Thirty-Six
Jamie peered through the branches, scanning for movement along the ridge, but heavy foliage obstructed his view. Behind him, the walls of the canyon rose perpendicular to the angry waters that clawed at its jagged base, blocking most of what remained of the sunlight. Cavernous and deep, the narrow defile was cool despite the heat of summer. It had a dank, metallic taste and a claustrophobic air that reminded him of the inside of a cave. Despite their marked numeric advantage, their cavalry, and their guns, he didn’t like their situation or their odds.
This wasn’t the way to fight a campaign in the Highlands. Dragoons and cannon were little use against surefooted mountaineers in this terrain. If anything, they were a disadvantage, slowing them down and lending a false sense of strength. He knew Hugh Mackay had been a mercenary in Dutch service for many years and was no fool, but he’d been outmaneuvered and outflanked, and he’d led them straight into what was obviously a highly vulnerable position. Hubris or folly, the results were the same. When they’d stopped at the far end of the pass, Dundee was waiting for them on the high promontory to their right. Everyone was surprised but Jamie.
So now, they waited, with cavalry, a baggage train, and four thousand English, Scottish, and Dutch foot soldiers, most of them raw recruits. They’d been firing anxiously into the hills with muskets and cannon on and off all afternoon. They’d yet to flush the enemy out, though they’d caught a glimpse of Bloody Clavers. He’s waiting for sundown, and when he comes, half this lot will piss their breeks, while the other half will piss their breeks and run away. Jamie had been in more than enough engagements to know when a mission was in trouble, but that wasn’t what worried him now. He looked to the hills again, eyes straining to see in the gathering dusk, and still couldn’t find what he was seeking.
At seven o’clock, with the sun behind them, the Jacobites rose to their feet as one, dropped their packs and plaids, and came screaming down the hill. Firing, then dropping their muskets, they advanced relentlessly through three rounds of fire before tearing into Mackay’s forces, swinging their huge two-handed claymores without mercy as his panicked men struggled to reload. The onslaught was so ferocious that even seasoned soldiers had no time to fix their bayonets. Gunfire silenced, an eerie hush descended, and the only sound was that of grunting, the shriek and clang of battered metal, and the groans and truncated cries of dying men. Jamie thought he heard a familiar battle cry but didn’t have time to place it as, a moment later, Dundee and his cavalry charged Mackay’s center and swept it away.
Cutting his way through the throng, Jamie watched incredulously as the English cavalry fled into the pass without firing a shot. Locked toe-to-toe in combat with a grinning, blood-drenched Highlander, he had to disengage and jump aside to avoid being knocked into the river. Evenly matched in skill, size, and strength, Jamie had a mission, while his opponent fought for glory. In no mood for gallantry, he took the opportunity to deliver a vicious kick to the man’s kneecap, watching as he toppled over the rocks and slid into the torrent. His cry of alarm was lost in the rumble of the river as the swiftly moving water carried him away.
Around him, the scene was one of massacre and panic. There were hundreds, if not thousands, dead on both sides now. Mackay’s forces had broken ranks and, pursued by the Highlanders, were running through the pass in terror. The ground was slick with blood, the dead strewn everywhere, and bits and pieces of severed limbs and broken weapons littered the path. He heard the cry again, slightly louder now, and moved toward it, careful not to slip and plunge down the bank, stepping aside when he could and knocking men down when he had to. He didn’t care which side they were on; if they wouldn’t move from his path, he killed them.
A cry of excitement went up from behind. Good. They’ve found the baggage train. It was the only thing that might save Mackay and his men from complete annihilation. It sparked a sudden change in interest and direction. The lure of plunder was a hard one for the Highlanders to resist, and the thirst for spoils rapidly replaced the thirst for blood. Though there was still sporadic fighting, many broke off the pursuit. Mackay seized the opportunity to muster the few survivors who hadn’t fled, and called a hasty retreat. Jamie ignored him, bent on his task.
He strode purposefully, his gore-covered sword at the ready, checking bodies and the faces running by him as he went. He wore no uniform, and covered in blood he might have been friend or foe. He was neither, and most men he encountered, eager for this new diversion, paid him no attention or stepped aside. Where in Christ’s name is she? A cold dread was taking hold, almost choking him, and the first seeds of panic had begun to spread. He heard the cry again, “A Drummond! A Drummond!” and looked to his left. He recognized the plaid and Bucephalus, his bald-headed torturer, but there was no sign of Catherine, and they seemed upset.
