Brian Cahill
HR 101
A Lesson and a Friendship
The afternoon sun seemed to hang over the western isles of Scotland like a crawling ball of flame. Sean O'Dane wearily hoed an acre of farmland owned by his family. In but a few weeks the crops would be planted. Barley, potatoes, oats, and rye would all flourish here under the beating sunshine. The shadows had amassed great lengths by the time Sean had finished the land. Shouldering his hoe, he quietly made his way to the wide dirt path which wound its way to the village, the lights of which glimmered faintly in the dusk.
As Sean walked, he could hear voices in the distance. Dread seized his heart as he recognized the voices and realized from where they came. Men and older boys from the nearby towns and villages had been mustering for war for at least two or even three years. It was then that William Wallace had sent out his inspiring plea for the Scots to rise against their English oppressors. Whenever more men and boys prepared for war, they would arm themselves, paint their faces blue in the Scottish war fashion, and prepare to fight around a single fire, which symbolized the Scottish people as one. As Sean passed the muster ground, he could see the intricate, time-honored paint patterns on the men and boys' faces.
Continuing down the road towards the village, Sean came upon his house, a small hut well crafted of clay, mud, and thatch. As he passed through the door, the inviting aroma of venison reached his nose. A fire flickered in the hearth, and above it, a black pot steamed with the smell of stewed deer. Sean's father Joseph stirred the mixture with a ladle.
The night stretched quietly along, and several hours later found Sean preparing for bed and a depleted stew pot. When the moon shone full, Sean pulled the thin covers over his head and was soon asleep.
A meadowlark trilled to announce the beginning of a new day. Rising from his bed, Sean made his way through the house and out into the chilled morning air, his hoe in hand. As he strode down the road to resume his work in the fields, a shape leapt from a bush near by and landed nimbly beside him.
"Morning old friend, where ya off to this fine young day?" Sean's friend Boyd asked.
"Same as most days, Boyd," Sean replied, "Off to the fields."
"Well I'm never heading to the fields again," Boyd stated proudly, "I'm off to join William Wallace on the English border to free our country."
Sean's hoe made a loud clatter as it hit the ground. Boyd meant to become a Scottish warrior and fight the English.
Neither of the boys spoke for a long time, until Boyd pulled a bow of fine yew wood from his back and knocked a red-fletched arrow. Taking aim at a small oak tree several dozen yards off, Boyd exhaled and his bow twanged loudly. The arrow flew through the air like a falcon en route to its prey. There was a dull thud as the arrow smote the oak and embedded itself in the thick bark.
"I've been practicing for months," he said humbly. "I'm too young to fight on the lines, but with a bow, perhaps, I can be of some use."
"My brother Michael left more then a year ago," Sean replied sadly. "Now that he is a man he can fight on the lines."
"Why don't you come?" Boyd blurted out his face lit up at the prospect of his friend beside him. "I've heard you're not too bad with a bow yourself."
Sean was taken aback by the sudden question. He wasn't sure how to respond. One part of him dearly wished to help his country in battle alongside his friends and family, but another part was filled with fear, and bade him not go. Yet his warrior spirit that is evident in most Scots called him to battle, and putting on a stern face he addressed Boyd.
"I will come with you," he replied fiercely.
Nearly a month later found the two boys striding down a wide avenue in the great city of Glasgow with a band of Scottish warriors, painted blue and eager for English blood. Hundreds of Scots crowded the streets, some off to their fate at war, others bidding them farewell. Glasgow was in the middle of Scotland, and the mustering point for many Scots. From there, the warriors would head south to Dumfries and then to the border.
As they strode through the streets Boyd turned to his friend's painted face.
"Almost there, my friend," he said with a grim grin.
The boys traversed for nearly two more weeks over the plains and wooded hills of the Scottish lowlands until, nearly eleven weeks after they had left their isle home, they came upon a Scottish encampment less then three miles from the border.
The majority of the men were seasoned fighters, armed with terrifying war axes, spears, or swords. Some, mainly the boys, were armed with bows or javelins. Several warhorses were tethered to posts by the edge of the encampment. The leader of the men, an old warrior named Hamish, stood, ready to address his men.
