Written and posted on the 20th of September, 2021.
Dedicated to the 35-40 Scots who lost their lives in the Battle of Prestonpans defending their lives and their cultures 276 years ago.
3 July, 2135
Bloody Bush Road, The Borders, Scotland
"You there! Give me a hand!"
"Agh! It hurts! It hurts!"
"Pass me that scalpel, I've got a right side pneumothorax."
"Yes, sir."
"Transfer on my count. One, two, three!"
The young lad who came into the hospital tent was moved from a gurney to the bed while I quickly examined him. I bent over him, lifted his eyelids and shined a small light into his eyes.
"The left pupil is blown. I need a CT of his head," I called to the assisting nurse, who brought the small portable machine over and hung it from the pole that hovered over the bed. I put a lead apron over the lad and stepped back while the nurse took the imaging, then looked at the screen above the bed. "Right, he's got increasin' pressure in the left parietal lobe from a nasty bleed, I need te do a burr hole te relieve the pressure. Fetch me the drill."
"Yes, ma'am," said the nurse, placing the drill in my hand. I positioned it on the skull just above the parietal lobe and drilled a hole in the young lad's skull.
"I need gauze! Quickly! He's bleedin' profusely." The nurse rushed over with a bit of gauze and covered the burr hole, mopping up the blood and stopping the bleeding. "Great job, Nurse MacTavish. He'll need te be transferred te Hawick, there's nothin' more we can do here. Can ye arrange tha'?"
"Yes, Ms. Fowlis," said the nurse as I pulled off my gloves and left the trauma room.
"Ms. Fowlis! I've got a severed carotid in four! I need an extra hand!" I heard the voice of another medic-in-training, Mr. Lewes, call to me.
"I've got it, Ms. Fowlis," said another nurse, rushing to help Mr. Lewes.
"Goddamn," I muttered to myself, wiping a bit of sweat off of my forehead, unknowingly smearing a bit of blood. Suddenly, I went deaf as I was thrown off of my feet, landing in a muddy, blood-soaked puddle and covering the back of my neck protectively. I felt the heat of an explosion pass over me, and only when the ringing stopped did I lift my head and look over my shoulder. Behind me, the entire hospital tent was up in flames, and so was everyone else who was in it. Nurse MacTavish, Mr. Lewes, the patient with the burr hole… All of them, reduced to ashes. I would have been ashes if I had gone to help Mr. Lewes. "Blessed Bride…" I muttered to myself. The English had bombed the hospital tent, leaving us with no resources, no medicine, no medics - save for me - and no place for our wounded.
"Is anyone there? Hello?" I heard my communication watch suddenly sputter. "Hello? Hello? Does anyone copy?"
"Aye," I said into my watch as I watched the flames eat away at the remnants of the tent. "Aye, I… I copy…"
"This is Lieutenant Douglas, I see smoke in the direction of the hospital. What's happened? Over," came the voice of Lieutenant Douglas.
"It… it's gone," was all I could say. "The hospital, it… it's gone…"
16 September, 1745
Prestonpans, Scotland
I sat before the corpse of a Scottish highlander, left to rot as the snowflakes fell softly, burying him beneath a thin blanket of white. He was young, easily as young as sixteen, maybe as old as twenty - barely a chance to live. I didn't know his name or his clan; he'd been stripped of his tartan, his genitals cut off and pinned to the tree nearby. The highlander had likely run afoul of a redcoat patrol, and they showed him no mercy. Gently, I laid my palm onto the ground, bowing my head. "Ye will be avenged," I whispered quietly. "Ye willnae be forgotten."
How many more lives would I see extinguished by war? Too many. One was already too many.
CAILEAN POV
"There, sir," came the Irish accent of Quartermaster John O'Sullivan. His chubby, sausage fingers were pointing to the other side of the swamp, where General Cope's army was camping, waiting for the Scots to attack. "Right there is your enemy." Prince Charles sat with O'Sullivan standing above him staring down bitterly at the map.
"Yet we do nothing but sit here twiddling our thumbs," Charles said bitterly.
"And what would ye have the Lord General do, John?" Cailean asked him, earning a sharp look from O'Sullivan. "Pardon. Quartermaster O'Sullivan." Cailean hadn't been an officer in the Scottish rebellion, but he'd been training to be one. Both he and Catrìona had jointly led the Battle of Bloody Bush, but it was primarily her thinking that led them to victory.
"Attack, damn it!" hissed Charles with frustration.
"Pardon me, Your Highness, but for the life of me, I cannot understand why General Murray insists that we dilly-dally!" O'Sullivan said with equal frustration, leading to Lord General George Murray earning a scowl from the prince.
"I rushed my army here te ensure our possession of the high ground, and now ye wish us te abandon such a strong defensive position and attack the enemy in force? Across a swamp ?" Murray demanded.
"Indeed I do, sir!" O'Sullivan spat back. Jamie and Cailean exchanged a glance, wanting to roll their eyes at these two old coots squabbling like chickens.
"Time, sir! Time is of the essence!" Murray said to the prince, who let out a bored sigh.
"We must not tarry, Your Majesty. We must strike, and strike hard!" O'Sullivan spat back.
"May I remind the Quartermaster, that any attacking force will have te cross here ," Jamie interrupted, pointing to the bog that separated the two armies on the map, "through Tranent Meadows. Though 'meadow' is a kind term fer the bog, as Lord General Murray has stated, that lies between us and the English."
"Since when did a Scotsman shy away from a bit of mud, aye? Especially when there's an enemy waiting for him on the other side!" O'Sullivan exclaimed.
"A bog is a wee bit more than mud, Quartermaster," Cailean told him. "Since when does an Irish-born officer dismiss the dangers of a boggy ground te an infantry attack?"
"Well, thank God. A sane voice at last!" Murray exclaimed.
"Can ye imagine, Yer Highness? Yer army wallowin' helplessly while under a witherin' volley from the English Brown Bess musket?" Cailean asked the prince, bending down to his level.
"That weapon alone can strike from fifty yards, at least, and can be accurate fer up te a hundred," Murray chimed in.
"Cavalry could prove useful to our needs," said O'Sullivan.
"And how is a horse any different than a man? Sure, they've smaller feet, but if the bog is deep, they'll no' get through," Cailean argued back calmly.
