Prince Across the Water (15 page)

Then I looked around our little cottage, so warm and familiar. I knew every stone, every beam, every stick of furniture. Would I miss it? I hadn't given it a thought when we went to Glenfinnan. But this time was different.

Dinna be a daftie, Duncan
, I told myself.
If ye keep this up, ye'll soon be weeping like a bairn
.

A noise at the door startled me and I turned around. Granda pushed the door open and was just coming into the room.

“There's a chill tightening my chest,” he said, beating his fist against the front of his sark. “I need a wee dram to loosen things up.” He reached up to the shelf where the whiskey jug sat, and poured himself a cup.

“I'd best be off about my chores,” I said, backing toward the door.

“Yer chores, aye,” said Granda. “Ye'll be needing that old dirk of mine to keep the wolves and bears off the cows, I suppose.” He pointed at the knife in my belt.

“Ye … ye told me I could keep it,” I said, nervously fingering the handle.

“Aye, I did,” Granda agreed, sipping his whiskey, “and I'll no take back what was freely given. But ye should have a care for where such a gift might lead ye.”

“What do ye mean?” I had a sinking feeling Granda was about to tell one of his tales. I'd have to stop and hear him out lest he grow more suspicious.

Granda sat himself down on his stool. “I've told ye many stories in yer time,” he said. “Some of them happy and some of them sad.”

“Aye, Granda.” I kept my voice free of the hurry I felt.

“Dinna let
yer
own tale be a sad one,” he said, looking down into his whiskey. “We've had enough of that. Stand proudly on the MacDonald line, to the right hand of the prince. Our rightful place since bloody Bannockburn.” He smiled into his cup. “That's tradition as ye know. Come back safe bringing yer story with ye.”

“How did ye guess …” I began. Then I had to laugh. Here I was standing in front of him in my plaid and stockings, the bonnet on my head and the dirk in my belt. Even a village simpleton would know what I was about.

“Haste away,” he said, “before yer da and ma have ye tell a different story.” Then he turned from me, but not before I saw that his eyes had grown watery.

I raced out of the cottage, feeling blessed. Granda would surely stall them and give me extra time to get away.

I climbed the northernmost hill overlooking the village to meet Ewan as we'd agreed. He was dressed in his best clothes as well, and was crouching low in the dark bracken that was brittle with cold. I saw he'd armed himself with a pitchfork and a hunting knife.

“So here we are,” I said.

He hissed, “Get down, ye ass, or we'll be seen.”

I sank down beside him and looked back at the rough little cottages that comprised our village. “No one's looking for us yet, Ewan.”

“Ye canna know that.”

“I can.”

“Nae, ye canna.” Then he laughed. “Squabbling like bairns when we're soldiers?”

I laughed, too, and held out my hand. “Peace?”

“Aye,” he said. “Then let's swear again to be brothers-in-arms, Duncan, until this thing is done and honor satisfied.”

“We've done that already with spit.”

“When we were boys,” he said. “We're men now, and they do it with blood.”

Nodding, I took out my dirk and held it between us. Ewan drew his thumb down the edge until it drew blood, then showed me the cut. I did likewise. A sudden wind bent the trees. I shivered, and not with the cold.

“Till this thing is done,” I said.

“Till this thing is done,” he agreed.

We looked at each other, suddenly too awed to grin. Blood is a great binder.

“Well,” Ewan asked at last, “are ye ready to march?” It sounded like a challenge.

“Of course,” I answered. I think I meant it. “We'd best shift or Prince Charlie will have to hold up his big battle for us.”

That made him grin.

Then side by side, we marched like soldiers through trees already topped with the growing dark. Down the far side we went, heading north and east toward Inverness, toward the place where the prince waited.

21 THE ROAD TO CULLODEN

Before nightfall Ewan managed to sneak up on a rabbit and bring it down with a throw of his knife. I couldn't hide the fact that I was impressed.

“That way we can save the food we brought with us,” he said, for he'd taken the same cheese, bread, and oats that I had.

“For emergencies,” I agreed.

