BLOWN TO BITS
The English army made better progress after reaching the military road that wound its way into the mountains. Just east of Beannchar, Hartlock called a halt for the horses to be watered near an impressive cascading waterfall. Morgan hunkered down beside the swiftly flowing river and filled his bellarmine. He traced a finger over the wet face carved into the bottle’s neck, remembering Hannah’s fascinated gaze when he’d explained the cardinal’s history. Everything he ever touched or smelled or tasted would for a long time remind him of Hannah. She was in his soul.
When the ostlers had seen to the needs of the horses, they hastened back to the conglomeration of carts, donkeys and people following the army. Morgan took a drink, then stood to watch them go, his eyes coming to rest finally on Solomon’s wagon, almost at the very back. The dust made it hard to see, but he didn’t think Esther had joined her husband. Mayhap she preferred to travel inside the wagon, and who could blame her?
He noticed the generals and a handful of other officers standing by the bridge that spanned the falls and realized he was being summoned. Lost in confusing thoughts, he hadn’t been paying attention.
Two of his fellow captains held down a chart atop the wall of the bridge. Hartlock pointed to a trail marked on the map. “My scouts tell me the rebels will come down this trail to get to Bouchmorale. There’s a bridge here.” He stabbed a stubby finger at a spot on the chart. “We’ll intercept them where the Dee meets the Gairn. We’ve enough spare powder to blow up the bridge and they’ll be forced to retreat, but we’ll be waiting. Any questions?”
Morgan scanned the chart. “Sir. If I may. What if they’ve already gone through there by the time we arrive?”
Jenkinson scoffed.
The walrus moustache bristled. “Then we’ll proceed to Bouchmorale and blow up the hunting lodge.”
Morgan decided it was perhaps wiser not to question his superiors further, though he noticed another possible trail the rebels might take to Bouchmorale that would avoid the Gairn altogether. He wasn’t a scout, and would no doubt be reminded of it.
After being dismissed he returned to his crew, prepared to wait his turn as the long column was set in motion again.
After ten impatient minutes he shaded his eyes to look to the head of the column; Jenkinson’s artillery section was half-way across a stone bridge, heading into Beannchar. The narrow span had slowed the guns down and the musketeers had come too close to the last of the powder wagons, a baggage tumbrill commandeered by Jenkinson and piled high with Morgan’s kegs of powder. The vehicle was unsuited for such a purpose and any fool knew you didn’t let matchlock muskets anywhere near gunpowder. Even after they’d crossed the bridge, the explosives and the musketeers were too close to each other for comfort.
Smythe evidently shared his concern. “Good thing the matches aren’t lit, eh, Major?”
Morgan chuckled. When he was Captain Pendray, his men always addressed him as Sir. Now he was being Majored every five minutes.
“Prepare to march,” he shouted to his crew, pleased when Atherton and Carr remounted quickly. “We’re next to cross. Keep tight control of those donkeys as we go over the bridge. You don’t want to be fishing bags of shot out…”
“Sir, sir,” Syddall yelled frantically. “They’re preparing to…”
A loud crack drowned out his words. Morgan swivelled around in time to see a musketeer bring down a bird, one of a large flock apparently flushed from nearby bushes. Several of his companions were taking aim, mere feet away from the tumbrill and a cluster of cottages with sullen women and children gathered in the doorways, watching the army go by.
No!
Morgan wasn’t the only one who saw the danger. Shouts of alarm echoed off the bridge. Men waved their arms in the air. Some whistled. The utter stupidity of the impending disaster clamped a vise around Morgan’s temples. He was too far away to do anything to prevent an explosion. Powerlessness weighted his limbs. He could only hope the riflemen realized their error in time and doused the glowing wicks of their muskets.
The first detonation threw him back against the gun carriage. He gripped the wheel, bracing for another, frantically scanning the area for his men.
Panicked steeds reared as casks exploded, one after another, sending wood, metal and body parts flying in the air. Screeching donkeys bolted. Choking on dust, Morgan ran to calm his horses, nearly colliding with his crew. “Let the pack animals go,” he yelled. “We must control the team.”
When the explosions finally ceased, an eerie silence reigned. As the dust settled, the scope of the damage became clear. The cottage closest to the site of the explosion was a smoking ruin. The cries of the dying rose like a creeping mist, then grew louder and louder, building to a howling tempest of human misery. Bodies lay strewn here and there like broken toys; injured men staggered about. Women keened, children wailed.
Courageous gunners frantically urged terrified donkeys pulling other powder wagons away from the scene. Jenkinson was nowhere to be seen. Hartlock and Abbott strode amid the chaos, barking commands for mangled animals to be shot.
Satisfied his men had control of their team, Morgan ordered them to stay where they were and set off towards the cottage, praying no innocents had died because of inexcusable negligence.