"Best te test the ground, then. Report on our enemy position," Jamie chimed in.
"A braw squad of dragoons could mean the difference between victory or defeat," Cailean told the prince.
"Let us not speak of defeat or cavalry we do not have!" the prince snapped, giving a side-eyed glance to O'Sullivan.
"And as for the Lord General, may I remind him that he would be remaining behind the lines and therefore, need not be concerned about English marksmanship?" O'Sullivan spat at Murray.
"Damn my liver! What are ye implyin'?" Murray shouted back at him.
"I imply nothing, sir! I am merely grateful that we are dependent on our brave warriors who are not afraid to face shot or shell to pursue a glorious victory for our prince and our king!" O'Sullivan snapped back.
"I am more concerned aboot allowin' those brave warriors te become sitting ducks in the muck!" Murray spat back at him.
"Mark me, now it is but weeks gone since we took the cities of Perth and Edinburgh without firing a single shot!" Charles butted in, interrupting the two squabbling buzzards. "And let us not forget, they welcomed us with open arms!"
"Aye, no thanks to these two weans!" O'Sullivan exclaimed, gesturing to Cailean and Jamie.
"Oi! These two weans spent the last few weeks trainin' our men from farmers te soldiers! And what have your men been doin', aye? Oh, tha's right, ye dinnae have any!" Cailean spat back defensively at O'Sullivan.
"No? And where's your army, Fowlis of Barra? Couldnae convince your grandfather to give them up for the noble cause?" O'Sullivan said back to him.
"My grandsire is his own man, as I am my own man," Cailean said back to him.
"Enough!" Jamie shouted, silencing the room. "Back te the conversation at hand, when ye took Edinburgh and Perth, ye had surprise on yer side, Yer Royal Highness."
"Aye, General Cope wasnae expectin' us," said Murray. "His troops fled."
"And that willnae happen again," Jamie said.
"Perhaps if I were to negotiate a meeting with the General?" Charles asked him. "Offer him generous terms of surrender?"
"Yer Highness, I dinnae see how that will help-" Cailean began, but the prince held up a hand to stop him.
"Give him my word that his men will be allowed to march unmolested back to England," he continued. "I am sure he has no more desire to shed English blood than I."
"He might no', but his men might feel differently," said Cailean, who got shushed again.
"We are brothers, after all," Charles replied.
"Even as a young lad, you had the kindest of hearts, sir," said O'Sullivan, doing some major ass-kissing. It was enough to make Cailean feel an urge to gag. "But I fear the time for talk is done. We sailed from France to fight a war. Let's fight it and be done with it."
"Easier said than done," Cailean said to him. "This is the third Jacobite uprisin' in, what, sixty years? Fifty? The English willnae let us go quietly. We have history te back that up." And the future as well , Cailean thought to himself.
"I have made my decision!" Charles announced. "I will not risk destroying our army by ordering it to cross potentially lethal ground. I trust the word of my Scottish companions, who have lived on this land for all their lives, as have my dear friends, James, and Cailean, and Lord General Murray as well."
"I will not allow it!" the Quartermaster exclaimed with his Irish temper.
"Then resign yer commission and let the prince find himself a general with a firmer backbone! Like Mr. Fowlis here!" Murray shouted at O'Sullivan like he was scolding a child.
"Why, you pompous toe-rag!" shouted O'Sullivan.
"While ye wee auld buzzards exchange insults, what do ye want us te tell the clans?" Cailean asked the prince, who let out an annoyed huff.
"Tell those men to await further orders," the prince told him irritably. "And get these two arguing clotpoles out of my presence!"
"Ye heard yer prince," Cailean told Murray and O'Sullivan, who sent him a glare as they left the prince's tent, their squabbling continuing outside.
"Suppose I'll go and inform MacDonald and Chattan," said Jamie, nodding to his brother before leaving the prince's tent.
" Why must the Scots be such intractable people?" Charles demanded, and Cailean couldn't help but chuckle.
"Aye, we've a tendency te be a wee bit pig-headed on occasion," he replied. " You have Scotland runnin' in yer blood, too. That stubbornness gives us the strength te move mountains because we dinnae give up so easily."
"Hm," said the prince. "Mark me, I promised my father, and I have promised God. This rebellion must succeed."
"It may be difficult with a devil like England on our tail, Yer Highness. Trust me, they're no' wont te give up easily, either," Cailean replied, leaning against the table.
"Hmph," Charles replied again. "James's noble wife will be among those providing medical succour for those poor souls in need of such come the cannon's roar?"
"Aye, my noble sister, too. She's helpin' te set up a field hospital as we speak, her and the MacBean lassies she taught at Crieff. She'll be teachin' other women, too, and settin' up a few hospital tents in the camp," Cailean replied.
"Be so kind as to inform James to tell her that the Prince asks that English casualties be tended to before the Jacobite wounded," Charles said to him, taking Cailean off guard.
"Treat the English first?" Cailean asked him.
"Indeed! They are my father's subjects also, and I will have them well cared for," Charles replied.
"Yer Highness, as noble as tha' is, my sister will tell ye herself, tendin' in order of nationality-"
"They must be made to realise that the Scots wage war upon them with the greatest of reluctance," Charles exclaimed, interrupting him. "They are our enemies now, but one day soon, they will be our friends again."
"Yer Highness," Cailean said with a sigh. "The English… They've never really been a friend te the Scots… They've hammered us fer centuries like… like an aulder brother te a younger. Always tryin' te force us te bow down te them, never showin' the Scottish crown an ounce of respect until it was joined with theirs, and even then, they didnae respect us. I dinnae ken if friendship is possible between the English and the Scots. However, as your loyal friend, I would advise ye not te say such a thing within earshot of the men. They wouldnae appreciate such sentiment, seein' as many of them have been afflicted by harassment from the English… and I ken fer sure my sister willnae follow such an order as treatin' the English first."
"From her prince , maybe not. This is why I desire you to speak to James, as I am certain Lady Broch Two-rock would prove obedient to an edict from her lord and master," Charles told him.
"I'll pass along the message, but this isnae the first time my sister has worked in a field hospital in battle, Yer Highness. She will prefer te treat in order of need, rather than nationality. If an English soldier comes in with a wound that threatens his life and a Scot comes in with a dislocated shoulder, aye, she'll treat the English lad first… but if it's the other away around, I fear the English lad will have te wait," Cailean tried to explain to the prince, but he wouldn't budge.
