Across the Water

By W.Wm. Mee

This trilogy covers the life and times of a young Scottish lad, Angus McCaw, between the years 1745 and 1812.
After the terrible defeat of Bonny Prince Charley at Culloden Moor back in 1745, Angus and a friend leave Scotland and try their luck in the wilderness of the New World.
In the wilds of what will one day be Upstate New York, one adventure leads to another and soon Angus must choose between jail or the British army. There he meets up with the infamous Major Robert Rogers of 'Roger's Rangers' fame and gladly trades his redcoat for one of a darker hue that blends in with the vast forest that surround them.
Book One follows Angus from a wide-eyed fifteen year old lad in 1746 at the Battle of Culloden to the seasoned veteran who fights with his 'band of brothers' in 1759 on the Plains of Abraham at the fall of Quebec.
Angus and his 'brothers in arms' go from one well documented historic battle to another, coloring each with their own special blend of rough humour and savage honour. Come with them if you will --- and if you dare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W.Wm. Mee
• Release date: Aug 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465734143

W.Wm. Mee

Wayne William Mee is a retired English teacher who enjoys hiking, sailing and walking his Beagle hound. He is also a 'living historian' or 'reenactor'. You can see Wayne's historical group on Facebook's 'McCaw's Privateers' 18th Century Naval Camp' page. Building & sailing wooden sailboats also takes up a chunk of Wayne's time, but along with his wife Maggie,son Jason and granddaughter Zoe, writing is his true love, the one he returns to let his imagination soar.Wayne would like you to 'look him up' on FACEBOOK and click the 'Friend' button or even zap him an e-mail.If you enjoyed any of his books, kindly leave a REVIEW here at Smashwords and/or say so on Facebook, Twitter, Tweeter or whatever other 'social network' you use.Thanks for stopping by ---and keep reading!!Drop him a line either there or at [e-mail]'ll be glad to hear from you!'Rest ye gentle --- sleep ye sound'

Book preview

Chapter 1: Long, Long Ago

My name be Angus Argyle Shamus MacCaw. You may have heard of me, but I doubt it. Either way, I don't really give a shit. I’m gettin’ to be an old man now, this being the Year o’ Our Lord 1799 n’ me just havin' passed my 69th birthday. Here I sit on the porch of our little farm in the Bay o’ Quinte in what people are startin' to call ‘Upper Canada’, though I favour the old injun name myself --- Ontario.

We came here back in '85 with Major James Rogers n’ some o’ the lads. After the Rangers were disbanded, each man was given 100 acres for himself n’ 50 apiece for each member of his family. That came to quite a passel o’ land for me n’ mine ---hell of a lot more than some fat assed lairds got back in Scotland!

But it was a real bugger ova time getting’ here! Polled upriver all the way from Montreal in Durham boats we did --- the damnedest, heaviest, bastard ova boat ever made!

Weren’t much here back then --- not like now. Getting right crowded these days. Why a man can’t hardly take a walk without seeing the smoke o’ another man’s cabin! Huntin’s gone to hell too, what with all the roads, bridges n’ cleared fields about. Now my boy Jacob tells me there’s talk in the village about building another damned church! Hell, one is one too many as far as I’m concerned! Look what those goddamned Black Robes did back during the Frenchie Wars! Killed more Indians with smallpox n' the ticks they carried on 'em than the whole bloody British Army!

But some folks take comfort in churches n’ such --- I just aint one of ‘em.

Yet I gotta admit that things do change, even for an ol’ soldier like me. I may not like it, but there it is. The October winds off the lake cuts me far more than they used to when I was a bray bonny lad back in Scotland achasin’ the Highland roe! Now here I sit in a rocker with my pipe, my dog n’ my jug, fondling this new flint rifle-gun my son Jacob brought home for me t’other day.