"Brave and fearsome men of Scotland, the English have sought to steal your freedom from right beneath you! They march at our gates, armed and ready to do war whilst they talk of peace! The nerve! Do they think we are as ignorant as mere savages? Well today we can take our revenge! Today will be the day this war is won! Won in the mighty name of Scotland!"
The camp erupted in cheers as Hamish raised his axe above his head and roared to the heavens.
"SCOTLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND!"
The men and boys replied with the same, and soon the whole camp, around two hundred Scots, were armed and ready for battle. Boyd and Sean glanced at each other in shock: the war was almost over? How could it be?
Yet they soon came back to their senses, grabbing their bows and preparing to march to meet the English. Hamish untied the largest horse, a mighty stallion as dark as night. His officers and sons also untied horses and mounted. The camp split into several groups, and Boyd and Sean traveled with the archers and javelin throwers to the steep, wooded side of a dirt road by which a group of English would try to flank the main Scottish army. Soon their camp was joined by another band led by a young man named Alexander, and after conversing with Hamish, his archers soon took cover on the opposite side of the road.
The English were unlikely to come for a while, so Sean lay back against the soft grass of the roadside forest, and was asleep within minutes.
When Sean awoke, night had just about fallen. The Scots on either side of the road began to prepare for the tedious night of waiting ahead. Groups of foragers were hurriedly organized to search for berries and nuts, as a fire could not be chanced to cook any meat. The men of Hamish's band, along one side of the road, began passing around several slices of stale, crunchy bread which many of the famished men, including Sean and Boyd, eagerly accepted.
By the time the foragers had returned and dispersed their findings amongst the men, a scout came riding up the side of the road. Leading his horse several dozen yards into the woods so that it could not be seen or heard from the road, he trussed its reins to a tree before reporting his findings.
"Sir, there are several hundred English soldiers, amed with swords and spears and marching this way hastily," he blurted out, "The swordsmen are well armored; arrows will do little against armor as thick as theirs. The spearmen are wearing naught but thin leather jerkins; that's where our arrows will take their toll."
"You've done well," Hamish said respectively, laying his hand on the man's shoulder.
The waiting was fearful and the night cold, and as the English rounded a bend in the road around a hundred yards off, Boyd gripped and shook his friend's hand heartily.
"Good luck and happy hunting," he said grimly.
As the English continued and marched between the Scots laying in ambush, Hamish seized his warhorn and blew it thunderously. Alexander joined him, and Sean, Boyd, and the other archers stood up and let their bows sing. Arrows hissed like wasps towards the startled Englishmen, and several fell, arrows protruding from their wounds. The other soldiers recovered hurriedly, and by the time scores of roaring Scots thundered down the bank, swinging axes, swords, and thrusting with spears, the English were ready. The impact seemed to shake the woodlands. Several fell on both sides, and now it became difficult for the archers to fire, as they might hit some of their comrades. To counter this, the archers furtively crept through the forest around to the rear of the English force and let loose several devastating volleys, downing many. Boyd turned to Sean; he was out of arrows.
"Well into the fray me friend," he laughed as he twirled his hunting knife expertly and thundered down the slope, "SCOTLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND!"
Sean was shocked by his friend's battle-crazy actions, but he continued his task of pestering the enemy with arrows.
The battle raged on until dawn, when the few surviving English broke and fled, the battle-frenzied Scottish warriors hot on their heels. Sean searched the wounded and finding Boyd, he lay his hand on the boy's bloodied shoulder.
"What was that?" Sean laughed, "A berserker charge?"
"I dunno," he replied with a grin, his face smeared red, "I just know it hurt."
As a messenger arrived from the main army, giving word of the victory, Hamish's men set about burying the slain. Once the task was completed, the band sat around an improvised campfire and ate a meager victory meal of stale bread, partridge meat that some foragers had hunted after the battle, and some stream water. The meal was not much, but far more than most of the men had eaten in many days. Not long after the meal was over, Sean and Boyd bade farewell to Hamish and his sons, and others they had come to know in the band. As the sun rose to its full height in the noon sky, the boys shouldered their packs and their bows, prepared for the long journey home, praying they would never again witness the horrors of battle.