"Tell James to order her to do as I say," Charles insisted, and Cailean let out a sigh.
"All right. I'll do as ye say," Cailean replied, standing and leaving the prince's tent.
CATRÌONA POV
"Absolutely not !" I hissed sharply at my brother. "Does that conceited bastard really think I'll let a man die because he's Scottish when there's an English soldier in my tent? Hell no. Tell him he can kiss my pale white magic arse and I'll treat on a needs basis."
"I tried te explain that to him, but he was insistent," said Cailean as he followed me.
"Unless he'll be in the field hospital tent durin' the battle, I'll do as I please," I told him. "And I'll be instructin' the other ladies te do the same." We turned a corner around a tent and I paused, noticing two men who were standing and chatting outside one of the smaller medical tents. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the other was telling him a joke to make him laugh. "What happened there?"
"Oh, probably a trainin' accident," Cailean replied.
"Damn English, bombin' our medical tent. King Eddie's really brutal, isnae he?"
"Imagine bein' sae evil, yer willin' te kick a tent full of men who are already down, and kill all the good-hearted people treatin' 'em!"
The two men who were speaking let out a chuckle, but I found nothing funny about the situation. I passed by a large truck as I went through the remnants of the camp we had set up, finding myself covered in a mix of blood, mud and ash. I paused for a moment, raising a hand to touch a wet red spot on my cheek - warm to the touch. My own blood.
"Ms. Fowlis!" came a voice, causing me to jump, and I turned quickly to see Lieutenant Douglas limping his way over to me. "Lieutenant Fowlis, Commander Ashe is dead, as is Commander Hawkins. We've no one te lead us, and we've no medics. What do we do?"
"Yer askin' me?" I asked him. "I dinnae ken… I've no' been this close te the battlefield since Loch Fell in '33."
"We have te do somethin'. Ye had the commanders in yer ear. Isnae Randall able?" Douglas asked me.
"You are doin' nothin' on that leg," I told him. "Randall was sent te accompany wounded te Hawick before the bombin'. Ashe and Hawkins were all we had left. There's no one."
"Catrìona!" I heard Cailean's voice call, and I turned to see him running to me from the direction of the battlefield, seemingly unharmed. "Catrìona!"
"Cat!" I snapped out of the memory, drawing myself back into 1745 and out of 2135. "Christ, a phiuthar , are ye all right? Ye've no' been yerself lately."
"I'm fine," I said. "I… I'm fine…" I gently shook my head. "I need te go and sterilise bandages. Best we have as many as we can before the battle begins. We've go' five days. No time te waste." I turned and left him standing there, likely wondering what the hell had gotten into me.
Hell, I was wondering what the hell had gotten into me. I left the Battle of Bloody Bush behind me a long time ago, but it seemed to be catching up to me again. Looking around at the camp, seeing fellow Scots in a similar shape to those I fought with at Bloody Bush kept recalling the memories, and I didn't know how much more of them I could take.
18 September, 1745
JAMIE POV
Jamie found himself wandering slowly back to the Fraser camp, unable to stop thinking about the squabbling between the prince and the generals. It was continuing on, more squabbling about needing to fight and to ignore the bog, but all the squabbling was getting them nowhere. Three days, they had, and there was hardly any sign of this mysterious pathway Catrìona had mentioned.
"…cotters we may be, but here we are, same as you. For gore and glory."
"Gore and glory, is it? There's no pigs yer slaughterin' here, but men . And they'll be lookin' te do the same te you ."
"We ken our task, and we'll do what needs doin' te return the king across the water."
"Will ye now? I bet ye Lallybroch tumshies will turn arse and run at first blast of cannon fire!"
"Ye take tha' back, ye buggerin' wee shite!"
"Hey, ye fancy a doin'?" Great, the men were squabbling, too. Was that… Angus? That had to be Angus's shrill, gruff voice yelling about 'opening from a belly to a bone'.
"Put that blade down or I'll ram it up yer arse until ye taste it!"
"Try it, ye bushy-faced whoreson!"
"Fer the love of Christ, how can a man nap with all this blatherin'?" Jamie heard Dougal say irritably as he approached the camp.
"Is that a blade I see in yer hand, Angus?" he said, surprising the men a little. Angus was standing with his dirk drawn with Rupert seated on a log beside him, and across from them were two Lallybroch men, Kincaid and Ross. "Put it away." Angus did as he was told bitterly and sat back down. "I see yer gettin' on as well as our commanders."
"Have we orders, Jamie?" Dougal asked him.
"No, nor are we likely te while the General and O'Sullivan remain hoppin' mad at each other," Jamie replied tiredly.
"Sounds like someone in the front ranks can do with a good arse kickin', eh?" Angus chimed in.
"If only that was all was needed. What's required is reconnaissance of the marshland tha' sits between us and the English camp. See how deep the bog runs, see if there's a path we can take around it," Jamie told them.
"So the plan is fer us te attack?" Dougal asked him, a hopeful look in his eye.
"If the Quartermaster has his way, aye," Jamie replied. "Though personally, I'm of a mind tha' it's a better part of valour te force the English te come te us, but no' even O'Sullivan will countenance an attack until the question of the bog is solved."
"Te undertake such a mission might be naught but suicide," Dougal told him. "We'd be right in range of the English guns."
"Aye, so eat yer fill and rest up while ye can. Save the whisky fer when we have cause te celebrate," Jamie told them, and as he began to turn away, Dougal stopped him.
"Jamie, a word," he said quietly, drawing Jamie off to the side. "It would be an easy thing te have someone ride out te take a measure of the marshland?"
"Aye, and get a musketball between the eyes fer his trouble," Jamie replied.
"No' if he's prudent," Dougal told him.
"And lucky," Jamie replied. "There's no other way aboot it. If the ground can support a man on horseback, it can support infantry."
"Are ye nominatin' yerself fer this?" Dougal asked him. "If ye survive such foolishness, Jamie, the Prince will have yer head fer endangerin' the life of one of his most trusted aids."
"So what do ye suggest?" Jamie asked him.
