Living in the tiny village of Balnacoorie, how could she know that every loyal Scot was needed to put a Stuart’s arse back on the throne? And that included him.
He sent her a coded message days before the Battle of Culloden, ending with his promise to hurry home the moment his duties to king and country were finished. Little did he know it would be finished too quickly, long before the message reached Balnacoorie…
In the history of consequential errors, Prince Charles Edward Stuart made one of the most notorious ones when he chose Drummossie Moor (Culloden) for the battle. He made many others that day as well, including listening to his officers’ advice and missing the moment when he should have been there to order his army to charge. Instead, they stood ready—and hundreds were felled, still awaiting permission to move.
Once everyone was engaged, it was obvious that the hungry, weary Jacobites were doomed. Bogged down in the mud, unable to attack, they were picked off by guns when they could have beaten Cumberland’s forces in hand-to-hand warfare. The cleverness and proven skills of nearly 1500 Jacobite warriors were buried there, along with their bodies.
A mere fifty of Cumberland’s men died.
In the midst of the carnage, Cian MacInnis stood waiting for the whistling ball that would have his name on it. He struggled, with others, to stay clear of the grasping, clawing mud while keeping his targe and sword up and ready.
To his right, a tall blond from the Appin men lifted his rifle and shot, then hurried to reload. The Redcoat he’d aimed at dropped like a heavy sack. But for each government man who fell, dozens of Jacobites would fall in the next breath.
The blond was obviously a better aim, so Cian reckoned it would be better to load for him. If only he could get close enough.
The blond again brought the weapon to his shoulder and bellowed, “Fire!” All around them, Appin men fired, glad of the order no matter who’d given it. Next, the Appin Bannerman dropped, but the flag was taken up again. Yet another Appin man fell dead beside the blond, who spared only a glance, then fired again. With a look of frustration, the young man swung his weapon onto his back, pulled his targe over his middle, and raised his sword.
Someone at the rear finally gave the order to charge, so Cian jumped to obey, joining the blond and his fellows as they ran full out for the red line of enemies who worried only about reloading. Cannon fired from both sides, pounding nearly as loudly as Cian’s own heart as he chose a target and rushed to attack.
The bastard grasped his gun with both hands and lunged, aiming his bayonet below Cian’s targe. But with the length of his razor-sharp sword, Cian was able to break the man’s weapon beyond where the metal was attached. With the Highlander’s help, the nasty blade turned back to find its home in its master’s heart.
So many more Redcoats to kill. But they were far back, loading, firing, and loading again. And between him and them, a river of mud.
To his right, the big blond cut a foe nearly in half before the blighter could take aim. The round shot fired into the mud. But the tactic had drawn the Jacobite warrior into the black quicksand. He tipped to the side, then clawed at the ground to free himself.
Cian watched a cocky bastard in flawless red pick his way across the line, as if he expected no man would dare touchhim. He came to stand above a fallen Jacobite crawling back to safety. The former pointed his weapon at the man’s back and fired.
Cian felt it, as if the shot had gone into his own back, and wanted nothing more in this world than to rip the bastard into tiny pieces.
The devil looked about for another man to murder and noticed the blond, now free of the mud, struggling to free his blade from his last opponent. The bastard smiled while his quick hands reloaded, his attention moving back and forth between his weapon and his next victim.
Cian hurried to intervene but stopped cold, unable to believe his eyes. The blond’s blade had come free. He rushed forward but was forced to stop when a fancy-dressed Highlander in a dark kilt appeared out of…out of nothing!
Cian hadn’t so much as blinked. The man was suddenly there.
With his back to the blond and his sword raised, the stranger rushed to avenge a murder he hadn’t been witness to. His blade slashed down and to the left, cutting off the Redcoat’s head and spinning it off his shoulders.
A death too quick, too painless.
After tipping and falling into the wet mud, that flawless red coat was no longer flawless.
The fancy Highlander spun around and faced the blond, who recognized him by name. “Wickham!”
“I’ve come to collect ye,” that one said. “No time to explain. Ye’re about to die, Simon. Take hold of my arm and live.” He nodded sharply. “Take hold!”
Cian had witnessed true magic when the man appeared. If he had some other magic that could save the one, could he save Cian as well?
In two fast strides, he reached the pair. The tall one wrapped his hand around the druid’s arm, who suddenly pushed him aside and stepped forward to shield the lad. His body convulsed when a ball hit him in the chest and sent him backward into the blond one’s arms. The latter struggled to keep him upright.
Cian grabbed the druid’s arm to help…and the battle ended.
The whistling balls stopped mid-flight. The echoes of the cannons were swallowed by a silence more powerful. Even the shouting ceased mid-word. Or so Cian thought.
As it happened, the battle raged on without the three of them. It was they who had been swallowed up and spit out…not elsewhere, but else-when.
It was all impossible,obviously. Just a story Cian told to entertain me or maybe scare me away so I would never come back. And I could have lived with that…if it weren’t for the names in an old bible, a book of poetry, and a headstone in a clearing.
Of course he could be messing with me, pretending to be some ancestor with the same name, with a grandma who shared the same name of his own. Or he might just be crazy and believed he was over 300 years old.
