The Veteran's Legacy

1. Drummossie Moor, Scotland, April 16th 1746

Sleet slashed into the face of Hughie MacKim, stinging his eyes and forcing him to bow his head as he ran. Reared in the hills, he ignored the rough heather that scraped against his bare feet and calves, leapt across the overflowing burns and splashed through the patches of bog. High above, a pair of questing oystercatchers piped as they flew arrow-straight, beneath the ominous dark clouds.

“Ewan! Wait for me!” Hughie shouted as his brother stretched his lead.

“No!” Ewan, five years older and six inches taller, shook his head. “You heard the tacksman as well as I did. If I don’t join the clan today, he’ll evict our parents and burn the roof above their heads.”

“I can’t keep up.”

“You’re too young, Hughie. You should have stayed at home.”

“But I want to fight as well. I want to be a man.” Hughie lifted his head when he heard the deep rumble ahead. “Can you hear that noise?”

“Yes. I don’t know what it is. It’s not thunder,” Ewan said.

Hughie could see flashes reflected on the brooding clouds, followed by that heavy crashing and an acrid smell that he did not recognise. He shivered, feeling that something was very wrong, and ran on, trying to stretch his legs to match his brother’s stride.

“That’s gunfire.” Ewan’s Gaelic words seeming to echo in the damp air. “I know it is. They’ve started the battle without me. I have to go.” Ewan stopped and held Hughie by the shoulders. “You’re only ten years old. You’re too young to fight. Go home!” Ewan looked behind him as gunfire crashed out again. “I have to go.” Giving Hughie’s shoulders a final squeeze, Ewan turned, checked the dirk which was his only weapon, and ran toward the gunfire.

“Ewan!” Hughie raised his voice to a high-pitched scream, “Don’t leave me, Ewan!” But Ewan only ran faster. Nearly sobbing, Hughie followed towards the sound of the guns with Ewan fast disappearing across the damp brown heather. Cresting a small rise, Hughie stopped as the whole extent of Drummossie Moor unfolded before him.

“Ewan,” he said. “Oh, Ewan, where are you?”

Half a mile in front of Hughie, Prince Charles Edward Stuart had arrayed his Jacobite army in tartan-clad regiments, each under a flapping clan banner. Opposite, across a stretch of the sleet-swept moor and arrayed in disciplined blocks of scarlet and black, the Hanoverian army of King George II waited. Between the regimental blocks, black-snouted cannon spouted flame, smoke and hate toward the Jacobites, while on the flanks, Campbell militia and troops of cavalry waited to pounce. From where he stood, Hughie could see that the government army was much larger than the Jacobites’ force, whose few cannon soon gave up what was an unequal contest.

Undecided what to do, Jamie watched for a few moments as the Hanoverian cannon pounded the Jacobites, tearing great holes in the clan regiments who stood in growing frustration, swaying under the punishment. After a while, one section of the Jacobites streamed forward, covering the boggy moorland in great bounds. Even at that distance, Jamie could see that there were only a few hundred men in the attack, against eight or nine thousand disciplined professional soldiers.

The Hanoverians responded with volley after volley of musketry which ripped into the advancing Jacobites. Hughie saw men fall in droves, with the cannon altering from roundshot to grapeshot that scythed into the attackers, mowing them down.

“No!” Hughie shook his head, holding out a hand as if he could stop the s*******r. For an instant, powder-smoke obscured much of his view, but the swirling wind shifted away the white curtain, so Hughie saw hundreds of Jacobites lying still or writhing in agony on the b****y heather.

“Ewan! Ewan, take care,” Hughie said. “Please take care.”

Fascinated despite his anxiety, Hughie watched as the ragged remains of the Jacobite charge crashed into the Hanoverian ranks. Sunlight flashed on the steel blades of broadsword and bayonet as the two sides clashed, then the front ranks of the redcoats splintered and the Jacobites thrust through the gaps. For a moment, Jamie thought that the few hundred tartan-clad men could rout the entire Hanoverian force, but then the second redcoat line met the ragged charge with volleys of musketry.

Scores of Jacobites died there, with the remainder falling on the bayonets of the second Hanoverian line. With the attack failing in b****y s*******r, a battered Highland handful withdrew, and the Hanoverians marched forward.

“Ewan.” Hughie whispered the word. Amidst the confusion and powder smoke, he could not make out individuals. All he could see was a mess of tartan-clad bodies amidst swirls of grey-white smoke, and the advancing infantry butchering anyone they thought was still alive. In front of the redcoats, the Jacobites were in slow retreat, some firing muskets at the Hanoverian infantry and the cavalry that harassed their flanks, slashing at the writhing wounded.