"I go in yer place," Dougal told him. "The Prince wouldnae be pleased if you caught a musketball between yer eyes fer yer troubles, and someone has te risk the doin'. I'll go, lad. All I need te do is stay out of their range, aye?"
"Aye, a hundred and twenty-five yards should do it," Jamie told him.
"I was thinkin' more like a hundred and five," Dougal told him with pride. "The redcoats will only be too happy te crack away at a livin' target."
"Aye, it's a gamble fer certain," Jamie agreed.
"But worth the risk," Dougal replied. "Besides, I'd like te prove my mettle te the prince and Lord Murray and the rest of these jackanapes."
"Verra well. Tomorrow, then, at noon. The soldiers will be awake and ready, and ye'll go out on horseback," Jamie agreed. And so the plan was made. At noon, Dougal mounted his horse and rode out into the marsh, finding almost immediately that the horse was sticking in the muck. Jamie could see that very clearly, sensing the distress the horse was feeling based on its movements and the sounds it made. Jamie stood out of range of the English muskets watching as Dougal studied the terrain, the English redcoats on the other side lining up and loading their muskets.
"Extraordinary fellow!" the prince exclaimed from beside him.
"Tha's Dougal Mackenzie!" he heard Angus say, who had accompanied Dougal as far as the camp. He stood beside the prince and gave Charles a cheeky grin. "Personal friend o' mine."
"And you are?" Charles asked him.
"Angus Mhòr, personal friend te Dougal Mackenzie!" Angus said proudly. "And you, man?"
"I am your prince, Charles Edward Stuart," Charles told him as he watched Dougal just as the gunfire started from the English.
"Are ye really!" Angus exclaimed, and then nudged Rupert in his fat stomach. "Ye hear tha'? I'm talkin' te the prince! An honour te make yer acquaintance, Yer Royal Highness." Angus fell into a clumsy bow, but Charles wasn't paying attention at all to him.
Quite so," he replied dismissively. On Jamie's other side, he felt something soft brush his shoulder and looked to see Catrìona had joined him.
"The hell is tha' fool doin'?" she asked him.
"Provin' a point," Jamie replied, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and drawing her nearer to him. One of the musketballs that was fired by the English shot Dougal's cap off, and that seemed to be enough for him. He picked up his muddy cap and brushed some of the muck off of it, then restored it to his head and climbed up on his horse to return to the Scottish camp as the Scottish men cheered.
"Bravo! Bravo!" Charles exclaimed dramatically, causing Catrìona to roll her eyes at him. "Mark me, if I had one hundred men like you, this war would be over tomorrow!"
"Well, I dinnae ken aboot tha', Yer Royal Highness," Dougal told him. "I fear it is joyless news I bring back with me." This made the proud smile fade from Charles's face.
"Indeed," he said gravely. Dougal informed the prince about the depth of the bog and how it would be quite disadvantageous for them to try and trek through it, and though discouraged by this news, the prince was not disheartened. "Gentlemen!" he announced as he walked back into the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea. "There will be no glorious Highland charge through Tranent Meadows." This earned quite a few disgruntled groans, grunts, and moans, and the men began to disband.
"Damn me, we can't get to the English, and they can't get to us," O'Sullivan said with malcontent.
"Ye should be glad no blood has te be spilled today," Catrìona said to O'Sullivan, who sent her a scowl.
"We should disengage from the enemy under the cover of darkness and return te Edinburgh," Murray could be heard telling the prince as the pair of them began to walk away.
"And wait for the English to lay siege to the city? The enemy is here , General, not in Edinburgh!" Charles said childishly. "Now I look to you to break this stalemate or I will be forced to find myself a new general!" Charles pushed his way through the crowd to get away from Murray, who received a nasty look from O'Sullivan, and eventually followed.
"Maybe this is a good thing. Could mean no battle," Catrìona told Jamie quietly.
"We can hope," Jamie replied as Dougal approached them, his forehead featuring a small bleeding scratch about the width of a musketball. "Yer a lucky bastard, Uncle. Ye should let Catrìona have a look at that."
"No' but a scratch," Dougal said. "I'm off te change my breeks because the hero of the hour has shat his pants." Dougal left the two of them sharing a chuckle, and Jamie bent to kiss his wife's cheek.
"Can only hope fer the best," he told her, and she nodded, a soft but distant look in her eye.
20 September, 1745
CATRÌONA POV
"We have the benefit of an uphill position."
"Tha' would be verra useful if we had the same sort of weapons the English had, but we dinnae. No, they're fightin' like modern day soldiers and leavin' us te fight like it's 1750."
"So what do ye suggest we do, then, aye?"
"Enough, all of ye!" I shouted with frustration. "Enough squabblin' like bloody besoms! We dinnae have the benefit of weapons. We dinnae have much at all… but what we do have is the knowledge of the land. If ye ask me how we can defeat the English, I cannae give ye an answer. It's verra obvious they're stronger than we are and they have a more stable footin'… We've nothin' te lose. Either we've already lost this battle, or we give it a fightin' try."
"So what yer sayin' is basically te… give it all we've got?" Douglas asked me.
"Have ye got a better idea?" I asked, and then paused in thought as a better idea came to me. "Actually, I do… We've got dead English soldiers. We've trained te speak in a believable English accent. We'll take those uniforms and sneak behind their lines."
"Aye! We can disrupt their equipment and maybe set up a mine or two fer 'em te set off!" Cailean exclaimed.
"It'll be easier said than done. It's no' like deceivin' the English by pretendin' te be them hasnae been done before," Douglas told me.
"Well, we've nothin' te lose. Either we win this battle or we die tryin'," I replied.
"Milady?" Douglas suddenly said to me, causing me to cock my eyebrow.
"Milady!" I was in one of the medical tents, the stench of the smoke from the fire suddenly penetrating my nostrils. I glanced up where Douglas's face was moments before to find the face of a young lad - Fergus - looking at me. "Are you all right, Milady?"
"What? Oh," I said, drawing myself back into the present. "Yes, I'm all right, I… thank ye kindly. Do ye need somethin', laddie?"
"This gentleman wishes to speak to the commander of His Highness's army!" Fergus said to me excitedly, referring to a young lad standing behind him. "He has information of utmost importance."
"Ah, of course. Er… Feasgar math , Lady Broch Tuarach, Catrìona Fraser," I said to the lad, who bowed his head a little.
