by R. W. Hughes
‘There! There is movement,’ the shout came from one of the younger Macvail members of the group whose eyesight was obviously sharper than his older companions. George swung the telescope around and pointed it in the direction indicated by the young man. There was definitely some movement in the pass between two large hills many miles away. He quickly adjusted the sections of the telescope to obtain a sharper focus. ‘It is not men but just a small group of about six deer.’ He remarked, the disappointment obvious in his voice.
‘For deer to be on the move at this time of day, they have been disturbed, and I reckon they would not have broken cover unless it was something like a large body of men that had startled them.’ The abrupt statement came from Douglas Polson it was immediately followed by exclamations of agreement from several of the older members of the group.
‘Right! Decision made, that’s where we go, gather your weapons men let us make all haste. It is either our own or the Sutherland clan who have disturbed the deer, and we are soon to find out.’ The group followed him as he set off on a zigzag tcourse down the steep sides of the mountain, closing and placing the telescope in his shoulder bag as he went.
Within an hour they were at the bottom of the incline, all the older men were bitterly complaining of the soreness in their knees from the jarring due to the fast pace that he had set them on their decent. But there was no time to rest and they were off again, towards where they had last seen the deer in the gap in the distant hills. As not to be taken by surprise and as a precaution, he had sent one of the younger members of the Macghee clan on ahead as well as one on either side patrolling his flanks. He was rewarded with this precaution for, after several hours of the group’s fast walking, the Macghee posted at the front came back waving his arms up and down indicating for the group to stop and take cover, and he was also closely followed by those returning from the group’s flanks. A quick consultation with the scouts confirmed that making their way slowly towards them and only a quarter of a mile away was a large body of men.
He quickly spread out his force instructing them to find suitable cover behind the scattering of nearby large boulders. They barely had time to conceal themselves and prime their weapons when a large group appeared slowly around a bend in the track. He was shocked when Douglas, who was nearest to the group on the track, suddenly burst from behind a huge boulder where he had been hiding and stood in the centre of the track facing his companions and waving his arms.
Slowly several more of the Highlanders positioned near Douglas also left their shelter and joined him on the track, quickly followed by George who by now was utterly confused. It was only when he became closer to the group he realised it was not the Sutherlands but the crofters driven out from Handa Island and the coastal village the day before.
‘Well, the scouts were mistaken as all the men were at the front of their column and women and children in the rear.’ Answered Douglas in reply to Georges puzzled look.
We could have easily slaughtered our own people, Douglas. Only for your good eyesight and brave action.’George’s heart missed several beats at this realisation and he felt quite dizzy for several seconds.
He had led his men on a wild goose chase and the rest of his supporters were making their way across the mountain, and he had encouraged this knowledge to be passed to the Sutherlands; his friends at this very moment could well be walking into an ambush.
‘They say that a large force of well-armed Clan Sutherland and their supporters passed by where they were hiding half an hour ago,’ continued Douglas.
George breathed a deep sigh of relief for if he hurried, there was still a possibility he could still implement his plan. ‘Gather together the men, Douglas, we must move quickly; arm any of these men from Handa Island that wish to join us and seek revenge for the atrocities committed on their community.’
Starting quickly off down the track with the rest of the men dropping in behind him, he shouted to the scouts. ‘You men travel ahead; the Sutherlands are nearby so be vigilant.’
Within half an hour the scouts had returned, emphasising by their actions without speaking that the enemy were close. The young scout, Andra Macghee, made his way to George. ‘The Sutherlands are just around the bend in the track, and there are many of them, sir.’
George smiled at the young man nervously standing in front of him making his report. ‘You have done well, Andra, and you have earned the right to call me “George”, now go back and join your father and brother. And good luck in the coming conflict.’
Turning to the men behind him with a series of hand signals he indicated for them to spread out on either side and follow him as he made his way slowly towards the bend in the track.
As he slowly rounded the brow of the hill moving from one outcrop of boulders and clump of overgrown bushes to another for cover, he could see about eighty paces before him the Sutherland men and their supporters the Duncans. They were in the process of spreading out on either side of the pass, and all had their backs to him and their weapons pointing down the path. They were obviously preparing to lie in wait—which could only be for the rest of the main body of men from the Clan MacKay and their septs. Each was unaware of the ambush being prepared for them and were coming up the track towards the pass from the opposite direction. Using sign language and talking in whispers, George directed his group to spread out in a line moving forward slowly, using the rocks and bushes scattered over the hillside as cover.
He himself would move carefully down the track. He had instructed them to keep their eyes on him and wait for his signal before they opened fire or were attacked. He knew that timing was of the most importance to inflict the maximum damage and trap the ambushers between two fields of fire.
As he slowly made his way closer, he could just make the front rows of another large body of men travelling four abreast and hurrying towards them along the narrow rock-strewn track. Even at that distance, he could see the figure who was leading them: it was Paul Aberach, leader of the Clan Mathyson, followed closely by several members of the Macghee and MacQuid families.