Fear clutched his vitals, stopping him in his tracks, and then he saw it: a limp shape resembling a broken doll, long hair trailing behind. She bobbed and tumbled, borne by the frothing current, passing within inches of serrated rock that could slice her open or smash her skull. Tossing his sword, he dove in after her. She’d been heading toward him, but when he surfaced, she was already a few feet beyond. He struck out after her, jolted by fear, and in three quick strokes, he had hold of her cuirass. Using all of his strength, he managed to shift around so his back was to the current and his legs extended forward, facing downstream. Hauling her against him, he wrapped his arms beneath her breasts, hugging her tight to his chest and bracing her with his body and his legs. In this position, knees slightly bent, his booted feet took the brunt of most collisions and allowed him some small means to maneuver and steer a course.
He was taking a pounding nonetheless, but though his hips and shoulders were torn and battered, his breathing was steady and his grip was sure. She’d yet to show any signs of life, and he prayed frantically she was unconscious and not dead. He moved one hand, bracing her with his forearm as his fingers pressed against her neck, just below her jaw. Her blood pulsed, slow and steady, and he almost wept with relief. Exhausted, he relaxed into an almost dreamlike state, letting the river pull them along, his only focus the rocks and his woman.
He was startled from his reverie by a dark shape hurtling overhead. It was one of William’s soldiers. He blinked in astonishment. Good Christ! The man had cleared the pass, leaping over the cataract from one immense boulder to another in a jump that must have been close to twenty feet! “God see you safely home, lad! It must be a night for miracles,” he called after him with a laugh.
Catherine stirred in his arms. “I didn’t know you could swim.” It was said as if nothing unusual was happening, as if his being there was the most natural thing in the world.
She was bleeding a little from a cut just below her hairline, and he hugged her tighter. He needed to get her out of the water soon, and get her warm. “I told you before, I’m full of surprises, love,” he whispered against her ear. Her head slumped back against his shoulder, and she didn’t answer.
There were stars overhead now. The battle was far behind them and the only sounds were the dull rumble of the river and the steady rhythms of heart and lung. The moon was rising and it was getting hard to see, but the pummeling he’d taken from the river lessened as it widened, and when gentler waters deposited them in a quiet pool, he started pulling her to shore. It had been the most savage battle he’d ever taken part in, and that was saying a lot. Fought under a blood-red sky, the whole thing had been over in ten minutes, leaving thousands of dead, but he had his prize, he’d found what he came for, and he was content.
He crawled out onto a rocky shoal of gravel, slate, and shale, and sat a few moments, too tired to move. He was bruised and torn, blood dripped from gashes on his arm and the back of his thigh, and he suspected he’d cracked a rib, but otherwise, miraculously, he was unharmed. Catherine’s lip and cheek were cut and she had a fearsome bump on her head, but the wound on her scalp had stopped bleeding. She felt cold in his arms, though. He thought they’d been a good forty minutes in the river, and though the day had been warm, it was cool in the mountains at night. He had no heat of his own to give her, and nothing with which to make a fire. He had a sudden image of the highflying soldier. What did he do with his weapon and pack?
He was anxious about leaving her alone. What if somebody found her? What if she woke, not knowing where she was? But she’d shown no sign of awareness since noting he could swim, and they wouldn’t get far in the mountains without supplies. He hid her in a dry hollow, covering her with branches and leaves. Moving as quickly as his aching body and the treacherous terrain would allow, it took him thirty minutes to reach the place where the soldier had made his spectacular leap. Luck was still with him. The lad’s rifle and pack were in the bushes where he’d tossed them. “God bless you, boy.”
He pushed his luck a little further, climbing to the ridge above. There he found several packs and breacans, dropped at the start of the charge and never reclaimed, their owners dead or moved on to something better from the spoils of the baggage train. He snatched another pack and two woolen plaids. Catching the glint of moonlight on metal, he explored a bit further, finding swords and a bow, souvenirs of men who’d died on the hill. He gathered them, too. It was close to midnight and the moon was directly overhead when he finally crawled in beside Catherine, wrapping them both in the thick woven plaids of her homeland.
From the moment he’d entered Will’s and heard that an army was being raised to quell an insurrection in the Highlands, he’d known what he had to do. Nothing else mattered—not lands or titles, or any of the other baubles William had thrown his way. All that mattered was she be safe, and now she was.