Rebellion & In From The Cold (30 page)

For a split second Gwen debated lying. But though she was young still, she had already seen that women dealt best with the truth, no matter how frightening. “He’s turned wrong, Maggie. I know what to do, but it won’t be a simple birth.”

“Am I going to die?” There was no desperation in Maggie’s question, only a need for truth. As difficult as it was, Gwen had already made her decision. If she had to choose, she would save Maggie and lose the child. Before she could speak, the next contraction hit, bringing Maggie, exhausted as she was, rearing up.

“Oh, God. My baby, don’t let my baby die. Swear it to me. Swear it.”

“No one’s going to die.” Serena squeezed her hand hard, so hard it cut through the other pain and had Maggie quieting. “No one’s going to die,” she repeated. “Because you’re going to fight. When the pain comes you’re going to scream it out if need be, but you’re not going to give up. MacGregors don’t give up.”

* * *

The round shot of the government artillery cut huge holes in the Jacobite lines. Their own guns could only answer ineffectually as men fell like slain deer. Wind blew smoke and sleet back in their faces while they stood and suffered the slaughter of their ranks. Even with their lines running six deep, the cannonfire broke through and brought writhing, miserable death.

“Sweet Jesus, why won’t they give the order to charge?” Coll, his face blackened with smoke, looked with desperate eyes at the carnage. “Will they have us stand here and be cut down to the last man before we raise a sword?”

Brigham swung around and galloped for the right wing, driving hard through the smoke and fire. “In the name of God,” he cried when he faced the Prince, “give us the command to charge. We die like dogs.”

“What are you saying? We wait for Cumberland to attack.”

“You can’t see what the cannons have done to your front lines. If you wait for Cumberland, you wait in vain. He won’t attack as long as his guns can murder from a distance. We haven’t their range, and sweet Lord, we’re dying.”

Charles began to dismiss him, for indeed his position was such that he had no clear view of the murderous skill of Cumberland’s artillery, but at that moment, Murray himself rode to the Prince with
the request.

“Give the command,” Charles agreed.

The messenger was sent, but was felled by a cannonball before he could reach the ranks. Seeing it, Brigham continued the drive himself, shouting the order “Claymore” over the cheers and oaths of the men.

The center of the line moved first, racing like wild stags across the moor, and fell upon the dragoons, swinging broadsword and scythe. It would be written that the Highlanders came like wolves, desperate for blood, fearless in spirit. But they were only men, and many were cut down by bayonet and dagger.

If the English had run in front of a Highland assault before they had now learned. In a canny and merciless maneuver, the dragoons shifted lines to catch the charging Scots in a sweeping and deadly rifle volley.

The Highland charge continued, but the ground itself, as predicted, served the English. A hail of bullets split the line. Still, it seemed for an instant as though their combined strength would crumble Cumberland’s ranks, as the English were forced back to the next line of defense. But that second line held, pouring devastating fire onto the raging Highlanders. They fell, men heaping onto men so that those who still stood were forced to crawl over the bodies of their comrades.

Still the guns thundered, scattering grapeshot now—canisters full of nails and lead balls and iron scrap—like hideous rain.

The well-trained dragoons held their ground, one rank firing while the next reloaded so that the hail of bullets was unending. But still the clansmen pressed on.

Grapeshot blasted against Brigham’s shield, scoring his arm and shoulder as he fought his way over the dead and wounded and through the duke’s line. He saw James MacGregor, Rob Roy’s impetuous son, driving his men through the living wall of English troops. His own eyes stung from the smoke that blurred his vision. Ice was in his veins as he hacked and sliced his way towards the back of Cumberland’s line. Through the fog, he saw that Murray had preceded him, his hat and wig blown off during the battle. Only then did the confusion surrounding them start to come clear.

True, their right wing had cut through, taking down the dragoons in the press of their charge. But elsewhere, the Jacobites were in tatters. The MacDonalds had taken fearful punishment as they tried to lure the dragoons into attack with short, daring rushes, for the men facing them down had stood their ground and fired unrelentingly.

In a desperate move, Brigham wheeled back, determined to fight his way through yet again and rally what men who could.

He saw Coll, legs planted, claymore and dirk whistling viciously as he fought off three red-coated English. Without hesitation, Brigham went to his aid.

