The March Hare Novels Series

Alex Mackenzie was a Scottish lad born in 1754 in the Scottish lowlands on the border between Scotland and England. Alex, his father, and his two older brothers were members of the last band of Reivers (outlaws) that operated along the border. A few years before the start of the American Revolutionary War, Alex ran afoul of the British authorities; they were on his trail and wanted him dead. His only alternative was to leave Scotland for Ireland and then from there to sail to America. The colonies in America were supposed to be a place where people could get a new start in life and explore new opportunities. America was supposed to be a place where people could put down stakes and put old feuds behind them, or was it? “Och, that tears it; it’s all gang agley” said Alex’s father. “Ye are going to hae to set aff from Scotland for a wee bit, Alex, laddie.” “Where should I go?” “Ireland,” said John. “Ye can find wark at the Plantation of Ulster and get back on yer feet there. Ye might hae t’ stay in Ireland quite a spell until this all blows oer.” “How am I going to get there?” “Weel,” Hugh chimed in, “the distance from Scotland to Ireland is less than fourteen miles at the closest point, we can probably swim o’er there, just like swimming across a loch,” said Hugh with a grin and a gleam in his eye. “We,” said Alex. “Who invited you along?” “Ye don’t think Robber and I would let ye go o’er the Sheuch alane, do ye, laddie?” replied Hugh.

After British Army General Cornwallis surrendered to General George Washington’s rebels at Yorktown, Virginia, the American Revolutionary War rapidly drew to a close. A few weeks after the surrender, Captain Alex Mackenzie had completed his short and informal discharge ceremony from the Continental Army at Yorktown and had traveled to Philadelphia where he and his brothers, Robert and Hugh, received an urgent and alarming message. Their father, John was in trouble with the English authorities back in their native Scottish border lands. After quickly booking passage on a ship bound for Edinburgh, the three brothers set sail back across the Atlantic to see if they could help their father escape the wrath of the British authorities. “John Mackenzie, I have a warrant for your arrest. This is your last warning before we break the door down!” shouted the angry sheriff. Agnes McCredie walked over to the front door where on the other side, the sheriff was fuming. The elderly Agnes mustered up her courage and cleared her throat. “Och, guid sir, the laird is nae at the hoose, ye ken,” shouted the old housekeeper through the front door to the sheriff, who stood outside on the stoop. “Open up in there, old woman, we’ll search the house for him anyway,” replied the sheriff. “Juist a wee moment sir, while I gang fer the pry bar t’ lever the bolt, haud on please!” shouted the old housekeeper who was already clutching the pry bar in both her hands while she pressed her ear to the door to see if she could hear what the sheriff was saying to his men.

The Mackenzie brother's saga continues to a conclusion in book 3 of the series: The slim, dark-haired rider finally realized that he had fallen too far back to clearly hear the song that the big man riding in front of him was singing. After gently spurring his horse while making a clicking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he closed the gap behind the big singer, almost near enough to enjoy the words and melody. But even as close as he was riding, the rising and falling roar of the rushing water in the nearby Watauga River was still occasionally drowning out the big singer’s voice, much to the dark-haired rider’s disappointment. The dark-haired rider was not much of a singer himself, and he really didn’t need to hear all of the words to be able to hum along with the singer and fill in the gaps when the river’s roar drowned out the song entirely. Just like the big singer, he had heard the ballad so many times that he knew the melody and words by heart. The dark-haired rider thoughtfully looked down at his horse’s reins, pondering why the singer was singing that particular song. It certainly was an old, sweet song, much older than the two men riding in single-file along the river bank and much too sweet for the river’s roar to completely overpower it. “O’ misty lowlands, rapt in wind-driven snow,” “The hills whisper longings to the glens that lie below,” “Where have the guid folk gone? I know, yea, I know,” “Always remember yer homeland, for tis truly blest,” Hugh Mackenzie unexpectedly stopped singing the Scottish ballad, abruptly choking off the last word of the verse. Jerking back his reins to quickly stop Hercules, the mule he was riding, Hugh’s eyes darted around warily as if he had been startled by some noise or a movement in the brush nearby. The powerful mule shivered under Hugh’s weight, sensing his rider’s unease. Not seeing anything out of the ordinary, Hercules flicked his ears forward to see if he could hear what had startled his heavy rider.