The silly fool went n’ traded our best milk cow for the damned thing --- but she is a beauty! One o’ them Pensivany rifle-guns, all sleek n’ carved. Not like my ol’ Maud, the Brown Bess I carried all through the French n’ Indian Wars n’ on into the Revolution! Maudy hangs over the fireplace still, oiled n’ ready --- though I seldom take her down now, unless it’s to give Jacob’s wee barins a thrill! Sometimes I sneak the lads out o’ the house before sun-up n’ we tromp on down to the marsh. I gotta blind down there n’ after loadin’ Maudy up with a handful o’ shot, I give the boys each a turn at bringin’ down a duck or two. Mary, Jacob’s wife, she don’t mind too much, long as we don’t dump a load o’ marsh-mud on her floor.

Now this here new-fangled rifle-gun is a fair bit lighter than my Maud, so I might just call up the dogs n’ amble down into the woods beyond the pasture later on today --- that is if my ol’ wounds let me! After two score n’ some years fightin’ Frenchies, wild savages n’ stiff-necked Rebels, I’m about played out. But it weren’t always like this! Why, there was a time I could hold me own with the best o’ them!

***

1745

An Ending Of Ways

Chapter 2: The Rising of ‘45

I was born on a cold, blustery day near the end of September, in the Year o’ our Lord, 1730, on a rocky farm in the eastern foothills o’ the Highlands. Inverness was the closest market-town. My father, Argyle, was a God fearing, hard working man who loved the land as much as he loved his red-headed Irish wife Onooga O’Flynn, a tavern wench from County Cork he had met while selling his cows in Edinburgh.(More than he loved me, that’s for damned sure --- or so I thought at the time.)

My two brothers took to farming like ducks to water. I however, was of a different ilk. Not for me the shovelling o’ shite nor the milking of a cantankerous cow that would as soon step on yer foot as give up a pint o’ sour milk! Oh no. I had far grander things in mind.

I was a bit o’ a scrapper as a lad, and though my brothers were several years older than myself, I stubbornly stood my ground when they saw fit to tease their younger sibling. My father blamed it on my Irish blood, but I knew the truth o’ it even way back then --- it came from my granddad --- for I carry more than just his name, but his wild Irish ways as well!

Angus the Elder he was --- or Iron Angus as the people o’ Inverness often called him. Angry Angus --- Angus the Fighter --- Angus o’ the Many Names. He came by them all honestly enough though, for his own father, my great-granddad, Alexander MacCaw, fought with the Jacobites at Killiecrankie back in 1689 when Scottish James II tried to oust William o’ Bloody Orange! When the Jacobites rose again in 1715, both father and son marched out to fight for Scotland ----but only the son, my granddad, came home. Silent, sullen n’ angry he often was, especially when in his cups --- but always fiercely loyal to both Scotland n’ the Royal House o’ Stewart!

Even now, after all these long, hard years, with not only an ocean between us, but death itself, I can hardly take a drink without passing my cup over the 'water'. It’s an old secret ‘Highland toast’ that gruff old man taught me long ago --- a grand silent gesture for ‘The True King across the water’ --- a Highland King, born from the exiled House o’ Stewart, that would one day come again!

‘Iron Angus’ was my father’s father n’ though he’d been many different things in his fifty odd years o’ life, yet very few o’ those years had he passed in farming! He was a blacksmith by trade n’ proud of it. Having no great affinity for either the plowing o’ stones nor shoveling o’ shite myself, I too took up the blacksmith trade, becoming my grandad’s apprentice at the tender age o’ eleven.

Iron Angus had a place further back up in the hills than most, about a half days easy walk from Inverness. Built from the very stones o’ the hills itself, it was. N’ so well did it blend in with the rocks n’ gullies that, from a distance, a passing stranger looking up into the gathering dusk would see only the cherry red glow from the old man’s forge --- recalling long ago tales o’ ghosties n’ goulies n’ things best forgotten ---but somehow never quite managed.

At first my father was against my ‘takin’ up the hammer’, saying I was needed to work on the farm --- but my mother soon persuaded him to let me go, for she knew well my dislike o’ grubbing in the dirt --- that n’ she cared for the old man almost as much as I did n’ she dinna want to see him live alone.