He was glad he had forced the pace for his men—ignoring the complaints of the older members of the group who had found it difficult to maintain the speed set by the younger Highlanders—for not to do so they could well have arrived too late to stop the men spreading out in front of him, inflicting terrible casualties on his fellow clansmen. He looked at the man, who thirty yards ahead, was directly in front. He was obviously in charge; several of the men close to him were looking to him waiting the instructions to open fire on the unsuspecting large group advancing towards them.
At the man’s feet, he could just make out the still form of a body, possibly the advance scout sent on ahead by Paul Aberach. It appeared that he had been quietly disposed of by the Sutherlands, and then dragged out of sight from anyone coming along the path.
As the Sutherland leader turned slightly, he froze as he recognised him as the man who had bolted from the confrontation with the pack ponies several days before. Douglas Polson had thought he had wounded him; his description fitted that of the wanted murderer of his father and elder brother: the man was Nicolas Duncan.
No opportunity like the present. Yours will be the first blood to be spilled in this conflict Nicolas Duncan.
George thought to himself, as he raised his musket and slowly took aim between the man’s shoulder blades. His shot was the signal. With their battle cry of ‘Dearth do Chridhe’ [Prove thy Heart], the MacKay men and their followers with pistols primed and cocked rushed forward, while those armed with muskets behind them picked off their previously selected targets, sending a volley of lead into the unsuspecting ambushers.
At the same time as he had fired his musket, the man at the side of Nicolas Duncan decided to move slightly to a better position, and this decision proved fatal, for the lead ball aimed at his leader entered his chest as he moved across the intended target. This
hit his breast bone on its way through his body and taking that and part of his lungs out through a large hole in his back, thus splattering Nicolas Duncan as he turned with his companion’s splinters of bone and bloody pieces of lung.
Meanwhile the charging MacKays were now in amongst their surprised adversaries firing their pistols at close range then continuing their charge, swinging their heavy broadswords before their opponents had chance to draw their own weapons. They were closely followed by the rest of the men who had now dropped their muskets and were charging forward also with loaded primed pistols and drawn swords. George dropped his musket, drawing his own sword and pistol following just several paces behind the first group; he too was yelling the clan war cry. Consumed in a blind rage he was rushing towards the blood splattered upright form of Nicolas Duncan.
He was aware of firing his pistol in the face of a man who suddenly appeared and confronted him, swinging his heavy sword at another that was in the process of attempting to cock his pistol, cutting the man’s shoulder to the bone, then he was forced to parry a lunge with his target from another nearby adversary’s long dirk.
He hit the man in the jaw with the metal guard of his sword, then trampling over his body as he collapsed unconscious in front of him, George continued moving forward in his attempt to close on his intended target.
A man standing close to Nicolas Duncan raised his pistol pointing it at George’s chest as he advanced. He realised he was too far away to make contact with his sword, and seeing the evil grin on the man’s face as he squeezed the trigger of his musket he braced himself for the impact of the shot. There was an explosion close to his ear as a pistol was fired in the musket holder’s direction. His opponent’s evil grin froze on his face as a neat hole appeared in his forehead; his last reflex action was to fire his own musket. The ball whistled passed George’s head, nicking his ear in the process. The man behind him who had fired the pistol, possibly saving his life, took the ball in his throat.
George did not see Nicolas Duncan again during the conflict he was too busy defending himself. It was at this point that he realised how indebted he was to his father for the hours and hours of practice with the heavy broadsword. that he had forced his three sons to undertake. Slash-parry-lunge, parry, lunge.
A thousand years of his battling ancestors’ aggression was in his genes. They came to the forefront along with a great rush of adrenalin during that short bloody battle with man pitted against man, with no quarter given and no quarter expected.
Only once before had he felt this same sensation. When as a lieutenant in charge of the Highland Independent Company defending the new colony in the province of Georgia, he had ambushed a Spanish invasion force outnumbering his Highlanders by five to one. He had employed similar tactics in that battle. His men had come upon the Spanish force resting in a clearing taking a break while preparing a midday meal. He had quietly dispersed his company in the woods around the clearing, and on his signal, they had fired volley after volley into the enemy camp before rushing towards the panic-stricken soldiers, stopping to fire their muskets then throwing down their weapons, they had continued their charge drawing their pistols.
At close range, they discharged these weapons then dropped them to the ground before drawing their swords and long dirk and continued their charge, taking the fight in amongst the enemy who had been decimated by the previous volleys of lead shot. And before they could fire a shot in their own defence, George and his company were amongst them. In that conflict, he had seen fear in the eyes of the Spanish soldiers who realised they were about to die. When embroiled in this type of engagement there were none to match the Highlander; he was an adversary that excelled in close hand-to-hand fighting. The Spanish soldiers had been forced to flee in panic leaving their weapons and many of their dead and injured behind.
But this was a different battle; the Sutherlands were made of sterner material, and gave ground unwillingly, fighting all the way. During the battle with the Spanish and the same with this skirmish, he had observed even when his own Highlanders were disarmed or maimed they still attempted to continue, biting-clawing-kneeing-gauging. Only death seemed to end their will to continue the fight. He now understood more clearly why the MacKays, when they were on the war-path, were held in such fear by their neighbouring clans.