"Richard Anderson of Whitbugh, Mistress," said the lad.
"Ye've somethin' te tell me, then?" I asked.
"Aye, yes! Ye see, I've lived in these parts all me life. My faither owns the lands, so I ken the grounds where the armies are like the back of me hand," he told me, and it dawned on me then what I was about to hear: how the Scottish army made it down to the English camp and won the Battle of Prestonpans.
"So… ye ken a way around the bog, don't ye?" I asked him.
"Aye, I do. I ken of a small hidden trail that'll lead them past the bog and catch the English unawares," said Anderson "So if I might speak with a commander - perhaps Lord Murray himself…"
"Fergus, go and find Milord," I said to Fergus.
" Oui , Milady!" said young Fergus, and then he was out through the tent flap.
"There's a map over here. Show me," I said to the lad, beckoning him over.
"Should I no' wait fer-" he began, but I cut him off.
"It's verra important that I ken, too. I'm in charge of the medical side of this war, I need te ken how te get down the bog te the wounded," I told him, and he agreed to show me the position.
"I… I'd say it's aboot here," said Anderson, pointing to my map just as Jamie and Fergus appeared in the tent flap.
"Tha' was fast," I said, beckoning Jamie over. "This is Richard Anderson, he says he kens of a trail past the bog."
"Aye?" Jamie asked as Anderson pointed out the trail to him. "There's no such path marked."
"Marked or no', it's there. It's a narrow, windin' path hard te spot in daylight and hopeless te find in the dark, unless ye ken where te look," Anderson informed us - or rather, informed Jamie.
"And you do?" Jamie asked him.
"Aye, I do," said Anderson. "Lived here all me life. I can lead ye there if ye like."
"I think ye should," Jamie said as he inspected the map. "Meet me outside, ye can take me there in a minute. I should like te see this trail before I bring it te the prince."
"Aye, sir," said Anderson, and then he was gone.
"Fortune drops out of the sky and onto our doorstep," he observed aloud to me and Fergus. "Convenient, is it no'?"
"If we choose te trust the lad, aye," I replied.
"Suppose I'll find out. Hopefully, I dinnae get my throat cut," Jamie told me playfully, then bent to kiss me and ducked out of the tent, Fergus on his heels.
21 September, 1745
In a raid, everyone has their part to play. Some take out the guards, others raid the munitions tent, some set the mines while others keep the English distracted on the battlefield. You tell yourself that everything you do can affect the outcome of the raid, that success or failure depends on your actions. And if you're forced to wound someone, or kill them… Chances are, you were looking right into their eyes when you did it. You could stand there watching the light leave their eyes, watching their very soul slip away, leaving the dead weight of the body behind. And if you're to be killed, at least in Scotland, you can die knowing that your memory will live on in your clan, giving your death meaning. At least, that's how it used to be. Now, we're part of an army. A greater picture in which one sacrifice or another may be meaningless, may be forgotten, uncounted for… Just one death or two alone will be meaningless, and it would take hundreds or even thousands to die before our deaths would take on any meaning.
I didn't ask to be remembered. I didn't have anyone left to remember me, anyway, save for Tom and maybe Commander MacLeod. Cailean, my brother, was with me, raiding behind enemy lines faithfully by my side, as the last of Clan Fowlis of Barra always did. It was our job to lead the raid, and neither of us expected to make it out alive. Maybe, if we were lucky… but when had luck ever been on our side?
CAILEAN POV
"It weighs heavy on me, this battle," Cailean heard Jamie saying as they prepared for the Battle of Prestonpans. It was well past midnight, nearly dawn, and the attack would be ordered at dawn. The last time Cailean had gone to war against the English, he fell through the stones, waking up in the year 1741. This time… This time, he might not wake up at all.
"If it's words of comfort yer lookin' fer, laddie, I've none te give," Murtagh told his godson, and Cailean heard Jamie let out an audible sigh.
"I nearly lost my marriage tryin' te stop all this from happenin'. I failed," Jamie replied bleakly.
" We failed," Cailean said to him, his eyes cast upwards at the nearly moonless sky. It was a waning moon - would Cailean live to see it new?
"Aye," Jamie replied to Cailean. " We failed."
"I've brought someone te say good luck," he heard his sister's voice say suddenly, and Cailean turned to see her holding her son, his hair as red as hers, his eyes as silver as hers… He gave a soft smile, then approached the group to give his nephew a comforting ruffle of his hair.
"Wish us luck, laddie. Christ kens we'll need it," Cailean told him, bending to kiss the lad's red curls. Archie gave a deep yawn and rested his head against his mother's shoulder, earning him a chuckle from his father.
"Come here, mo ghille ," Jamie said as he took his son from his wife, kissing his little round cheeks and embracing him tightly. "I love ye, mo ghille ruadh . I'll see ye soon, aye? Wish yer Da luck." Archie whined a little and Jamie chuckled, then allowed Murtagh to take the lad so he could say goodbye to his wife; Cailean, meanwhile, returned to the tent flap. "Ye should get some sleep, mo chridhe ."
"Never could on the eve of battle," she told him. "Tomorrow will be a verra tryin' day. I ken I need rest, but… there's too much te think aboot." Suddenly, Fergus slipped by Cailean through the tent flap, likely to say goodbye and good luck to Jamie.
"Milord, Milady," he began. "I request permission to join you in the fight that is to come, Milord."
"And who's te keep the fires burnin', aye? And who's te keep an eye on Archie?" Catrìona asked him, and Cailean chuckled very quietly to himself.
"I am sure someone else can handle such work. I can sneak into the tent of General Cope and steal his sword. A general cannot fight without his sword!" said Fergus with passion.
"I dinnae doubt yer capabilities, laddie, but who will look after the women?" Jamie asked the eager lad.
"Uh… The same person who will tend the fires!" Fergus exclaimed, earning an amused chuckle from both of the Frasers.
"And what of Archie and our Lady Broch Tuarach, aye? There's no one I trust with their safety more than you," Jamie told him.
"Looks like ye'll have te stay and like it," Catrìona told him. "Give us a minute, aye?" Fergus gave a heavy sigh.
" Oui ," he said, and exited the same way he came in. Cailean stepped outside of the tent, glancing briefly back behind him to find Jamie and Catrìona locked in a deep, passionate kiss.