Things went well enough for the first few years, with me first watching, then helping, then doing the work of a man who works iron. Then, in the summer o’ 1745, a grand looking fellow came riding up to the forge. He had a jaunty white cockade in his blue bonnet n’ a devilish twinkle in his eye. His horse had thrown a shoe down on the Kings Highway n’ the villagers had sent him on up to us. As I nailed on the newly shaped iron, the grand stranger eyed me up n’ down. By then I was a strapping lad o’ 15 n’ as tall as Iron Angus himself, though none so broad.

Finally the stranger spoke, his words thick with a Highland accent n’ his breath smelling o’ whiskey.

Yer a bray bonnie lad, me bucko! How is it yer no in ta Army?

I’m doin’ just fine here, sir, thanks all ta same.|

But in ta Army lad, they’ll teach you an honourable trade.

I looked up at him and smiled. I already have an honourable trade, sir. One passed down from me grandsire.

The stranger sighed and scratched his shaven cheek. "To be sure, lad, bein’ a smithy be indeed a fine thing --- but do ye really want ta stand there pounding horseshoes all yer life, lad --- or would ye rather come join yer Prince on his march to glory?"

Where’s that?, I asked innocently, giving Old Angus a sly wink, for it was now quite clear that this Highland horseman was a soldier well full o’ himself, not to mention well full o’ spirits from the inn back at the crossroads.

England!, the man roared, taking a flask from his saddlebags and, having taken a healthy swig himself, passed it over to my grandsire. Bloody England, by God! The Prince will nay be denied any longer! N’ with every good Scotsman’s help, he’ll win the day, the crown n’ the whole bloody country! With that he took back his flask, passed it over the quenching barrel and thrust it towards the blackened rafters.

The cocky fierceness was suddenly gone from his voice, replaced by a quieter, softer longing. Till the King comes again across ta water.

My grandsire quietly chimed in and the two men locked knowing stares. The flask was passed round again, and this time drained, only to be replaced by a stone bottle my granddad kept in back o’ the forge. More toasts were said, grand old battles were relived n’ grander ones yet to come were planned --- n’ the stone bottle was well drained dry, myself having had a pull or two in the passing. The stranger stayed the night with us and in the head-splitting light o’ the morning I found the old man and the soldier deep in serious talk.

Stoking up the fire, I put the porridge water on to boil and turned to the two older men. My grandsire’s green eyes bored into me. For a long moment our gazes held, then he turned to the soldier.

Glenfinnan is a fair ways from here, n’ we’d need be there by mid August ye say?

The soldier nodded.

N’ the other clans have already risen?

Not all, came the honest reply. Camerons under Lochiel mostly. The MacDonalds o’ Keppoch as well. Over a thousand in all so far be sworn. But the rest will rise when we march southwards! --- this last was stated with pride and certainty. Iron Angus grunted and reached for his pipe. Lighting it with a taper from the forge’s glowing hearth, he nodded towards me.

"I’ve a mind to fight the British one more time before I die, lad, for it would be a grand thing indeed ta have a Scottish king again! Will you no come with me n’ fight for Scotland --- or will ye bide here n’ mind ta forge?"

My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. I was shocked that he even needed to ask me. For a moment I couldn’t speak --- but only for a moment.

Will I get to kill some Englishmen?, I asked the soldier.

Aye! That ye will, laddie-buck!, Master-Sergeant William MacDonald replied with a wicked grin. As many as that brawny arm o’ yours can slay!

I signed up then n’ there, and so became a Scottish Jacobite and rebel to the thrown of England.

***

Chapter 3: The Bonny Prince

Oh it was all great n’ grand at the start! The clans had gathered for the meeting with the Bonny Prince at Glenfinnan just as the soldier, Master-Sergeant William MacDonald, had said they would. There was not a great lot o’ us at first, little more than a thousand, with more than half o’ them Camerons. A fair number o’ MacDonalds were there as well --- noisy buggers but fighters all! The French had promised to come as well, but bad weather and English warships had turned most of them back. The Prince however, was determined to press on.

Gentlemen! I am come home at last! I heard him say as he stepped ashore. In my boyish eyes he did indeed seem a ‘great hero from by-gone days’, though later events would show him to be a mere man like all the rest of us. But back then we were all ‘young n’ foolish’, even the old greybeards among us like my grandsire, and so with swelled breasts, pounding hearts and shining eyes, we all eagerly marched off towards glory --- and utter destruction.