“Ewan. I must find Ewan.” The defeat of the Jacobites meant nothing to Hughie; in common with the majority of men who wore the tartan, he did not care which king placed a crown on his head. Hughie only followed his brother, as Ewan had obeyed his chief on peril of eviction. One king was much like another and Hughie already knew that none would spare him as much as a glance, however wet the day or wild the weather.

As the armies passed, Hughie lay amidst the heather, too small to be noticed. He saw the remnants of the Fraser clan regiment run past him, but as Ewan was not there, Hughie knew that he must still be on the field. Hughie lay for what seemed a long time, listening to the moans from the wounded and high laughter from the victorious Hanoverians. Peering through the heather fronds, he saw red-coated soldiers moving among the Jacobite casualties, robbing the dead and bayonetting the wounded.

“Ewan,” Hughie said. “Please, God, don’t let the redcoats kill Ewan.”

Unable to lie still any longer, Hughie rose and, moving in a half-crouch, returned to the scene of the battle.

Trying to avert his eyes from the terrible sights of mutilated men, Hughie searched for the Fraser clan. They had been in the very centre of the front line, so would have been among the Jacobites who broke the Hanoverian ranks. Recognising some of the casualties, Hughie found a trail of twisted bodies leading towards the old Hanoverian front line. He shuddered at the sight of one of the wounded men who lay trying to hold his intestines in place. Unable to help, Hughie could not face the desperate plea in the man’s eyes.

“Ewan,” Hughie called softly, through the agonised moans of broken men. “Ewan.” He slipped in a pool of congealing blood, held back his nausea and continued to search. The dead lay thick in front of the Hanoverian cannon, men with heads or limbs missing, men with their insides torn out, men so disfigured that Hughie could barely recognise them as human. He paddled through the blood-polluted mud, not bothering to hide his tears as the sleet still sliced into his face.

Ewan lay in the middle of a pile of bodies, one hand outstretched, the other holding his dirk. He was moaning softly, fighting for every breath.

“Ewan!” Hughie bent over him, his heart racing. “I’ll help you.”

It took all Hughie’s strength and courage even to touch the bloodied bodies that partly concealed Ewan. One by one, he pushed or dragged them aside, men he had known as neighbours or friends, now shattered things with splintered bones and pain-ravaged features. At last, Hughie reached Ewan and felt a spark of hope as his brother looked up.

“Can you walk?” Hughie asked.

“I don’t know.” Ewan tried to rise, gasped and shook his head. “No! No! My leg’s hurt,” he said. “You’ll have to help me.”

Hughie looked at Ewan’s legs, shuddered and looked away. Either a musket ball or a piece of grapeshot had shattered Ewan’s left shin so the bone thrust through a mass of congealed blood and muscle. “We’ll get you home.” Hughie swallowed nausea that rose in his throat. “Mother will fix that.” Bending over, he placed a supporting arm around Ewan’s shoulder. “Come on, Ewan, you can’t stay here. The redcoats will find you.” Hughie knew what the redcoats were like; they were the demons that haunted nightmares, monsters that laughed as they spitted children on the points of bayonets and maltreated women of any age or condition.

Ewan screamed as Hughie tried to lift him, with his weight pulling both boys down to the heather. He yelled again as his shattered leg dragged on the ground.

“No, I can’t stand,” Ewan sobbed, shaking his head frantically. “Leave me here. Run home and get help.”

“But that will take hours.” Hughie fought his growing panic. “There must be somebody here.” He heard the drift of voices and looked up.

The men emerged from a bank of mist. Clad in Hanoverian scarlet, they were tall, with the mitre caps of grenadiers making them even taller. They spoke English, a language that neither Hughie nor Ewan understood.

“Keep quiet,” Ewan hissed. “Lie down and pretend you are dead.”

Raised on stories of the brutality of redcoats, Hughie slid to the ground, terribly aware of the thundering of his heart. He heard Ewan whimpering beside him, followed by footsteps thudding on the ground and closed his eyes tightly, feigning death.

The voices came closer, harsh, arrogant and unpleasantly guttural. Hughie could not restrain his gasp as a hard hand closed on his shoulder and hoisted him to his feet. He opened his eyes, staring into the bloodshot eyes of a Hanoverian soldier. The man’s breath stank of tobacco and alcohol.

Two other soldiers crowded around, laughing, poking at Hughie with calloused fingers, speaking about him with words he did not understand. A fourth man, even larger than the others, stood a little apart with his mitre hat pulled forward over his face, shadowing his features. Gunpowder had stained the buff facings of their scarlet coats; one had blood spattered over his face and hands; all were mud-stained.

“Leave me alone!” Hughie tried to push the soldiers away. They laughed all the harder, surrounded him and shoved him from one to the other, enjoying the fun of tormenting a child.

“Leave him!” Ewan shouted. “If I had both legs I would show you the way to Hell.” Lifting his dirk, he slashed sideways in impotent rage.