"Come back te me," she said to him quietly.
"Aye, I will. I promise," he replied. Cailean cleared his throat after a moment of silence from the tent.
"Jamie," he called. "It's time te send the English army te hell."
"Aye, I hear ye," Jamie called, and both he and Catrìona left the tent, Catrìona stopping in front of Cailean.
" You'd better not disappear again," she told him firmly, and Cailean couldn't help but chuckle.
"I'll stay away from stone circles," he said. She rolled her eyes, then pulled him into a firm embrace.
"Take care of each other," she told them both.
"We will," Jamie replied, and he bent to kiss his wife one more time. "I love ye," he whispered.
"I love ye, too," she replied. Murtagh appeared from the shadows with Archie in his arms, then passed the lad back to his mother.
"We'll win the day, correct?" Murtagh asked the Fowlis siblings.
"So history says," Catrìona replied.
"So we shall," Cailean chimed in. With a final round of goodbyes, the three men left, leaving the hopeful bride behind praying she wouldn't return home a widow. "Give me a moment, aye?" Cailean called to Murtagh and Jamie, who continued on their way without him. Cailean sighed and turned his eyes to the sky, closing them tightly.
"Cerridwen… I dinnae pray te ye often, if at all, and I ken ye've no reason te listen te me… But my mother and my sister have both put their faith in ye before, so I do the same now. I pray that fate doesnae decide that I'll meet my end on this field."
CATRÌONA POV
Not knowing was the worst part.
Not knowing was the worst part…
Tearing bandages, boiling water…
Digging in the muck with my bare hands, hoping the hole was both deep and shallow enough…
Fergus was nowhere to be found. I needed to hand Archie off to another young mother who was already watching other children as well.
I couldn't see Cailean. It was so dark, so cold…
"Tear it a wee bit thinner," I said to one of the women.
"Mind ye dinnae touch it," I whispered in the dark, hoping my brother could hear me.
The fear…
The self-doubt…
This feeling wasn't new. The men were depending on us.
Scotland was depending on us…
And I will not let them down.
The first of the shouting started, then came the cannons, the gunshots, the clang of a metal sword against another.
Push and click, the bomb was set. All it took was even an ounce of pressure and everything would go up in flames.
"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord…"
Gunshot, pain. Spatter onto the ground beneath me. I held out my hands to catch myself before I fell onto the mine. "What do you think you're doing?" shouted a gruff voice behind me.
"You shot me, you fucking idiot!" I shouted back in my English accent, then felt my hair being grabbed as I was dragged backwards.
"I already know all about your foolish plan, you filthy Scot," said the gruff voice. "Answer me. What are you-"
"SURPRISE, MOTHERFUCKER!"
Gunshot. His body collapsed beside me, and another hand grasped my arm. "Cailean!"
"Ist! We have te go!" Cailean hissed at me.
"…He is my refuge and my fortress: my God, in Him will I trust…"
"I want to help." A gasp.
"Jenny Cameron?" came a shrill voice, and I turned quickly to see the dark-haired lass that led Clan Cameron to Prestonpans.
"Are you Mrs. Fraser?" asked Jenny Cameron, and I nodded.
"Aye, we could use yer hands," I told her, then turned to another woman. "Fetch more wood please, we'll need a lot of hot water."
"Yes, Mistress," said the woman.
"Here come the first!" shouted another.
"Up on the gurney, here ye get."
"Ms. Fowlis, yer shoulder-"
"Just a scratch, I'll be fine."
"Just a scratch, I'll be fine." The lad on the table before me had significantly more than 'just a scratch', and I got to work quickly disinfecting the cut and preparing to stitch it back together.
"Mrs. Fraser!" called another woman.
"Be there in a minute!" I called.
"Be there in a minute!" There was a young lass with an exposed femoral artery that was sputtering blood everywhere, all over me and her and the table and the staff assisting me. "Ye'll be all right, we'll get ye home safe."
"I want my mother!" cried a young lad no older than fifteen. His chances of survival were slim, but I did my best to give him some comfort by providing him with laudanum from my own personal stock.
"Mrs. Fraser! This man's leg!" called a woman, and I turned to find a leg that was nearly blown off by a cannon.
"Right, hold him down, fetch the leather square and the bone saw," I said as I bent over the man to inspect the wound. "It'll have te come off below the knee."
"No! No! Please, no!" cried the middle-aged man.
"I'm sorry, a leannan, but it must be done. There's no' enough te save," I told him as one of the other women slipped a leather square into his mouth.
"Here, laddie, bite down on this," she told him as I fashioned a torquinette around his leg above the knee. Getting to work, I picked up the saw and began to saw into the bone, trying my best to fight against the thrashing and screaming of the wounded man.
"It'll hurt more if ye move around!" I told him, but he couldn't hear me through his screams.
It reeked of death. It always reeked of death…
"Mistress Fraser!" came the voice of Kincaid, one of the Lallybroch men, and I turned to see him on the floor beside his dear friend, Ross, who was motionless on the floor. "Please save him!" I bent down over him and located the wound in question, a very serious cut across the abdomen, barely holding the bowels in. I felt his carotid for a pulse - nothing.
"I'm sorry," I said to Kincaid. "I'm sorry, but there's nothin' I can do. He's gone."
"No," said Kincaid. "No, no! Ye must do somethin', Mistress Fraser! Ye must!"
"I cannae. I'm sorry," I told him.
"What do you mean you can't save him? He's my little brother!"
"I've tried everrathing I can, there's nothin' more I can do."
"Try harder!"
"I need more bandages!"
The chaos slowed down considerably within twenty minutes. In the corner of the room, Kincaid continued to mourn the loss of his dear friend, while I worked on stitching up a wound on another man when one of the women screamed. "Sassenaich!" she squealed, darting across the tent as red-coated soldiers pushed through the tent flap. For a moment, my heart fell, thinking history had decided to give us a big 'fuck you' for messing with it and allowed the English to win, but then the soldier removed his hat.
"Prisoners, Madam," he said to me, noting the expression on my face. "We mean you no harm, but we do require your assistance."
"Of course," I said. "Alina, assess them, will ye? Most grievously wounded will come te me on this side and you and the lasses there can tend the lesser wounds."