***

Army life soon turned out to be something o’ a disappointment --- even worse than shovelin’ shite back on the farm! We were ill fed, ill armed n’ ill led. Cold, tired, footsore n’ always hungry, most nights found us wrapped in our kilts sleepin’ wet-arsed on ta cold, stony moor! That long ago summer o’ 1745, the clans, Iron Angus n’ myself included, followed the Bonny Prince on his ‘Road to Glory’. Down into England we went, with flags wavin’ n’ hearts poundin’ --- n’ what a bloody shag-up that turned out to be in the end!

But, though the road south was a long and hard one, it was no so bad at the beginning. In fact, at the start, it seemed that we could not possibly loose! Our vaunted enemies, the dreaded red-coated bayonet-wielding British ‘Lobsterbacks’, all melted away like the morning dew before our ‘keen n' righteous wrath'!

We met up with Lord Murray at Perth. The grand old city of Edinburgh proved ripe for the taking, as the British General, a stuck-up fool of a man called Sir John Cope, had gone and bypassed the town thinking to catch us at Inverness! Turning back, he eventually met us at Prestonpans on September 21st. Having no cannon with him however, Cope’s forces were no match for our wild 'Heeland charge'. In twenty minutes I had killed more than my fill o’ Englishmen.

And so our long awaited dream of ‘the King coming again across the bloody water’ had finally come to pass! Charles, grandson of James Stewart, the deposed and exiled ‘King o’ Scots’, was now monarch of our ancient realm! ‘The Bonnie Prince’ at last was master of all Scotland --- but sadly, that proved not enough for a man so long fed on dreams of ‘righted wrongs and everlasting glory’. Spurred on by ‘ambitious, self-seeking men’, who urged Charles to take not only the Scottish crown, but England’s as well, the ill-fated march on London began on the beginning of November, 1745.

At first this too seemed like one 'grand adventure', a continuation of what had started on a rocky isle in northern Scotland and would end only on the banks of the mighty Themes itself!

And why the Hell not? After all, hadn’t Carlisle surrendered in mid November and Manchester a week later and Derby in early December? We were bloody unstoppable! At this rate we’d all be warming our Scottish arses in London by Yuletide!

Then things started to go wrong.

The marches south were long and boring. Soon we ran short of food. Then the weather turned cold and wet. Slowly men began to trickle away home during the night. That trickle soon became a flood. Then Charles and his second in command, Lord Murray, had a terrible row. Soon after about a thousand Highlanders left to return to their native glens. Finally word came that three separate British armies threatened to converge on our sadly depleted forces.

On the 6th of December, 1745 --- ‘Black Friday’--- the order for our retreat back north was given. Cold, wet, hungry and dispirited, we began the long hard road back to Scotland. We staggered into Glasgow on Christmas day, foot-sore and aching, both in body and spirit. The Brits had sent Lieutenant-General Hawley to intercept us, and though we won the Battle o’ Falkirk on January 17th, in the winter dusk our advantage was not pressed home. Hawley retired to Edinburgh, there to hang any armed Scots he could find on the gallows as ‘bloody Jacobites’!

For seven long, cold weeks, Inverness was The Prince’s base. Being so close to home, I’d thought about slipping back and maybe seeing my ma, but soon thought better of it. I knew full well that once there she’d not let me leaving again, especially when word came that The Duke of bloody Cumberland, bastard son of that German bastard, George II, had reached Aberdeen with a large force of British regulars and over 5,000 bloody German Hessians! Lobsterbacks are bad enough, but those hard-headed Kraut sausage-eaters are the Devil’s own footsoldiers!

To make matters worse, we heard that our ‘so-called allies’ the frog eating, snail sucking French, had finally sent a sloop with muskets, equipment and over ten thousand British guineas, but that the daft buggers had let the damned ship be captured by the bastardly British off the Isle o’ Tongue!

In early April, 1746, The Duke of Cumberland and his army moved from Aberdeen to Narn, then crossed the River Spey and set up camp, just thirty miles away from us. Upon hearing that, a goodly number of ‘stout lads’ slunk off into the night, but Iron Angus n' I were not among them.