A blow from a sword guard at the side of his head caused him to stumble to his knees; semi-dazed he was aware of man in a MacKay tartan standing over him fighting off and keeping at bay two of the Sutherland Highlanders who had moved in for the kill. Quickly recovering, George was again on his feet to help his protector, who was being solely pressed by his adversaries. A parry with his small shield, from a sword lunge followed by an upward slash with his dirk rendered his opponent seriously injured with a side wound and the man staggered away from the conflict.
He then managed a quick glance at his fellow clansman, as he clubbed another opponent unconscious with the guard of his long dirk, and recognised Branan Macghee who he had last seen at his family’s funeral.
The initial charge by the MacKays had driven the surprised Sutherland men backwards; from being the ambushers, they had become the ambushed.
But the men he had led in the initial rush were fatigued by their previous battle and their long and forced march. Slowly their more numerous adversaries were regaining the initiative and regaining their lost ground, forcing George and his men backwards and on the defensive. That was until the men led by Paul Aberach with a wild fury and shouting their clan battle cry fell upon them from behind.
The ensuing fight was short and savage, trapped in a pincer movement the Sutherlands were taking a severe beating. Several who found that they had no more stomach left for the conflict, started to flee. It started with the odd one or two at first, then small groups, and then a headlong panic and men scattering in all directions. They were running for their lives leaving behind them many dead and badly injured, pursued by the triumphant MacKays and their supporters who inflicted terrible carnage on their adversaries as they attempted to escape by scrambling up the surrounding steep slopes, discarding their weapons in their flight. But many had lost their grip and were falling back to be disposed of by their pursuers.
‘They will remember this battle in the shadow of Ben Loyal for many years to come. It will be many moons before they even think about crossing our borders again,’ exclaimed a panting Douglas leaning heavily on his blood-stained broadsword.
‘Yes, we have gone a long way to repay the cowardly act of assassination by these cowards of my father and brother and the brutal treatment of the families of Handa Island.’
He surveyed the many crumpled bodies of the Sutherland and Duncan men in the process of being stripped of anything of value by the jubilant and victorious MacKays and their followers.
‘It as indeed been a great victory, but the assassin Nicolas Duncan managed to slip away in the confusion of the battle,’ George said as he leant against a large rock panting to regain his breath.
‘Do not be disappointed, George, your turn will come,’ said Paul Aberach as he joined them stooping to wrap a scarf tightly around a deep wound on his thigh.
‘And that corpse there,’ said Douglas, indicating the man that George had shot through the chest with his musket. ‘He is Donald Moray one of the Sutherland Clan’s main leaders, I can assure you he will be hard to replace.’
‘Aye! And Rory Morgan lying by him, with the ball in his throat, saved my life at the expense of his own. He will be sadly missed by his young family,’ George exclaimed, looking at the crumpled form of the man who had given him and Douglas shelter in his cottage just a few days before.
Douglas reached down and rolled the still body of Moray over, retrieving a broadsword that had been hidden by the corpse. ‘I believe this is yours,’ he said handing the heavy sword to George.
‘Indeed, it is!’ he gasped. The last time he had seen his fathers’ sword was wh
en he had left it at the side of the loch when being pursued by Nicolas Duncan and his followers.
‘I expected a better fight from the Sutherlands. They seemed to fade very quickly,’ commented Paul Aberach, still trying to stem the blood from his thigh.
‘They were weary, Paul,’ answered George. ‘They had been called to the muster at short notice travelling many miles to reach the meeting point, then without any rest, they were forced marched over the moors to be in position to ambush you and your men.’
Paul Aberach nodded. ‘Did you reckon on this happening, George?’ he said as he walked over to a Sutherland man who was sitting down on the crumpled grass, attempting to push back his intestines that had burst through a gaping wound in his stomach.
‘My brothers’ son had a similar wound. We tried to keep him alive, but he died a most horrible, painful and drawn out affair. I would not wish the same on any man.’
Douglas, who Paul Aberach was speaking to, could not find any words to reply, while George was still being sick at the sight over a nearby large boulder.
‘And what should we do with the Sutherland wounded, George?’ gestured Paul Aberach with a broad sweep of his arm at the many wounded men scattered around the area. ‘We are no doubt being spied upon from cover as you speak by the Sutherlands, and they will return as soon as we leave.’
‘Let them take care of their own wounded,’ George replied.
Raised voices took the attention of Paul Aberach as two of his clansmen were in a heated argument over the possession of a pocket pistol taken from one of the dead Sutherland men; one was holding the small barrel, while the over was tugging at the stock. He moved off to intervene in the dispute, returning a few moments later with the small pistol, which he placed at the side of the man with the serious stomach wound, along with a small powder horn and a single shot.
There was no reaction from the wounded man he just stared at the firearm with a glazed look in his eyes.