"Aye, Mistress," said Alina, leading the English soldiers to one side of the tent. I let out a breath of air that I hadn't realised I was holding as I returned to the wound I was currently stitching.
"You two!" shouted a gruff voice in the direction of the English soldiers. "Get this man on a bed!" I heard the shuffling of feet and the groan of the wooden table as a large body was placed on top of it. "Rupert! He needs ye, Mistress!" I turned suddenly and found Angus standing behind me, practically in my shadow. I knew he was shorter than average, but I hadn't realised how much shorter than me he actually was.
"Just a moment," I said to him.
"No! He cannae wait! Now! " Angus shouted angrily, so out of character for him.
"Fine! Nancy, take over," I said as the woman in question took over from me while I followed Angus to Rupert's side. "Blessed Bride," I said when I got a good look at Rupert's injuries and started to wash them out.
"Ye must save him, Mistress!" Angus cried out with anguish. "I'll no' allow that fat bawbag te die on me!"
"It'll be all right, it's not as serious as I thought," I said as I began to palpate for Rupert's internal organs. "Everrathin' feels fine, no' much serious bleedin'… Molly, help me close this wound before infection sets in." I began to pour a bit of alcohol onto Rupert's wound and he came to life again, sputtering and crying out in pain from the sting of the alcohol.
"Angus!" he cried out. "Angus, it was Angus. Is he blown up?"
"What's he talkin' aboot?" I asked as I accepted the needle and stitching thread from Molly, who began to dab at the blood while I began to stitch.
"Just a cannon blast. It was nothin'," Angus replied.
"I can assure ye, cannon blasts arenae 'nothin'," I replied. Giving Rupert a bit of the laudanum, he slipped into a slumber, then I finished up stitching his wound and clearing it out in hopes of catching all of the infection.
"Tell me true, Mistress. Will he live?" Angus asked me worriedly.
"Wish I could say, but I cannae fer sure," I answered, watching Rupert's chest rise and fall. "He's strong and tough. If the wound doesnae fester, then I'm certain he'll be fine. Now you , let me see tha' head of yers." He let out a groan as I pulled up his eyelids to check his eyes for any blown pupils, but didn't see any evidence. "Yer eyes are clear, pupils are fine… Any nausea?"
"I told ye I'm fine, Mistress!" he said to me testily.
"All right. If anythin', it's a mild concussion. Ye'll do fine. Stay here and keep an eye on Rupert. No nappin', I want ye awake and yer eyes on his chest," I instructed him.
"I must admit, Mistress, I'm bone-weary, but I'll be keepin' both eyes on this big belly goin' up and down," Angus said to me cheerfully, though somewhat less enthusiastically.
"Good, ye'll do," I said, giving him a light tap on the back, then moved onto one of the more seriously wounded English soldiers. "Aye, tha's no' so bad, now that I've had a good look at it. Maggie, sterilise it, stitch it and bandage it and he'll be good as new."
"Yes, Mistress," said Maggie. I turned just in time to see the tent flap push open again, and to my surprise - and extreme pleasure - my Jamie pushed through the flap, his blue eyes framed by a dirtied and bloodied face scanning the room until they landed on me, a proud smile forming on his face.
"The day… is… ours !" he cried out, and I couldn't stop myself from running to meet him in the center of the tent and throwing my arms around him, receiving a similarly firm embrace from him.
"Jamie!" I cried, burying my face in his shoulder. "Christ, ye smell like a pig's pen!" He let out a joyful laugh and pulled away from the embrace, then grasped my face in his hands and kissed me.
"The English are routed! General Cope's army is in retreat, leavin' hundreds of dead and wounded behind!" he said to me happily, then kissed me again.
"And our losses cannae number more than fifty men!" said Murtagh behind him proudly. "The whole thing took all of fifteen minutes."
"If only we had cavalry!" Jamie exclaimed once he'd broken our kiss again. "We could have pursued the enemy, captured General Cope and put an end te the rebellion this verra morning!" He turned to kiss me again, but was stopped by my examination of every speck of blood and bruise on him.
"And ye seem unharmed! Tha's the best part!" I said happily, drawing him in for another kiss and embracing him tightly. "Where's Fergus? Have ye seen him? I'm sure he went te fight. I had te leave Archie with a woman from Clan MacIntosh."
"Dinnae fash, mo phiuthar !" I heard Cailean's voice say from the tent flap, and let out a large sigh of relief to see both my brother and Fergus alive and well, Fergus held tightly in Cailean's arms.
"Fergus!" I exclaimed as Cailean set him down onto his feet. "Are ye hurt! Blessed Bride, Fergus! I should box yer ears in until yer head rattles!" I pulled him into a tight embrace, but he was not his usual cheery self. "What is it, a leannan ?"
"I… I think I killed an English soldier," he said to me softly. "He… He fell down… I had a knife. I struck him."
"Shh, ist, a leannan. Everrathing will be all right," I told him.
"I'll take him back te the tent. He'll be verra tired, I'm sure. I'll get him somethin' te eat," Cailean said to me, accepting a brief embrace from me.
"What about you? Are ye hurt?" I asked him.
"Nah, maybe a small scratch, but I ken the rules. Alcohol and cover it," he said. "Right, come along, laddie. Back te the tent."
"Can ye get Archie, too? I'll want te see him after this," I said to my brother.
"Aye, I will," he replied, kissing the side of my head before picking Fergus up again and leaving the medical tent.
"Dinnae fash yerself, that blubber no doubt protected his innards," I heard Jamie say, and I turned to see him in conversation with Angus, who chuckled.
"Aye, the man can eat," said Angus with amusement. I shook my head with a soft smile, then happened to notice a horseshoe-shaped mark on the back of Jamie's shirt.
"Oi!" I said as I crossed the room in two steps, grasping Jamie's shirt and yanking it up to find a bruise of equal size and shape forming on his back. "What is that? Ye look like ye got stepped on by a horse!"
"I was!" he told me proudly and with a laugh. "The English were in such retreat tha' an officer galloped right over me!"
"And tha's funny, aye? Wait here," I told him, disappearing around a corner to fetch an empty jar, then returned and shoved it into his hands. "Fill this. Ye've had four hundred weight of horse step on yer kidney. I need te see if there's any blood in yer urine."