We’ve stood by The Bonny Prince this far, Angus, the old men said. I’ll no be leavin’ him now when he needs us most.

I nodded in silent agreement and we both hunkered down and waited for the end.

It was not a long wait.

Chapter 4: A Wee Walk In The Night

It was to be a grand battle to be sure! The Prince’s brave clans were to meet Cumberland’s Lobsterbacks head on --- and in one glorious charge, we’d sweep all the redcoated bastards back into the sea!

The British, however, had other plans.

Outnumbered, outgunned and outmanoeuvred, we ran screaming down that icy field and left over half of our kin either dead or dying before we got half way to the bloody British lines --- Iron Angus being one of them!

But I get ahead of myself, for you’ll be wanting to hear first hand how that ‘glorious battle’ ended for all time any hope o’ ‘The King ever coming again across the bloody water’!

***

It all started the night before the battle, April 15th. N’ a more cold, nasty night you’d have ta look long n’ hard ta find! Windy it was, drivin’ icy wet snow down the bare n’ boggy moor. Master-Sergeant William MacDonald, the same stout-hearted soldier that had visited to my grandad’s forge the June before, had just come back from a so-called officer’s meeting. His face, though dripping rain n’ sleet, was as red as my grandsire’s forge when fully stoked.

Bloody piss-ant sheep-shaggers, the whole bloody lot o’ ‘em! Will stomped up to the evening fire and bent to warm his hands. The dozen or so of us close by gathered round, eager to hear what ‘Our Grand Chiefs’ had planned for us.

Well, Sergeant, asked a pimply faced lad three years younger than myself. Do we get ta fight ta bastards in ta mornin’?

MacDonald looked aslant at the lad through greasy hair. "Aye, Davy-boy, we fight ta bastards in ta mornin’, but we also get ta fight the bloody bastards tonight as well! Lord George has talked the Prince into a bloody night attack on the whole God-damned British army!"

Tonight? the startled lad repeated, his eyes wide and gleaming.

Aye lad, we’re to muster down by the river as soon as we get our gear. Travel light, me boyos! Take yer blades n’ musket only, ‘n some water, for it looks to be a long n’ bloody night indeed!

I quickly bolted down the rest of my porridge and went over to the makeshift shelter I had erected for my granddad sometime earlier. His wound was still bothering him, though he tried not to show it.

How’s the shoulder?, I asked, handing him his portion of the evening’s meal. I saw his face wince as he reached for the bowl. T’is nothin’, lad. It'd take more ‘n a prick from a British bayonet to slow me down! What was Willie goin’ on about? More bloody waitin’?

No, I replied as casually as I could. It seems Lord George wants a few o’ us to traipse over to the British camp tonight n’ maybe do a little mischief. No need to stir yerself though, it’ll probably just be a long cold walk in the dark for nothin’.

I watched the old man to see if he looked interested in going, for he dearly hated to miss a good fight, though lately he had been slowing down some, what with his shoulder wound and his joints aching so. I was relieved when he gave me his blessing and told me to ‘have a care’! I grabbed my weapons and hurried after the others already gathering by the river.

Lord George Murray, brother of the Duke of Athol and as brave ‘n bloody a soldier that ever drew breath, was waiting to receive us. Though his jacket was of the finest velvet, it was ragged and dirty just like our own homespun, and over it he wore the ‘belted plaid’ just like us!

Most of us were ready to give up our lives for The Bonnie Prince, but for Lord George Murray we would have given up our very souls!

Lads, he said, flashing that winning smile of his. Lads, I need you all ta take a wee walk with me this night. That Irish fool O’Sullivan has somehow convinced The Prince that we should attack Cumberland first thing in the morning. He put a leg up on a log and leaned forward, seemingly looking each man in the eye. Now ye all ken that I like a scrap as well as the next man, but yonder Drumossey Moor be nay ta place for a 'bonny Heeland charge'! Swamp n’ bog it be on our side, with level dry ground further up where the Brits can use their shaggin' cavalry!

