Under the Same Sky (9 page)

Then they followed their chiefs into battle.

Andrew’s father and Uncle Iain led the MacDonnells, their black hair flying like battle flags as they screeched the clan’s battle cry,
“Cragan an Fhithich!”

“Cragan an Fhithich!”
Dougal howled, then flashed Andrew a grin over his plaid-covered shoulder. They tore down the field after their father, shrieking like madmen. Seventeen-year-old Ciaran swallowed his terror and ran with them, leather targe strapped to his forearm for protection, readying a pistol in either hand as he ran. They charged blindly through the smoke and hailstorm of bullets, firing pistols, then tossing the smoking weapons aside or pitching them like rocks at approaching soldiers. It was how Andrew had been taught to fight—how they had all been taught. When a man went into battle, there was no time to reload, or even to holster a weapon after it was fired. Instead, Andrew reached for his sword. Its hilt was like the hand of an old friend, holding Andrew’s grip as he crashed against the lethal wall of red coats.

The sound of battle was all around, but Andrew heard nothing save his own screams and the pounding of feet—or was that his
heartbeat? A sword sliced the air beside him and Andrew lunged for it, striking its lethal edge away from his younger brother.

“Damn it, Ciaran!” he yelled over the noise. “Kill or be killed!”

He spun in time to block another blade, struggling to maintain his balance as his feet slid in the muck. He lunged against his attacker and plunged his sword through the bright red jacket. The dying man’s screams were lost to Andrew as another screeching blade struck beside him. Ciaran grunted with effort and Andrew turned, ready to fight, but Ciaran’s face was set with fierce determination. His sword screeched against his attacker’s, he stepped to the side, then, with a roar, sliced his blade across the soldier’s throat.

Blood sprayed from the man’s neck, spattering Ciaran’s cheek, and he wiped his face clear with his filthy sleeve. It wasn’t the first time Ciaran had killed a man. His blue eyes caught Andrew’s glance and the brothers had less than a minute to exchange silent words before the crack of a nearby musket cut the air. Ciaran’s eyes flew open and he staggered backwards, hands pressed to his chest, mouth open in an expression of amazement.

“No!” Andrew screamed. He spun toward the soldier who had shot Ciaran and was now frantically pouring powder into his weapon. Grief grabbed Andrew’s heart just as he twisted his dirk in the Englishman’s chest.

Ciaran
. Andrew was at his brother’s side in an instant, the dead soldier’s blood still glistening on his hands. Ciaran lay still, blue eyes open, lips relaxed into a soft line. He stared up as if the smoke were no longer there, as if he were seeing again the open skies of his Highland home.

Andrew had only a moment before the soldiers would overwhelm him. He knelt by Ciaran and took his brother’s face between his blood-smeared palms. How could this be? How could he be holding Ciaran like this, knowing those eyes would never blink again? Why
was it so much easier to envision his own death than that of his brother? And what of his other brother? Could Andrew survive if this day took Dougal as well? Dougal! The thought jerked Andrew back to the present and he laid Ciaran’s head on the earth. He leaned in to kiss his brother’s cheek and his thumb lowered Ciaran’s eyelids, shutting out the sky forever.

“I will see ye soon, Ciaran,” he whispered.

Andrew rose to his feet, spinning as he did so, just in time to defend himself against two oncoming soldiers.

“Ciaran!” Andrew screamed, feeling heat roar into his cheeks. “For you!”

The soldiers were well trained and healthy, but they were no match for a grief-stricken Highlander, no matter how exhausted he might be. When the men lay dead, Andrew strained his eyes through the fog and smoke, seeking Dougal. He saw instead the colour of the battle had changed. Barely defined shapes of men and boys from Andrew’s childhood struggled, ran, and fell, their tartans falling under the sea of red coats and flashing silver.

The English kept coming in a relentless red tide. Andrew’s strength waned and he thought of Ciaran.

“I will see ye soon.”

He struck at swords, swerved around fists and feet, barely able to yank his exhausted legs from the muck. The dull ache of hopelessness seemed almost welcome. He was going to die here on this field. Today. He wanted to collapse to his knees, to beg for a quick and merciful death, but that would have taken more courage than he had.

Then he felt her, a presence that came from nowhere: a surge of warmth that stirred hope in his heart. He couldn’t see her, but that wasn’t strange. Often she came to him on the breeze. In a thought. A melody in the air. Now she entered his blood, flooding the
labouring chambers of his heart. It could only be her. Nothing else could ignite his soul in that way. He felt her impulse and his body followed, spinning and deflecting sword strikes that should have killed him. She turned and he went with her, flowing with impossible energy. Even after her impetus faded, the power she gave him remained. Now he fought for her.

A young English soldier raced up the field, aiming his musket at Andrew as he ran. Andrew dodged the bullet and crashed chest to chest against the soldier, sinking all twelve inches of his dirk into the bright red coat. In one final, shocked effort, the redcoat lashed out, slamming the butt of his musket hard into the Scot’s forehead. With that one motion, the worlds of both Andrew and the soldier suddenly went black.

Andrew lay unconscious but not alone. He felt a sense of comfort and encouragement, two emotions that held no place on this field of death. He wasn’t surprised when the soft lines of the girl’s face materialised. She had been with him through his life, and he had known she would be there when he died. So this was the end. He was glad she was the last thing he would see. He wondered if he would see her in heaven.

She smiled with such sadness. She held out her translucent hands, motioning for him to follow her, and though his body begged to remain where it was, his mind obeyed her as it always had, pulling him up to the surface.

He opened his eyes to the gray sky and felt her silky fingertips slip from his hand. The mist had stopped, and smoke from the battle had begun to clear. Raindrops shimmered in the grass, cobwebs glistened.