"Aye," he said to me, ignoring the snickers of a couple of men around him. He turned, then spotted the English soldiers and crossed to them, handing the jar to one of them. "Here. Hold this while I take aim."
"Sixpence says you can't make it from where you stand," I heard the amused tone of the English officer who brought his men to me.
"Aye, I wouldnae say it were easy, but fer sixpence? I'll make the effort," Jamie replied, grasping an offered bottle of ale and downing it quickly. "Need te supply the works." There was an audible chuckle, and I softly shook my head as I tended to the wounds of another young lad in a red coat.
"Idiots," I murmured to myself. Suddenly, a few of the men began to stand, though I didn't budge, but did hear the ridiculously pompous voice of the prince behind me.
"Madame Fraser," said the prince, addressing me, but I didn't turn to face him. "Your labours on our behalf are much appreciated."
"Glad te hear, Yer Royal Highness," I replied. "Watch the floor, the blood makes it slippery." He didn't respond right away to me, but must have started to address the room instead.
"I bring you all the blessing and gratitude of my father," he announced to the soldiers in the tent. "Your deeds today will forever be remembered. If this victory had been obtained over foreigners, my joy would be complete, but alas, it is over Englishmen, and it brings a damp chill over my heart." Sure it does, you conceited pighead. "I say to you all: I came here in the interests of both of our countries, which are, in truth, but one. My father will tell me-"
"VICTORY IS OURS!" Dougal's loud, gruff shout echoed through the tent, surprising just about everyone, dead or alive. "Let the writin' of the ballads begin!"
"Dougal Mackenzie!" I snapped as I turned around, fury etched on my face. "Dinnae come in here shoutin' in my field hospital!" Dougal's gaze turned to me and landed on the English soldier on my table, a look of disgust crossing his face.
"Do ye mean te be tellin' me ye've been tendin' te this scum as if they were yer own kin?" he said to me bitterly.
"Dougal," Jamie began, but Dougal cut him off.
"These English bastards were taught a lesson this mornin' they'll no' soon forget! But the lesson doesnae stick. I say we put an end te this shite here-"
"Killin' these men willnae add te our victory!" Jamie exclaimed at his uncle.
"Ye call these bastards 'men'?" Dougal demanded from him just as the prince stepped up, his small stature in Dougal's shadow, but his face glowing as if he were the one casting the light.
"Yes. Men . And they are my father's subjects ," Charles said to him furiously. "And each one of them is your brother! My God sir, where is your Christian charity?" Dougal didn't answer him, so the prince rounded on Jamie next. "James, remove this man from the muster roll immediately. There is no place for such wanton disregard for the English in my army!"
"Dougal Mackenzie is a true warrior, Yer Highness, and I ken it well, despite his foolish tongue," Jamie said to him.
"Indeed, and the fastest horse will undoubtedly win the race, but what good is it when it's master is tossed from its saddle in the process?" Charles demanded of him. "What am I to do with such a blood-thirsty barbarian ?" I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing at this small angry man.
"We promote him, Yer Highness," Jamie said, taking Charles by surprise. "He'll be captain of the newly-formed Highlander Dragoons. He'll have fifteen of the best riders and horses and will follow the enemy, report on troop movements and harass his supply line. That way, his abilities will be put te use, and Yer Royal Highness will never have te lay eyes on him again."
"Hmm," said the prince, considering Jamie's proposal. "You have an ingenious mind, James." Charles then turned to face Dougal, who seemed surprised by all of this. "You are in his debt, rogue. See that you do not come to lament his benevolence." With that said, the prince and the entourage that followed him left the tent, leaving the rest of us sort of standing around staring at each other. Breaking the tension, I approached my husband and picked up the jar that was half-filled with his slightly pinkish urine.
"Wee bit of blood," I said. "No' a lot, though. Ye'll likely be fine." I handed the jar back to him, then turned to check on Rupert. "How're we doin' over here?"
"Champion me and exile me at the same time," Dougal suddenly said loudly, drawing our attention yet again. Dougal had locked eyes with his nephew. "Tha's a plan worthy of my brother." Without another word, Dougal turned and left. The moment of silence was suddenly interrupted by wheezing and sputtering, and at first, I thought it had come from Rupert, only to find that it was actually coming from Angus.
"Angus?" I asked, and he let out a loud, deep, wet cough, spitting blood all across the floor at his feet before falling to the floor. "Angus!"
"Angus?" I heard Rupert's voice mutter sleepily. I had forgotten a big man like Rupert needed a much higher dose of laudanum than usual. I quickly pulled up Angus's shirt to examine him for any possible reason for a pneumothorax, only to find a very large bruise on his lower abdomen.
"The cannon blast. He's been bleedin' internally this whole time!" I exclaimed as I shifted him onto his side to avoid choking on the blood.
"Angus, can ye hear me, man?" Jamie said as he knelt down beside me. Angus only sputtered in response. "Is there nothin' ye can do?"
"If I'd found out sooner, maybe," I said. All we could do was sit back and helplessly watch as Angus choked to death on his own blood, and when he finally stopped sputtering, he stopped moving, the light of his short, but cheerful life leaving his sky blue eyes. After a moment of thick silence, Rupert struggled to sit up, then sat at the edge of the table to look down at the form of the man who had once been his dearest friend. Without a word, he slid off of the table and undid Angus's sword and scabbard from his belt, then clutched it to his chest as he climbed back up onto the table and laid on his side.
In the end, the Jacobite army lost somewhere between thirty-five and forty men, while the English lost between three hundred and five hundred. Bloody Bush saw a hundred and twenty Scottish losses and three hundred English losses. At the time, we celebrated the memory of those men that we had lost at the Battle of Prestonpans, but four hundred years from now…
…those names will be long forgotten.
7 July, 2135
Hawick, Scotland
"Gotta say, I didnae ken ye had it in ye, Fowlis. Guess ye really really are yer father's daughter," Commander MacLeod had told me when she came to visit me in the hospital in the days following Bloody Bush. It was a victory for the Scots. Our mines took out the remaining weapons we hadn't stolen and killed the majority of the English forces that met us at Bloody Bush. "Victory tastes sweet, doesnae it?"
"No," I said meekly, with a bitter taste in my mouth. "No. War tastes bitter no matter the outcome."