We made camp at the edge of a field, under a canopy of pine. I put together a wee hearth of stones and we piled branches and bark in the middle. But though Ewan struck the flints a dozen times, he couldn't get our little heap of kindling to burn.

“I've a knack for this,” I said, taking the flints from him, and making a spark on the first strike.

“So, Duncan, we're a good match,” he said. “Only I'll play Da and ye'll be the wife, tending the fire!”

“Och, soldiers need to know how to make a fire, too, ye ninny,” I said, heatedly.

“Peace, peace.” He held up his hands. “Can ye no take a joke?”

To show him I could, I let the argument go, and instead set about finding more kindling. I even came upon a well-aged log that I put on the flames. Soon we had a fire going that was as cheery as any in the hearth at home.

“Do ye think they'll come looking for us?” I asked, as Ewan roasted the rabbit over our makeshift spit.

“If they've any wit at all, they'll know where we're bound. As many as wish can meet us at the prince's camp,” he said.

Two days later, in a rain that bucketed down, we found a road running north, around the shore of a great dark-water loch. We guessed it would lead right to Inverness but were wary about being seen.

“We dinna want to run into a troop of redcoats,” I said. “Just the two of us.”

Ewan agreed. “A pitchfork willna help us much then.”

We stayed in sight of the road but never set foot directly on it. We saw carts pulled by oxen, horse-drawn carriages, even men and women on foot carrying baskets, but we didn't see a single soldier. Still, we were wary of being on the road ourselves, so it took us longer than the five days Ewan had predicted. In fact, it took double that. But not one of those days was I sick with a fit, as if heading toward the prince had brought back the healing magic.

When we lay down to sleep that final night, deep in the last year's bracken, we could see lights far off in the distance. Our supper that night was a cold one. This close to our goal, we were afraid the wrong folks might spot our fire. We ate what was left of the cheese and were glad of it.

“What do ye think?” I asked, pointing to the far-off lights. “Might that be Prince Charlie's camp—or is it Cumberland's? Will the army still be there?”

“I reckon those are the lights of Inverness,” said Ewan. He pulled out his knife and made a great show of sharpening it on a nearby rock. “And of course they're still there. We'd have heard otherwise.”

“Inverness.” I'd never been to a city. The thought of the place, bustling with city folk, markets everywhere, made my breath momentarily feel solid in my throat. I didn't question Ewan's certainty. I wanted it to be true.

All at once, the lights grew dim, then disappeared completely. For the first time, a nameless fear gripped me, as if I were about to have a fit. I knew a soldier shouldn't be afraid, but I was trembling all over.

“What's happened?” I managed.

For a moment Ewan looked as confused as I, then he sniffed the air and laughed. “It's only a mist, Duncan. We're going to have a damp night. We'd better get to sleep while we can.”

Now I could feel the mist myself, and was embarrassed to have let myself be so frightened, like a bairn frightened by a bad dream. But at least Ewan, too, had been uneasy.

And why shouldn't I be a wee bit afraid?
I asked myself.
There's certainly much out there to be afraid of. An entire redcoat army somewhere ahead of us. Or behind
.

This did nothing to make me feel better. So I decided to tell myself one of Granda's stories to put myself to sleep. The only one I could remember was about a piper lad who walked deep into a dark cave in search of a magic chanter for his bagpipe. It wasn't a comforting story, for it ends badly for the boy. He disappears and his family never sees him again, but at last I fell asleep. I suppose I dreamed of victory. Soldiers always do.

We woke very early. The line of light was hardly on the horizon and the mist was slow to clear, as if the day were loath to begin. The middle of April can sometimes be cold and sometimes promising. This day stood somewhere in-between. More hopeful were the bluebells already poking out their brave little heads all around us, and the damp curls of ferns pushing up through the black ground.

We stood up and shook out our plaids to get the damp out of them.

“What's left to eat?” Ewan asked.

“Only an oatcake,” I said, taking it out of the pouch at my belt. It was mostly crumbles. We were lucky to have it, though. Ewan had killed our last hare two days earlier, and the bread had gone then, too.

“That will have to do us,” said Ewan, taking half from my hand. “Until we feed on the Duke of Cumberland's best beef,” he added with a grin.

