Relieved that he’d kept track of his grandsire’s bugle, as he’d promised to do, he relaxed.
“Ye’re wearing the government uniform, laddie. I don’t suppose ye’d like me to remove it?”
“Auch, aye. It gives me no warmth. ‘Tis a fact, it chills me to the soul to have it on me, aye?” He felt her yank here and there as she tugged the coat from his shoulders, then pulled it out from under him and took it away. When she returned, she tucked a length of wool beneath him and pulled the ends over his chest.
“Now,” she said. “I’ll leave ye with a wish, then, shall I?”
“A wish? Are ye a witch?”
“Aye. I’m just that.” She leaned down and placed a kiss on his forehead.
“I felt that,” he said. “Truly I did.”
She grinned. “Warm, I hope.”
“Aye. Warm indeed.”
“Well, laddie, that’s yer wish ye’re feelin’. When ye’re ready to make it, close yer eyes and think it clearly. Do ye ken?”
He tried to understand. “I’m to make a wish?”
“Aye, when ye’re ready.”
Another dark figure came up behind her and Morey tried to cry out, but a hard hammer of pain stole his breath away.
The lass glanced over her shoulder, then back at him. “Easy now. He’s with me.” She gave him a sad smile. “And I shall see ye anon.”
When next he opened his eyes, the lass was gone and the sky was made darker still by a thick blanket of clouds that blocked the road to Heaven. While he waited for the way to open again, he fell asleep and tried to dream of dark angels who promised to grant wishes. But alas, all he dreamt of was pain.
In the wee hours of dawn, Morey woke to the sound of voices. He recognized the brogue of true Highlanders. It was music to his ears.
A young lad shouted excitedly, calling out numbers…
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Look how far this bloke made it.”
Morey struggled to open his eyes, but he was certain whoever spoke above him was English. He could still hear that lad shouting out numbers and wondered why the murmurs of so many Highlanders continued as well. Did they not fear Cumberland’s vengeance?
They might have been prisoners, he supposed, but the duke had ordered no prisoners be taken. Hadn’t he?
Exerting all the energy that remained in his body, Morey tried again to open his eyes. A slit of blue sky appeared, then a soldier’s face.
“He lives yet. Still bleeding. And I recognize him. One of ours, though he is out of uniform. One of the rebels must have stolen it.” The soldier squatted and looked into Morey’s eyes. “Easy now,” he said. “You are not long for this life, Bugler. But we promise not to bury you alive. We will come back for you…later.”
“It might be a kindness to hurry it along, do you suppose?” asked another. “Pinch his nose, cover his mouth… He might wish the pain to end.”
The first gave his head a firm shake, then smiled at Morey. “Make your peace with God, Bugler. We shall return.” He stood and moved away, but came back a moment later to tuck something beneath Morey’s head before disappearing again.
With his view changed, Morey could see a bit of the moor. Small companies of Red Coats worked along one edge, separating bodies into piles of like-colored plaid. But the Highlanders were nowhere in sight, though he could still hear the lad cry out a number now and then, with bits of conversation in between.
Morey couldn’t turn to see if they were behind him, but it made no matter. Their voices were clearly coming from the battlefield beyond his feet.
Where are ye? he wanted to call. But he had already accepted the fact that his life was done. With just a glance the one soldier had confirmed as much.
“That will be seventy-two, then!” The lad seemed quite excited. He couldn’t have been more than a dozen steps away, and yet there was no movement between Morey’s white spats and the Red Coats. He so desperately wanted to see them, to know that some of his kind had survived the slaughter. Would that God could allow him that.
Though all sense of cold had left him, there was a sudden warmth on his forehead a wee to the right of center, where the lass had placed her lips. Of all the kisses he’d won in his short life, it had been the only one freely given. He hadn’t cajoled it from her. There had been no pretense involved.
But she hadn’t called it a kiss, she’d called it a wish.
When ye’re ready to make it, close yer eyes and think it clearly.
Morey hoped his mind wasn’t toying with him, hoped the memory of the lass was real, that the kiss was not just a bit of fancy, though the part about the wish must have been just that.
And yet…
And yet, what else did a lad do while he listened to his own breath dying in his breast?
For good measure, he prayed to God as he’d been taught to do, on behalf of those Highlanders still living. Hopefully, his prayer could carry through the patches of blue still visible between gathering clouds of gray. Next, he closed his eyes as he’d been instructed—though he feared he might never open them again—and hoped God would forgive him for testing the lass’ promise.
He was ready to form his wish, but his chest was suddenly heavy, crushingly so. He had to struggle to take in air. His lungs wanted to be done. He gasped and grasped at his thoughts as they began to slip from him toward the waters of a long black loch. It was too late for wishing. No time left.
He might have wished to go back again, to have found a way to serve those Highlanders, to spare them…
A great yawn overtook Morey and he shuddered. He’d witnessed death rattles before, but he was surprised to still be alert when the time came for his own soul to shake off his bones.
And suddenly, it was over. The crushing weight was gone along with the need for air. Without thought, he sat up, then stood. His body lay on the ground before him. A muddy Jacobite flag peeked out from where it had been stuffed behind his head.
His right temple was dark with a combination of fresh and drying blood. His other wound had removed all trace of yellow on the left shoulder. The cords on his right were still cheery, still clean, ready for an outing. The wool blanket tucked around his middle and covering his chest had no pattern. Other than the white spats over his boots, there was no sign he’d fought for Cumberland.
If the one soldier hadn’t recognized him, might he have been buried alive?
He shuddered, turned away, and found a light moving near, brighter than the gloomy morning, with no one carrying it. In the span of a heartbeat, the light became a spacious walkway—a tunnel with a single figure standing to the fore.
“Grandsire!” Morey reached out to the man who had taught him every call, had drilled each note into his memory. Though the older man smiled and opened his arms in welcome, Morey had an overwhelming need to do something first, before leaving the world of the living. He just didn’t know what that
something was.
He turned to look at his body once again. The beloved bugle lay there. Was he to take it with him?
Morey bent to see if he could retrieve it. The instrument came away easily, but now there were two—the one he held and the one still clutched in his inert hands. He turned back to his grandsire.
“Choose,” the man said.
Morey didn’t understand. “Choose which bugle?”
Grandsire shook his head. “Will ye come with me? Or will ye say with them?”
He pointed out to the battlefield. Morey followed his gesture and found dozens on dozens of Highlanders standing defiantly around the moor. They all looked to a young laddie and his dog as they hurried about.
“Seventy-eight!” The lad pointed, then sprinted in the opposite direction toward a man who was pulling himself out of the mud. “Yer name, sir?”
“Murray,” said the muddy one. “Is this Hell then?”
“Nay, sir.” The lad laughed. “‘Tis Culloden. And ye’re the 78th to rise. I am Rabby MacDonald. I was number 8. This is Dauphin.” He gestured to his dog.
Murry appeared to be more confused than ever. He murmured to the Highlander standing nearest him, but that one shrugged and shook his head.
Morey watched the Red Coats wandering like armies of ants around the field, but none noticed the rebels gathering above the mud.
Above the mud! God spare him, the Highlanders stood on the bog as if it were made of rock. Where they should have been struggling to free their feet, their boots fairly skimmed the ground! They were spirits in truth. Spirits…like him.
The large back of a Jacobite rose to the east, out of the jumble of bodies that had fought and fallen before Munro’s brigade. These were the men who hadn’t been hindered by the bog, who had been able to reach the Hanoverians and engage in true battle. But in a clash of swords, it was hard to believe this braw blond hadn’t won the day.