There was murmuring and nods of agreement. Lord George silenced us all with a raise of his chin. Word has it that today is the bloody Duke o’ Cumberland’s birthday. Right about now his men will be drinkin’ his health with his own brandy. Over n’ over again I’ll wager! Why, by midnight they’ll all be as drunk as bishops on All Saint’s Day!

That winning smile flashed again and he leaned towards us all. I propose that we saunter over there tonight n’ pay the ‘Fat Duke’ a little surprise visit. He pulled his basket hilted broadsword halfway out of its worn scabbard. We’ll give German George’s fat second son a present o’ sharp Highland steel to go with his greasy sausage! What say ye lads? Are ye with me?!

The shouting and tossed bonnets in the air gave our joyous answer. God but we were all so young and bloody foolish!

***

We left shortly after eight, setting off in two columns, intending to come at the British camp from both ends, however delay followed delay as we slipped n’ slid over the icy moor. Wet from wading through the bogs and shivering from the cold, Lord Murray called a halt while we were still two miles from the River Nairn. Several scouts were sent ahead while the rest of us huddled in our sodden kilts. It had been raining for some time before they came back. The rain had now turned to more wet snow. The news the scouts brought back was not good. It would be daylight before we could reach the enemy’s camp and, to make matters worse, the Fat Duke’s men were already up n' stirring! Apparently the brandy had quickly run out and the bastards had toasted His Bloody Lordship’s health with water! Fresh and ready they were, like bridegrooms eager for the fray.

So, wet, tired and hungry, we did the only sensible thing --- we turned bloody-well around! There would be no ‘glorious night attack’ like in the old stories, for Lord George had weighed the odds against us realistically and we came up wanting.

If the march out of camp had been a rough one, the tramp back was a thousand times worse! Somehow we had been discovered and the bloody British Light Infantry shot at us in the dark all the way back, giving up only when The Bonny Prince’s Life Guards galloped out to scatter the bastards off into the heather! Cold, wet and footsore, we staggered back to Culloden around seven in the morning. Too exhausted to eat, most of us just lay down beside the road or behind the stone walls and slept ---- wrapped in our sodden tartans and our vanishing dreams, some of us only woke in time to find the enemy cutting our throats!

At eight o’clock, a mere hour after most of us had just fallen asleep, the Bonny Prince ordered us all to form up as we had the previous day. Those of us on foot were in one long line, often five or six ranks deep. His so-called cavalry, a collection of fancy dressed lords and greedy, tight-fisted lairds, kept themselves mostly to the rear. His artillery, such as it was --- thirteen assorted British cannon we’d captured earlier --- were arranged in three batteries on the right, left and center of the front line.

Granddad n’ me were up front with the MacDonalds on the far left. My gillies and stockings were muddy and wet, my stomach was heaving for want of food and my head ached for want of sleep. On top of that I had to piss so bad I could taste it! As I lifted my kilt beside a mossy wall, the heavens opened and it started to rain down ice and sleet again! I recall telling myself that it couldn’t get any worse than this --- but I was wrong.

At 11 o’clock the British cannons opened fire, raining down a far harsher greeting than the one the Lord God Almighty had seen fit to provide. The battle of Culloden had truly begun.

Chapter 5: Culloden

I’ve heard it said that we Jacobites were the first to open fire, and that we nearly hit that fat bastard, the Duke of Bloody Cumberland, with our first volley. That may or may not be true ---- Culloden however, was no artillery duel. We might have gotten off the first shot, but we sure as hell didn’t get off too many after that!

The commander of the Duke’s guns was Brevet Colonel William Bedford, better known as ‘Bloody Bill’. He was as experienced a gunner as any in Europe and his men were trained to his high standards. He had his ten three-pound guns in pairs up on the front line and his coehorn mortars in the rear ---- and with them he pounded the living shite right out of us!

Their round shot was the worst, cutting wide swaths in our Highland ranks, mowing us down like wheat before the scythe. Our own cannon gave answer, pouring forth fire and smoke, but, being fewer, smaller and without trained crews, they did little real damage. With the wind, sleet and enemy gun-smoke in our faces, we could do little but ‘stand n’ suffer the slaughter’. Our front ranks were often six deep, and an enemy cannonball could easily mangle several of us at a time! This was definitely not the kind of warfare we Highlanders were accustomed to!

