Rollo hit the ground, and his horse, spooked, reared then bolted through the mist to disappear.
It was in that instant the chaos began.
Gunfire erupted, red flares flashing in the mist that was quickly blackening from the smoke of musket fire. James was blind to his enemy, but the noise pressed on him as if it rode on the fog, and he knew that they surrounded him. Startled screams tore through the camp, followed by wordless exhales and the dull sounds of bullets finding flesh, layering notes of terror to the gunfire’s booming orchestra.
Tents popped and burst like living things as Campbell’s Covenanter muskets found soldiers who would never wake from that night’s sleep. Some of James’s men managed to spring from other tents, racing to find family members they’d left encamped on the outskirts of Philiphaugh, which now raged with gunfire, flames, and shrieks.
“You!” James called to an older cavalryman whose sure hands were buckling his sword at his side. “Sort this man to rights,” he said, gesturing to the still Rollo. Blood pooled black in the grass around him, and James couldn’t bear to know at that moment whether his friend lived or died.
The old soldier knelt at Rollo’s side, and James’s eyes went to the camp, his gaze sweeping over the bedlam. Men raced like ants all over, their senior officers nowhere in sight. “Form a line!” James shouted.
The grim thought struck him that most of the officers had bedded at Selkirk and weren’t there to give orders.
“Men!” he cried again. “Form your line!”
Many finally came to themselves and rallied. “To me!” James called. Retreating slightly, he raced them in the direction of Selkirk, entrenching behind a low knoll that rose like a knobby spine close to the bank of the river.
And then, as if they’d stumbled into the eye of the storm, the sounds of battle faded away and an eerie stillness fell around them. Some of his soldiers made as if to stand but froze at a look and a gesture from James. Stillness in battle could mean but few things.
There was a single shot from faraway, and James shut his eyes. Then another shot. And another. A chill crept along his skin. They heard another lone shot, as Campbell’s men killed their prisoners one by one.
“It’s done for, Graham. They’ve four thousand horses if they’ve a one.” The voice behind him was ragged. James turned to see a MacDonald clansman squatting grimly behind him. The lad was still a teen yet, with a single smear of crimson marring his features where he’d used a bloody hand to wipe the sweat from his brow.
Dread spiked through James’s belly as he thought of the hundreds of clansmen MacColla had put in his charge. He couldn’t bear to tally the number of MacDonald men he’d lost that morning.
“Only those who ran fast enough could avoid capture,” the young scout said. “We need to go from here, and now.”
“No,” James said. But then he looked down the line of men, a couple hundred at most, many unarmed and still half naked from their sleep. Irish and Highlanders most of them, and they dug through the dirt now, gathering stones and ready to fight.
“Aye,” he muttered then, and eased his forehead into his hand. So many men lost, and all because he’d been blinded by such a string of victories. He thought of Rollo and wondered whether his friend lived or died.
Inhaling sharply, he whipped his head up to look at the MacDonald. “Selkirk! How stands Selkirk?”
“I’ve come from there. Covenanters are rousing every innkeeper and publican in the town, searching for Royalist officers.”
“How do you fare in the woods, lad?”
“I cut my teeth sneaking through trees to escape blackguards like these Covenanters,” the boy said, puffing his chest.
“I’m away to Selkirk.” James jumped up and leaned one foot along the side of the low ridge. “Can you lead these men to safety?”
“Me?” Doubt muddled the boy’s features. “Aye.” He hesitated. "I can lead them. But”— he eyed James impatiently palming the hilt of his sword—"you cannot go, sir. Covenanter soldiers even now wend through the town looking for you.”
James ignored the comment. “Don’t fear, lad. You’re fleet, a mere couple hundred men.” He flashed the young man a smile. “You can fly from here.”
He stared dumbly at James.
“You can lead these men through to safety.” He nodded firmly, clapping the MacDonald on his shoulder. “You’ll do it, lad. And now.”
James vaulted over the rise and ran into the mist.
He’d found a horse and raced it to Selkirk, abandoning the animal just outside the town’s limits. Shouts and gunfire came only intermittently now, and James dreaded what carnage he’d find in the streets. No battle was lost that still raged, but silence portended only one thing.
He heard men approaching and ducked into the shadows between two buildings. James clung close to the wall, and the gray stone cooled his sweat-soaked shirt, gradually steadying his heart, which still pounded from his flight out of Philiphaugh. The sounds of the men’s conversation amplified as they grew near, and then gradually faded away.
James spent a moment trying to orient himself, pinpointing in his mind where he stood in relation to the room he’d let the previous night. Gunfire cracked close, followed by more distant reports. Seconds passed, and shots erupted once more, and again they’d come from two different origins. It would be a volley, James thought, between two groups of men, and a volley meant some of his officers were still alive.
Looking right and left, he eased from his hiding spot and jogged toward the sound of musket fire. He slipped his hand into his sword’s basket and wrapped his fingers around the grip. He may not have a musket to hand, he thought, but his sword would be all he needed.