It wasn’t the end, and he wasn’t dead.

He needed to see the field, see how things lay, find life beyond the dead. Where was Dougal? Could he be nearby? Could he be alive? Andrew knew where Ciaran lay, or at least where he had last seen him. He knew his father was dead.

English soldiers wandered through the bodies, jabbing with bayonets, hunting for survivors. Their voices travelled across the field to each other, but Andrew didn’t think any of them were close to where he lay. They would come for him, though. If he stayed here, he would certainly die. But his torn and weary body anchored him to the earth. He lay with his kilt draped over his thighs, crusted with filth. He closed his eyes again, wanting to be anywhere but here. Whatever light could filter through the dwindling smoke felt warm through his closed eyelids. His stomach rumbled, and he found it slightly amusing it could demand attention at a time like this.

He opened his eyes slowly. They burned. Shock began to lessen its grip, and Andrew became painfully aware of his many injuries. The worst was a deep slash through his thigh. He was relieved to see it wasn’t bleeding anymore, but he tore a strip of cloth from his ragged sleeve and, grimacing at the pain, secured it tightly around his leg in case it started again. Over his left eye Andrew bore a solid red knot, courtesy of the dead English soldier, who now lay sprawled beneath a fallen Highlander, eternally oblivious to the dead weight.

Andrew’s forehead throbbed with every heartbeat, but didn’t bleed. He didn’t think he could have done anything if it had. He was just so tired.

Then she was there again. Through the haze he saw her, motioning, urging him up. The familiar wave of her strength rolled through his body, and he used it to sit up, careful to stay hidden behind the remains of men.

The ground was littered with the fallen colours of the Highlanders,
like autumn leaves in the spring grass. The prints of hundreds of bare feet, hooves, and leather boots scored the trampled earth. A set of bagpipes lay in the gore by Andrew’s left hand, its vacant finger holes staring at the sky, its chanter shattered by a soldier’s boot. The cords attached to the drones were tangled and choked with mud. What was left of the piper lay nearby. Andrew reached out and touched the pipes, trying to recall the joy the instrument had once brought.

At Andrew’s right lay one of his cousins, his mud-smeared features relaxed and at peace, as if he could be sleeping. Andrew reached over to see if the man was still breathing, but jerked back, retching, when he saw everything below his chest had been obliterated. He spat to the side, then tried to conjure some sense back into his mind.

His hands were sticky with other men’s blood, and he wiped them on his kilt while his eyes raked the field, taking in the devastation. Across from him a fire raged, its orange tongues dancing within billowing black smoke. The soldiers stood back from the heat, watching the burning pyres of Andrew’s countrymen. This might be Andrew’s only opportunity.

He rolled, snakelike, to his belly and dragged himself toward the trees. He knew the woods as well as he knew himself, and could find his way once he was rid of this cursed place. As he moved, he reached inside the sporrans that hung uselessly from the plaids around him. Inside some, as he knew there would be, were small bits of oatcakes, bannock, and dried meat. There wasn’t much, though. He packed what he could find into his own sporran, silently thanking each man as he went, then rose to his hands and knees, gasping at the pain that shot from his thigh.

He could hear English voices falling short in the fog. They were closer than before, evidently having tired of the burning. He heard one voice clearly and squinted toward the sound while he edged
forward. It was a young soldier, cursing and muttering to himself. Andrew kept moving, always alert. When he was ten feet from the edge of the trees, the soldier’s boot struck a rock and he cursed again, louder this time. Andrew froze. Beside him lay the remains of two huge Highlanders Andrew recognised from the trek to England and back. Andrew wriggled under the folds of their plaids, barely breathing, counting the soldier’s steps, waiting for him to pass.

After the sound of the soldier’s leather soles had faded away, Andrew lifted his chin and combed his fingers through his rain-soaked hair, pushing clumps of filth out of his face. The soldier had changed course and was halfway across the field now, a safe distance from Andrew’s hiding place. Andrew took a deep breath, stretching his rib cage with the effort. He peered around one more time and saw no close threats. It had to be now.

He pulled up onto his hands and knees, braced himself, then burst from the spot. He darted toward the trees, keeping as low and silent as possible. His leg burned as if freshly slashed, and cold sweat streamed down his face. It took all his restraint not to scream as the mud sucked at his feet, but he reached the trees and kept running, racing as far as his tortured legs could carry him.

He didn’t know how far he ran before he finally slowed, wheezing through starved lungs. He leaned against a birch tree, trying to dispel the stars that circled before his eyes. He stopped panting long enough to listen, but there was no sound of pursuit. Sweat dripped from his brow when he leaned over, gripping his knees, bracing his body. Still breathing hard, he lifted his gaze and searched for some kind of shelter. A cluster of birch stood nearby: five in a row, like a line of sentries. A darkness yawned behind them, a tiny cave in a rock face. The cave seemed like it would offer space enough. He limped toward the wall, peeked inside, then squeezed in as far as he could.

The rock was cold, a soothing shock against his clammy skin. He curled up, his breath thickened by gasps of pain, and let himself relax into the blackness. There was comfort in the silence. He stared at the small pits and bumps inside the cave wall and breathed the damp air. His hands began to shake, hard enough that his arms twitched. A shudder started in his belly and spread as his body gave in to shock. The shudder rose and his throat thickened, burned, blocked his air until he surrendered. Tears he had held back for so long burst through and he buried his face in his arms, sobbing like a child. He cried for his father and for his brothers. He cried for his mother, and for the grief that might kill her when he carried home the news. He cried for the cherished pride the Highlanders had carried to battle that day, and lost on Culloden field.