While the first soldier retained his hold on Hughie, the others retreated from Ewan’s desperate lunges until they realised he was too severely wounded to stand. After that, they returned to their jeers, taunting Ewan.

“Leave him! He’s hurt!” Hughie kicked out, catching the man who held him on the leg. Without hesitation, the soldier retaliated with a savage backhanded slap that stunned Hughie into silence.

Drawing their seventeen-inch long bayonets, the soldiers circled Ewan, stabbing at him. When one pinioned Ewan’s hand to the ground, another kicked away the dirk, laughing. Hughie could only watch as three soldiers surrounded Ewan and began to kick at his shattered leg. Ewan screamed, writhing.

“Leave him,” Hughie pleaded. “Please leave him alone. He’s hurt!”

Tiring of their sport, the Grenadier with the shaded face lit a length of fuse and held it high. He said something that made the other soldiers laugh, and pressed the spluttering fuse to the edge of Ewan’s philabeg, his short kilt. Stepping back, the Grenadier grunted as Ewan’s kilt began to smoulder. When he saw Hughie watching, he pushed his hat even lower over his face. His uniform was different from the others, with a white lace cord over his right shoulder marking him as a corporal. He laughed as the flames spread across Ewan’s kilt, causing the wounded boy to squirm and cry out.

philabeg“Ewan!” Yelling, Hughie began to struggle again, much to the delight of the soldiers. They held him tight as Ewan writhed, screaming when the flames took hold.

“Ewan! You’re burning him! Put the flames out. Please put the fire out!” Frantic in his agony for his brother, Hughie turned and twisted in the soldiers’ grasp, kicking out at them, trying to push them away. However, a ten-year-old boy cannot defeat three trained Grenadiers. The fourth thrust his halberd – a seven-foot-long pole surmounted by a bladed, spiked head – into the small of Ewan’s back, pinning him down as the flames spread over Ewan’s writhing body. Ewan’s skin blackened and blistered as Hughie recoiled from the nauseous smell.

Hughie never knew how long it took Ewan to die. He was sick long before the end, retching and gasping as his brother burned slowly in front of his eyes. When it was finally over, and the blackened, twisted, smoking thing that had been Ewan lay in peace on the damp heather, Hughie looked at the soldiers who held him. “I’m going to kill you,” he said through his tears. “I am going to kill all of you, somehow.”

The four soldiers laughed louder, unable to understand his Gaelic but recognising his words as a threat. Hughie looked at each face in turn, stamping them on his memory. As they were Grenadiers, they were the elite of the army, the tallest, broadest and most aggressive. The man who held him was dark-haired, with his nose broken and twisted to the side. The man who had thrust his bayonet through Ewan’s hand had a seemingly permanent sneer lifting the left corner of his mouth. His companion was gaunt-faced, with nervous eyes that darted from side to side and a quick, short laugh. The fourth, the corporal with the hidden face who had set fire to Ewan, was the largest, yet quietest of them all.

“What will we do with this?” Broken-nose lifted Hughie high, so the boy kicked and squirmed.

“Throw it on the fire,” the sneering man said.

“Cut its belly open, Hayes,” the nervous man suggested and laughed high-pitched. “Go on, gut him like a pig!”

Hayes. Hugh caught the name through the torrent of unfamiliar words. The man holding me is called Hayes.

HayesThe man holding me is called Hayes.“What do you say, corporal?” Broken-nose Hayes shook Hughie and lifted him even higher.

Already strained by his gyrations, Hughie’s shirt ripped further. Before the corporal could reply, Hughie slipped out of the remaining rags and fell to the ground. He landed with a soft thump, rolled and was on his feet and running before Hayes could react.

Hughie heard somebody call out, “After him, Ligonier’s!” and the sound of heavy feet behind him. Hayes and Ligonier’s. He repeated the names as he jinked through the dead bodies and clumps of heather. Hayes and Ligonier’s. One of the Grenadiers is called Hayes, and Ligonier’s must be the name of the regiment.

Hayes and Ligonier’s.Hayes and Ligonier’sOne of the Grenadiers is called Hayes, and Ligonier’s must be the name of the regiment.Light on his feet and running for his life, Hughie jumped from shrub to shrub across the boggy ground. Older, heavier and burdened with muskets, the Grenadiers blundered in Hughie’s wake. After a few moments, the footsteps following Hughie slowed to a halt, but he continued for another five minutes before he dared to stop. Resting against a tree, gasping, with the breath burning his throat and lungs, he looked fearfully behind him.

Hughie saw Hayes staring at him, eyes poisonous. When the Grenadier slowly lifted his musket to his shoulder, Hughie gave a little whimper and ran on, sobbing, with his feet blundering over the rough ground. His world had changed forever, and the images of his brother’s terrible death dominated his mind.