I tried to grin back but I was too cold. I shivered visibly and Ewan stared at me. “Now mind ye have none of those fits, Duncan,” he said. “I canna be waiting on ye. Besides, Prince Charlie needs hale men in his army, no sick ones.”

His words smarted, but I knew he had a right to say them.

“Dinna ye worry about me,” I said. “I'll see the road through, and fight at the end of it. I'm feeling fine. Only a wee bit cold.” To prove this, I belted my kilt and did a few deep-knee bends.

Ewan nodded approvingly, then gave me a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Ye've the making of a soldier, sure enough, Duncan. Just stay on yer feet and follow my lead.” He strode off.

The hair on the back of my neck bristled and this time I shook with anger, not the cold. He was treating me like a bairn, a child, who knew nothing about war.

Have ye forgotten which of us went to Glenfinnan and which stayed home?
I thought.
Or which of us won the fight in the burn and which needed to be rescued?

For a minute I thought about calling Ewan back. But I didn't want to start another fight. Soon enough we'd have all the fighting we wanted.

After an hour of slogging through the wet bracken, neither of us had said a word. A thin drizzle began and the ground under our feet grew slippery. The drizzle quickly turned into a shower. In a short while, our plaids were as wet as if we'd fallen into a burn.

I could just about make out the huddled buildings of Inverness in the distance, and beyond them the grey shimmer of a large body of water.

“Is our army quartered in the town itself?” I asked, breaking our long silence. In fact I was hoping we might find the MacDonalds set up in a building in the town and get out of the rain for a while.

He shrugged.

“Ye mean ye dinna know?”

He shrugged again.

“Och, Ewan, ye stupid …” I suddenly stopped. Calling him names would only lead to a fight. “We'll ask when we get there then.” That seemed straightforward enough.

Ewan wrinkled his nose. “Inverness is full of townsfolk, and there's none of them can be trusted,” he said. “We'll find our way just fine without asking.”

“So,” I said, “we're to wander around like sheep without a dog until we go over a cliff.”

“We're soldiers,” he answered, pushing a wet bit of hair out of his eyes. “Of course we'll find our way.”

“That's nae answer, Ewan,” I said, and strode down to the road, heedless now of possible redcoats.

Just then I heard a clatter of hooves and saw an open carriage heading toward me, coming from Inverness.

“Duncan!” Ewan shouted and all but tumbled down to the road to stand by my side. “What are ye doing?”

“It wouldna do any harm to ask these folk, would it?”

The carriage coming toward us was pulled by a single horse straining with the weight of its passengers and not making any great speed.

“Och, maybe no,” Ewan conceded. Then, seeing there wasn't risk of being trampled, he stepped directly into its path and raised a hand.

The driver reined the horse in and glowered at us. He was a stout, ruddy-faced gentleman in a frock coat with a three-cornered hat perched on top of his white wig. At his side sat a younger, slimmer version, likely his son. Behind them, safe from the mud kicked up by the horse's hooves, was a small, sharp-faced woman, who craned around the driver's shoulder for a look at us.

“Bandits!” she exclaimed shrilly. “They've come down from the mountains to rob us!” She had a basket full of cakes, pastries, and wine bottles in her lap.

“Hold yer peace, woman!” the stout man told her. “It's only a couple of vagabonds. Mere boys. Probably MacDonalds by the red of their plaids.”

“That's no red, Da,” said the son. “That's brown, like barnyard muck.”

“We're Glenroy MacDonalds. And
soldiers
,” Ewan declared, planting his feet wide apart and grabbing onto the horse's reins. Then he added recklessly, “Come to join Prince Charlie.”

“That seems likely enough,” said the son with a smirk.

Ignoring his remark, I asked as politely as I could, “Can ye tell us where we'll find him?” Though what I would have liked even more was to beg some of their food.

“He's camped up at Culloden House,” the stout man answered, waving his hand vaguely to the northeast of Inverness, as if we knew exactly where he meant. “His men are scattered about Drummossie Moor.”

“I told ye they were still here,” Ewan whispered to me.