The Last Sunset (38 page)

Achnacon’s bliss would not be ruffled. “Och,
themselfs will have lost the stomach for a fight after this latest drubbing.
Trust me, young Andy, I haff crossed swords with the red soldiers before. They
are stout enough when the day goes well, but they will run as swift as any once
the day has turned.”

Longholme, however, was also concerned by what
he saw. He sought out the old Highlander.

“My former comrades show no sign of relinquishing
their ground. I fear their bold leader is not done with us yet.”

“They have many wounds to lick. They are chust
drawing breath before leaving the field.”

Longholme shook his head irritably. “No, sir. I
understand the workings of this man’s mind. Captain Scott has been drawn into a
contest in which the stakes, to him, are worth the lives of every one of his
men.”

Ishbel was busy changing Andy’s bloody
dressings. There were fresh tears on her face, and Macmillan realised the old
warrior had misread the emotions that welled from his daughter. His little
spitfire was simply traumatised by what she’d done. She couldn’t even look Andy
in the face.

Longholme pointed directly at the young soldier.
“You, sir, have become the prize of this bloody affair. You and that devilish
weapon you possess.”

Ishbel had bound the bandages so tightly Andy
had difficulty speaking.

“What?”

“Our enemy, sir, has seen what all of us here
have seen. A company of resolute men armed with such muskets could defeat an
army. And an army, by God…” His eyes flashed wildly at the thought. “…An army
so equipped would be invincible! You, sir, hold in your hands the staff of
Moses; the means by which the very world may be conquered!”

The little blood that remained in Andy’s face
drained away. By a supreme irony, in helping to drive off the soldiers he’d
only multiplied their resolve. But worse still was the fear that had gnawed at
him since Shawnee planted the seed in his mind; the fear that he would in some
way become death, the destroyer of worlds.

“If Ah gave maself up… maybe they’ll leave…”

Longholme had developed an ear for Andy’s
outlandish accent.

“On the contrary, sir. If you surrender yourself
you sign the death warrant of every one of us here. Make no mistake of it; all
that stands between each of us and the bayonet is your quick-firing musket!”

The troops positioned on the southern slopes
were now being reinforced from the main body to the west. Another detachment
from the east had begun to take up position along the northern hillsides, five
hundred feet above the corpse-ridden slopes below. As this scarlet noose was
being tightened around them, Andy was about to discover that no matter how bad
things become they can always get worse.

To the east, from behind the hillock littered with
the bodies of the artillerymen, a plume of smoke suddenly appeared. Moments
later a cannonball whistled overhead and ploughed into the burn, throwing up a
fountain of water and steam.

Andy slumped against the wall. He realised now
would not be a good time to tell them his quick-firing musket had barely twenty
rounds left.

Mary held Alistair’s cold hands against her
breast, trying to bring warmth back to them. She could feel his heart still
beating faintly, drawing little gasps of air into his lungs.

She had dragged him between the stacks of straw
before the storm of musket fire crashed down on
Meall An Fhraoich
. Now
the cannonade had begun again, the cannonade that
Alasdair Mhor
had
given his life trying to halt. She could feel warm tears trickling down her
face. Warm tears from a frozen heart. Perhaps her soul was grieving. His face
looked calm and peaceful, death banishing all cares before claiming its final
dues. Still he held on, drawing just enough air into his body to remain alive.
Perhaps each heart is allotted so many beats; no more, no less.

Beyond the walls of the barn, people were
rushing this way and that. She felt detached from events outside, waiting for
life to leave this stranger who’d come from nowhere to touch her very soul. She
didn’t hear the rustling of straw in the far corner of the barn, nor did she
see the squat shape that crept from the shadows, like a hunter stalking its
prey. She only knew someone was there when a foul, sweating hand was held over
her mouth, and she was dragged into the depths of the building.

She knew it was
him
, even before he’d
thrust himself on top of her, tearing at her dress, his face alight with
expectation. The redcoat forced himself between her legs and scrabbled to
unbuckle his belt. Mary clawed at his face, drawing red furrows down each
cheek, before he grabbed her arms and pinned them to the floor. She could feel
him poised at her opening, relishing the moment before he entered her. She
screamed, adding her voice to the bedlam outside. The soldier leaned over her
and licked her face, like a connoisseur savouring a rare dish. Mary screamed
again, her eyes wide with despair.

As if in a dream she saw the ghost of Alistair
appear above her. She watched as the ghost clenched its hands together and fell
upon her attacker. The impact pushed the redcoat onto Mary. He withdrew to
throw off Alistair’s dead weight, and for a moment Mary’s right leg was free.
She kicked out and connected with something soft and fleshy. The soldier
grunted. Mary kicked again and again until he rolled away clutching his groin.

She had no idea where she found the strength to
pull Alistair clear of the barn. The noise of the musket fire was deafening.
Lead balls whistled around her, making cracking noises as they ricocheted off
the walls. As Mary dragged Alistair beneath a nearby wall a red-hot cannonball,
sparks trailing behind it, crashed through the thatch of the barn. The roof
above the entrance collapsed in a cloud of smoke and sparks. Flames took hold,
blocking any escape. This last explosion brought Alistair round. He opened his
eyes and looked at Mary. Her screams had called him back from the brink, but
the last of his strength had gone and he was failing fast now. He managed to
summon a faint smile, a last poignant flicker of what might have been.

The smile faded as his eyes glazed over.

In that instant Mary felt as if the ice in her
heart had shattered and turned to glass. She held Alistair in her arms, rocking
him to and fro as though he had fallen asleep.

~*~

The two Americans had returned to the storehouse
before the musketry had broken out again. Sam walked now with the proud limp of
a wounded warrior.

Andy handed him the self-loading rifle. “Just
one mag left,” he grunted.