Some fire was directed over our heads at the Prince and his command group. The Prince’s horse was shot out from beneath him, that fine gray gelding I had first seen him on back on that glorious landing at Glenfinnan All this and more I learned after the battle from those few of us that survived; but the sum of all I learned was this: that Highland courage and Claymores were no match that sad day against British muskets and cannon.

***

Angus!, the sergeant bellowed into the smoke-filled morning. Get yer lazy arse up here! N’ bring those lads with you!

I scrambled over the frozen ground, already slick with fallen men’s blood. Several of the others followed me up to the battered stone fence. Shells from British guns burst like thunder all around us. Sergeant William Francis MacDonald, bleeding from a gash on his forehead, was peering into the rain and sleet. Well over five hundred yards across the moor the British army waited, content for now to let their big guns do all the work.

We’ve got to silence those God-cursed cannon! the sergeant growled.

Do we charge ‘em, Willie?, one of the older men asked.

Not till we get the bloody word!, MacDonald replied. N’ even then those bastard guns will chew us up somethin’ fierce!

There already chewin’ us up right here, Willie!, my granddad remarked dryly. Just then a mortar shell landed in the field on the other side of the stone fence where we crouched. A large section of the rock wall was blown apart not twenty feet in front of us.

MacDonald pointed with his sword. I figure if some stout lads could make their way up this stone fence, they might just get close enough to actually DO somethin’ in this quiffin’ blood-bath! Maybe take the gun crews from the side or even flank the British bastards! He turned and fixed us all with that devilish gaze of his. Well, be there any o’ ye stout lassies up for it?

Several men moved past me. As I made to join them, I felt a tug from behind. Tis a fools errand yer about, lad, my granddad said. His face was worn and grim, but the twinkle was still in his eye. But then we’re all naught but a great collection o’ fools, every last one o’ us --- includin’ ta Bonny Prince himself!

Another cannonball came skipping across the moor, cutting in half the man just ahead of me, then bounced high before plowing on into the second rank fifty yards to our rear. The legs and the bottom part of the trunk slowly wavered about, then collapsed in a steaming heap. The top part of the man was nowhere to be seen. Blood, guts and shattered bone had splattered both us and the stone wall we crouched behind.

My granddad suddenly thrust his musket into my hands. Here lad, take this. As ye ken well, I call her Maude, after yer feisty ol’ grandmother. His fierce gray eyes went all misty for a second and his rough voice took on a gentleness long unused. N a rare fine beauty she was in her prime! Then the mist cleared and the softness hardened. It’s more reliable than that old Spanish piece o’ shite you carry, n’ besides, wi’ this shoulder wound o’ mine I canna manage a musket.

It was one of the new British firelocks, with a shortened, 42 inch barrel and fitted with a metal ramrod and lug-site to hold a socket bayonet. It was smaller and lighter than the First Land pieces most of the British still carried, though still a .75 calibre like the First Land. I took the musket , as well as the offered cartridge box and bayonet --- all recently having been liberated from a dead Lobsterback.

Remember Angus, ‘n this mess, one place be as good as ta next. My granddad gripped my arm and squeezed. Get along with ye now n’ stop those bloody cannon. I’ll be there directly when the lads start their charge!

I remember smiling like the young fool I was, still stupid enough to believe we had a chance and that we’d all live forever. I turned and sprinted after Sergeant Willie and the others, not knowing I’d never see that grand old man again, save for when I stumbled across his broken body a short time later.

There were over two dozen of us that went with the sergeant. Mostly young idiots like myself, though a few were old enough to have known better. Keeping the stone wall between us and the main battlefield, we managed to make it to about two hundred yards of the British cannon without being seen. In truth we nearly tripped over a small patrol of bloody Redcoats! We were rounding a bend in the stone fence, keeping low with one eye on the main British forces still far off to the right, when suddenly they were there! Grenadiers with their tall, Pope-like hats. We outnumbered them two to one, but they still put up a hell of a fight.