This was no romantic duel at dawn, but a sweaty, grunting fight for life. The wound Brigham had already received was oozing blood, and his dagger hand was slippery. Smoke billowed, clogging the lungs, even as the sleet continued to fall.

Only small, sporadic skirmishes remained in the area around them. The Jacobites were still fighting wildly but were being forced back over the moor, which was already strewn with dead and wounded. The wall of men that had once been strong on the right wing had been broken, allowing the red-coated cavalry to storm through and threaten the retreating men.

But the bigger defeat meant little at that moment to Coll and Brigham, who fought back-to-back, outnumbered in their personal war as surely as the whole of the Prince’s army had been outnumbered by Cumberland’s. Coll took a hit to the thigh, but the gash went almost unfelt as he continued to lash out
with his weapon. Behind him, Brigham whirled and struck before another blow hit home. With this small personal victory, both men turned and began the race over the littered, smoke-covered moor.

“My God, they’ve destroyed us.” Breathless and bleeding, Coll scanned the carnage. It was a picture a man would never forget, a glimpse of hell steaming with smoke and stinking of blood. “There must have been ten thousand of them.” He saw, as they broke into a pocket of clear air, a dragoon brutally mutilating the body of an already-dead clansman. With a lionlike roar, Coll fell on him.

“Enough. Sweet Jesus.” Brigham dragged him off. “There’s nothing more we can do here but die. The cause is lost, Coll; the rebellion is over.” But Coll was like a madman, sword raised, ready to use it on the first man who crossed his path. “Think. Glenroe is close, too close. We have to get back, get the family out.”

“Maggie.” Only at his father’s death had Coll felt so much like weeping. “Aye, you’ve the right of it.”

They began again, swords at the ready. Here and there could still be heard the volley of shots and the screams. They had nearly reached the hills when a chance twist of his head showed Brigham the wounded dragoon lifting his musket and taking unsteady aim.

There was time only to shove Coll out of the line of the fire. Brigham felt the ball slam into his body, felt its roaring, hideous pain.

He fell on the edge of Drumossie Moor, in the place that came to be known as Culloden.

* * *

Numb, nearly asleep on her feet, Serena burst out of the house to drag in cold, fresh air. There were wars only women knew, and she had fought such a war. They had been nearly two nights in the desperate battle to bring Maggie’s child out of her womb and into the world. There had been blood and sweat and pain she had never imagined. The boy had come, feet first, into the world, leaving his mother wavering between life and death.

Now it was nearly dusk, and Gwen had said that Maggie would live. Serena could only remember those first thin, wailing cries. Maggie had heard them, too, before she had fainted from exhaustion and loss of blood.

Here, outside, the light was soft with approaching evening. To the west the first stars had shivered themselves into life, luring a lone owl. Serena felt its call pierce through her.

“Oh, Brigham.” She wrapped her arms around the slope of her own belly. “I need you.”

“Serena?”

She turned, narrowing her eyes to focus as a figure limped out of the shadows. “Rob? Rob MacGregor?” Then she saw him fully, his doublet streaked with blood, his hair matted with dirt and sweat, and his eyes, his wild eyes. “What happened to you? My God.” She reached for him as he stumbled at her feet.

“The battle. The English. They’ve killed us, Serena. Killed us.”

“Brigham.” She snatched at his torn shirt. “Brigham. Where is he? Is he safe? In the name of pity, tell me, where is Brigham?”

“I don’t know. So many dead, so many.” He wept into her skirts, broken. He had once been young, idealistic, fond of fancy waistcoats and pretty girls. “My father, my brothers, all dead. I saw them fall. And old MacLean, too, and young David Mackintosh. Slaughtered.” The horror of it showed in his eyes when he lifted his face. “Even when we ran they slaughtered us like pigs.”

“Did you see Brigham?” she said desperately, shaking him as he sobbed against her. “And Coll.
Did you see them?”

“Aye. I saw them, but there was smoke, so much smoke, and the guns never stopped. Even when it was over it didn’t stop. I saw—I saw them killing women, and children. There was a farmer and his son plowing. The dragoons rode over them, stabbing and stabbing. I was hiding, and I saw the wounded on the field. They murdered them with clubs.”