He became aware of another man loping alongside, keeping pace, a man twice his age. Anguish twisted the Jew’s face as he stumbled towards the ruined cottage. Morgan was surprised. What were these unfortunate peasants to Solomon?
Panting hard, Morgan fell to his knees beside a little boy who tugged at the arm of a woman lying on the blighted ground. Another woman, older, staggered out from behind the ruin, her face black, clothes in tatters, but Morgan recognised the smoking hair instantly.
Medusa!
For a moment, he feared he was hallucinating. The shock was making him imagine things that weren’t happening.
But Solomon embraced his wife. “Esther, Esther,” he sobbed.
She sagged into his arms and he scooped her up.
Morgan had no time to consider why the Jewess was here. He turned his attention back to the woman lying on the ground and pressed his fingers to her neck, relieved to feel a faint pulse. He hailed a medical corpsman running in the direction of the demolished tumbrill. “There’s no hope for them, lad,” he shouted. “Help me tend this woman.”
“Sorry, sir,” the man replied, not even slowing down. “General Hartlock's orders. Soldiers have priority.”
Morgan put an arm around the tearful boy’s shoulders, feeling like a useless witness to a nightmare. He uttered words of reassurance to the child, but his heart filled with dread. Watching Solomon carry his wife back to their wagon, he knew who had guided Hannah along the Elsick Trail. He prayed like he’d never prayed before that his courageous spy hadn’t been blown to bits inside the cottage.
~~~
Hannah startled, awakened by a boom of thunder that shook the old bridge and echoed off the distant hills. Still half asleep, she yawned, disappointed to realize it was still daylight—and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The storm must be far off, but it would roll out of the mountains soon and the rain would start.
She rearranged the straw around her legs, hoping Morgan had found shelter and praying darkness wouldn’t bring the nightmare she feared.
~~~
Ranting and raving about gross negligence, General Hartlock established his main camp at the other end of the village. Jenkinson turned up uninjured and bore the brunt of the general’s ire, as well he should in Morgan’s opinion. He foresaw a demotion in Foolish Freddie’s future, but it gave him no satisfaction.
The captain in command of the musketeers involved in the explosion had been killed, along with a dozen of his men.
Abbott's troops camped close to the site of the disaster and a tent was set up to tend the wounded. As dusk encroached, torches cast an orange glow on a macabre scene. Within an hour Peabody had sawn off half a dozen limbs. Men bellowed in agony. The stink of gunpowder lingered in the air. Filthy soldiers dragged dead animals beyond the village and tossed them onto a pyre already belching acrid smoke. Morgan had entered Dante’s nine concentric circles of hell; the only flicker of sanity came when no bodies were unearthed in the rubble. He said a silent prayer of thanks, though he doubted any deity that would permit this useless suffering was listening.
He itched to go to Solomon’s wagon, to demand to know what was going on. Where was Hannah? But his leadership was needed in the camp and his absence would be noted.
Smythe’s voice jolted him back to reality. “At least it’s not raining, Major,” he murmured, staring at nothing.
It was a sharp reminder to Morgan he wasn’t the only one stunned by the dire events of the afternoon. Seeing men killed in battle was one thing; witnessing a thoughtless tragedy quite another. “You’re right,” he replied, tousling the boy’s hair. “Let’s see how she fares.”
He’d insisted the injured peasant woman—the only civilian casualty—be carried to his tent and he went there now. Her son’s tears had dried up. He just stared at his stricken mother, with an occasional bewildered glance at Atherton who had one protective arm draped over his shoulders.
Morgan had little knowledge of healing. He could find no broken bones, nor open wounds, yet the woman still lay in a stupor. He wished Hannah was here to help. It appeared the child had no father and his heart twisted at the prospect he’d be left an orphan.
“Mistress Kincaid would know what to do,” Smythe whispered, obviously feeling the same raw helplessness.
Morgan clenched his jaw. “What’s your name, lad?” he asked softly, trying not to frighten the boy.
The toddler’s wide eyes remained fixed on his mother.
“Tell the major your name,” Atherton coaxed. “And your mother’s name too. It will help if we know what to call her.”
The urchin turned a grimy, tear-streaked face to Morgan. “Me name’s Duncan, son o’ Angus and Feena.”
Morgan tensed. Mayhap the family breadwinner still lay buried beneath the ruins of his home. “Was your father at home when the explosion happened?”
Duncan’s sooty red curls bounced as he shook his head. “Nay, ’e went into yon mountains.”
Morgan’s heart threatened to burst out of his chest, but he couldn’t ask the question burning in his brain. If Hannah had indeed gone into the Grampians with Angus, he didn’t want his crew to know. He resolved to be patient and wait.
“All we can do is keep Feena warm, lads,” he said. “Lots of blankets, and get this brave Scot something to eat.”