Few muskets actually fired, for it was still drizzling rain and we were on top of each other before we knew what had happened. Bayonet, sword and dirk were used that day, with the odd musket-butt tossed in for good measure. In a few short minutes all the Brits lay dead at our feet --- though three of our own were lost and several others wounded. Two of the Grenadiers had turned and fled back towards the Duke’s main force. Our lads fired several times, myself included. One was dropped --- yet one got away.

From then on we knew that we would be eagerly awaited if we continued. To our credit (and our stupidity), none of us mentioned turning back. Instead we rushed after the fleeing soldier, intent on either winning or dying.

As it turned out I did neither.

Slipping and sliding over the ice-rimmed field, we kept as close to the rock wall as we could. The fleeing Grenadier had managed to vanish in the mist and smoke that settled over the field. The cannons still roared, closer now as we stumbled forward like blind men groping for Heaven. What we found instead however was a red-coated Hell.

Like a ragged curtain, a contrary wind suddenly tore the mist away, giving us a view of the exposed right flank of a brace of British cannon --- and the whole bloody British Army behind them! We pressed ourselves up against that cold wet stone wall and looked to our weapons.

Whip out your bloody pans, lads n’ prime ‘em anew, Sergeant MacDonald urged us, his wolfish grin made all the more savage by a running cut over his eye. Use yer dry shirt-tails --- that is if ye havna pissed yerselves already! We’ll give ta bastard Brits a taste o’ their own this day! He drew the heavy basket-hilt sword that had been in his family for generations. Look sharp, now! Those to my right will fire the first volley, duck down n’ reload while those to my left give the second. We’ll keep that up till the guns be silenced, then skip back down the fenceline to our lads!

My heart pounding, I forced my numbed fingers to work. Using an inner fold of my sodden kilt, I wiped out the flashpan of my British musket, checked the large flint in the cock and looked to my newly acquired cartridge box. Inside more than half of the two dozen holes drilled in the wooden block held pre-rolled paper cartridges. Taking one out, I quickly bit off the end, poured a dozen or so grains of black powder into the pan, snapped shut the frizen, then emptied the remaining ninety odd grains down the barrel. The ball followed, still in its paper tube. Round, solid, heavy. Eleven balls from a pound of led. As big as the end of my thumb they be. When hit by ‘The King’s Club’, one was not so much wounded as ‘removed’. After seating the ball in the breach, I returned the metal rod to it’s brass ‘pipes’ under the barrel and stepped forward to the fence.

First line, make ready!, Sergeant MacDonald yelled.

My thumb yanked back on the serpentine cock. The metallic ‘click’ cut through the bedlam of the battlefield around me. 'Maude' was ready to speak. God grant that she speak true!

Present arms!

I thrust the heavy musket forward over the slick stone wall. Pressing my cheek down on the brown wood, I centered the heavy lug-site on a Redcoat not thirty yards away.

Fire!

A dozen copies of my musket made a guttural roar. Bitter gray smoke enwrapped me, clouding my vision. Sleet fell. Mist swirled. Blood flowed. And through it all, men died.

First rank, reload! Second rank, make ready!

Stepping back from the stone wall, I fumbled for another cartridge. Young Davy grinned at me, a smear of black powder on his boyish face.

Got one, Angus!, he proudly announced. Big bastard he was! Wi’ one o’ them Pope hats! N’ you?

I shook my head, for in truth I could not tell if I had hit my man or no. All that mattered, however, was that I was ready to try again. Prime, powder, ball. Ram it home and ---

First rank, make ready!

Despite what most Scots may say, the British are not stupid, though they’re none to swift at times, I’ll grant ye. Stubborn, yes. Slow-to-change, yes. Arrogant, most certainly --- but stupid they are not. After our third volley an artillery officer had his gunners swing two of the cannon around in our direction. By the time I stepped up to the stone wall again, I was looking down the muzzles of a brace of six pounders.

Down!, the sergeant bellowed, shoving us with his own body against the icy, wet heather. The cold, moss covered stones of the ancient fence scraped my beardless cheek. Then