“No.” Again she wrapped her arms around her unborn child as she began to rock back and forth. “No.”

“A man would put down his weapons in surrender and still be shot down like a dog. They came after us. There were bodies along the road, hundreds, we couldn’t even bury our dead.”

“When? When was the battle fought?”

“Yesterday.” With a choked sob, he wiped his eyes. “Only yesterday.”

He was safe. She had to believe that Brigham was safe. How could she move, how could she act, if she thought him dead? He was not dead, she told herself as she slowly rose. She would not let him be dead. She looked to the house, where the candles were already lighted for evening. She had a family to protect.

“Will they come here, Rob?”

“They are hunting us down like animals.” Recovered, he spit on the ground. “My shame is that I did not kill a dozen more instead of running.”

“Sometimes you run so you can fight again.” She remembered him as he had been, and knew that he would never be that way again. In pity, she put her arms around him. “Your mother?”

“I haven’t gone to her yet. I don’t know how I can tell her.”

“Tell her that her men died bravely in the service of the true king, then get her and the other women into the hills.” She looked down the path to where the shadows fell over a thin frost. “This time, when the English come to burn, there will be no women to rape.”

Inside the house, she sought out Gwen. The fear she felt for Brigham was trapped in the back of her mind. For her own sanity, and for the sake of her family, she wouldn’t allow it to break free. Over and over, like a chant, her thoughts ran on.

He was alive. He would come back.

“Gwen.” Taking her sister’s hand, Serena drew her from Maggie’s bedside. “How is she?”

“Weak.” Gwen was teetering on the brink of exhaustion herself. “I wish I knew more. There is still so much to learn.”

“No one could have done more than you. You saved her, and the bairn.”

Gwen, her eyes still clouded with fatigue, looked back toward the bed where Maggie slept. “I was afraid.”

“We all were.”

“Even you?” Gwen smiled and pressed her sister’s hand. “You seemed so fearless, so confident. Well, the worst is over. The bairn is healthy, miraculously so.” She sighed, allowing herself to think for the first time of her own bed. “A few weeks of rest and care and Maggie will regain her strength.”

“How soon can she be moved?”

“Moved?” Gwen paused in the act of adjusting the fillet that held back her hair. “Why, Serena?”

Maggie murmured in her sleep. With a gesture, Serena brought Gwen outside into the hallway. “I’ve just seen Rob MacGregor.”

“Rob? But—”

“There was a battle, Gwen. It was bad, very bad.”

“Coll?” Gwen managed after a moment. “Brigham?”

“Rob didn’t know. But he told me that our troops were routed and that the English are pursuing the survivors.”

“We can hide them. Rob, and whoever else comes. Surely if the English come and find us only women alone they will leave again.”

“Do you forget what happened before when we were only women and the English came?”

“That was only one man,” Gwen said in a desperate whisper.

“Listen to me.” Serena put her hands on Gwen’s shoulders and struggled to speak calmly. “Rob told me. He said it was like madness. He said the dragoons murdered the wounded, that they struck down woman and children. If they come here before the madness is passed they will kill us all, even Maggie and the bairn.”

“We may kill her if we move her.”

“Better that than have her butchered at the hands of the English. Gather together what she and the child will need. We daren’t wait to move longer than first light.”

“Rena, what of you and your child?”

A light came into her eyes that had nothing to do with fear. Had her father seen it, he would have smiled. “We will survive, and we will remember.”

With her own words drumming in her ears, she walked downstairs. In the kitchen, her mother was preparing a tray of broth and bread.

“Serena, I thought you would rest. Go now, get to your bed. As soon as I have seen Gwen eat this, I shall be certain she does the same.”

“Mama, we must talk.”

“Maggie?” Fiona said immediately. “The babe?”

“No, Gwen tells me they do well enough.” She turned her head so that her eyes met Mrs. Drummond’s, then Parkins’s. “We must all talk. Where is Malcolm?”

“In the stables, my lady,” Parkins told her. “Tending the horses.”

With a nod, Serena led her mother to a chair at the table. “Is there tea, Mrs. Drummond? Enough for all of us?”

“Aye.” Silently she poured the cups, then took a seat when Serena gestured.