The American nodded. “I hoped after that last
bloody nose they mighta hauled ass outta here…”

Andy nodded towards Longholme, who’d returned
with Achnacon to his own strongpoint.

“Big guy reckons they’ve got the hots… for the
rifle…”

Everybody ducked as another missile boomed out
from the west. The cannonball flew lazily over the settlement and landed on the
far side of the burn.

“Guess we didn’t put ’em out of action
completely,” said Sam.

“…They’re no’ gunners… just redcoats… making a
lottae noise…”

A volley of musket fire broke out from the southern
slopes of the glen. This was followed by a rolling fusillade from the soldiers
stationed eight hundred feet above them on the northern slopes. Some of the
newly armed clansfolk sheltered in the passageways from this fresh crossfire.
Others joined Longholme and added their fire to his. At the storehouse Andy and
Sam dropped below the rampart and pulled Shawnee and Ishbel down with them.

Andy gave Ishbel a reassuring squeeze with his
good arm. Her tears had dried and she’d recovered some of her colour, but she
was unnaturally subdued. She curled up beside him and closed her eyes as if
they were two lovers on their own once again.

“Didnae matter much… us being here,” Andy
gasped. “…All gonnae end the same way…”

The firefight continued for some time without
either side inflicting much in the way of casualties. The cannon added its
booming roar to the thunder of the musket fire. Most of the cannon balls fell
short, or flew dramatically over the settlement. One crashed through a nearby
roof. Soon the building was alight, sending another black pall into the
smoke-filled sky.

With a squeal of alarm Shawnee leapt up. “Oh my
God! That’s where we left Alistair and Mary!”

Sam struggled to his feet and hobbled after
Shawnee as she ran towards the barn. He spotted Mary and Alistair beneath one
of the walls, and ran on, taking Shawnee into the nearby cottage that was set
up as a hospital.

“You stay here!” he yelled above the clamour.
“I’ll bring them in.” He ran out and pulled Mary to safety. The woman screamed
and kicked, only calming down when she recognised Shawnee. Sam hobbled out
again and dragged Alistair into the cottage. After he’d pulled him into a
corner he caught Shawnee’s eye and solemnly shook his head. Oblivious to
everything else, Mary returned to Alistair’s side.

As soon as they’d made their way back to the
fortress, Sam raised his head above the parapet to make sure neither of the
main bodies was on the move. With five rounds left for Alistair’s rifle, and
twenty for Andy’s, it was agreed he would only fire as a last resort. At one
point Andy too began to rise to his feet, but he was firmly held back by
Ishbel, her eyes closed as if she were asleep.

~*~

On the far side of the burning barn something
had begun to emerge from a small window. The redcoat had found another exit
from the building, but like Andy before him had become stuck fast in the tiny
gap. He levered his arms against the stone blocks on either side and heaved
with all his strength, but only jammed his pelvis tighter into the narrow
opening.

He could feel his boots beginning to melt around
his feet, his breeches smouldering, as the flames licked around his lower
torso. With the desperation of the damned he clawed at the stone blocks until
the walls on either side of him were red with blood.

The fire consumed everything within the barn.
Flames leapt from every opening in the building, except one. If anybody heard
the soldier’s screams above the pandemonium they paid no attention.

~*~

The cannon and musket fire continued until it
seemed the walls must come crashing down soon. The smoke from the gunfire mixed
with the black palls from the burning cottages to create a sickening smog.

Without warning the firing stopped.

Ishbel was first on her feet. She looked over to
where her father stood, smoke rising from his musket. Achnacon shrugged his
shoulders. The cries of the women and children fell away, fearful of attracting
attention in the sudden silence. Andy clawed his way up the wall. Along both
hillsides the Hanoverian troops had risen to their feet, the smoke from that
last fusillade drifting above their heads.

Ishbel saw them first. Her eyes wide with alarm,
she pointed towards the southern ridge. Along the skyline, a thousand feet
above the glen, a long line of figures had come into view. They were dark and
featureless against the bright sky, but the precision with which they’d
appeared made it obvious they were trained soldiers.

“Aw naw,” Andy groaned. “Give us a break…”

Sam put his arms around Shawnee. “Bastards,” he
snarled at the distant shapes. “Bastards…”

On the opposite side of the glen a second line
of soldiers appeared, silhouetted against the northern sky. Ishbel found her
way under Andy’s good arm. He could feel her shivering against him.

Behind them the soldiers on the northern slopes
were on the move, running downhill towards the clachan. Moments later their
comrades on the opposite slopes were careering down the hillside. To the east
the troops had also broken into the charge, completing a three pronged advance
on the village. A ragged volley crashed out from Longholme’s position. Sam
picked up Andy’s S.L.R. and jammed the butt into his shoulder. He could hear
his friend yelling at him, but he had already begun firing. Suddenly the barrel
of the weapon was pushed skywards, and Andy was shouting into his face:

“They’re no’ charging… they’re scattering!”

Beside him Ishbel and Shawnee were jumping up
and down in each other’s arms. At the other stronghold, redcoats and clansmen,
men and women, were hugging each other, their muskets raised in triumph. Only
then did Sam realise that attacking
Meall An Fhraoich
was the last thing
on the redcoats’ minds. Those running from the east were racing past the
barricades, without even glancing at the defenders. The soldiers on the
hillsides had veered to the west as they ran downhill. Already the column that
had plodded into the glen from the west had disappeared over the horizon,
fleeing towards the safety of far away Loch Eil. From the ridges high above
Glen Laragain the new arrivals were pouring down the hillsides. A chorus of
blood-chilling roars rang out from both sides of the glen.

“Who the hell are they?” Sam shouted.

“
Camshron!
Clann Camshron!
”
screamed Ishbel.