Shadows in the Mists

A single thistle swayed in the wind on that cold April night. Its jagged leaves darkened with spattered blood, alone among the trampled grass and turned sod of the killing ground of Drummossie Moor.

His eyelids closed again. A single tear cut a path through the dirt and dried blood coating his face. The images of grinning, red coated riflemen as they fired their muskets and canon point blank into his valiant countrymen filled his mind‘s eye again. The smell of gunpowder freshly turned soil and blood still thick in his nostrils.

Though struck several times, he had continued to charge through the murderous fire with the rest of the woefully outnumbered and desperate Scots.

They had stopped just yards from the first rank of Cumberland’s men, raised their muskets and loosed a thunderous volley. Then screamed and howled as the first rank of Redcoats withered away like smoke in a gale unnerving the second rank of English. The ferocious highlanders dropped their muskets, drew swords and charged.

They slammed into the second rank with shuddering impact. The desperate highlanders hacked through the second rank only to come face to face with the bayonets and gun barrels of the third.

He remembered lunging forward and howling his defiance as a mounted officer barked out the command to fire.

It was odd but at that moment he was captivated by the surreal beauty of those bright flowering blooms and sheets of fire flashing from that seemingly endless line of troops.

The musket balls struck him like the blows of a smithy’s hammer, the pain giving way to a comfortable numbness as he was thrown backward to land twisted and still among his massacred clansmen.

His body was no longer able to respond as he watched with tear filled eyes. Bonnie Prince Charlie’s brave army was cut down like so much wheat. His breath came in slow labored gasps as he heard the skirl of the pipes and the howling scream of the final highland charge, suddenly silenced forever by volley after volley from musket and cannon.

Slowly he rolled onto his back and stared up into the leaden gray sky, unsure if it was the cold rain or death’s caressing hand that slowly chilled him to the soul. He remembered kneeling and swearing his oath of fealty to the young pretender not a year ago.

How his heart swelled as they won victory after victory, Prestonpans, Falkirk, and the numerous towns and villages on their march to London before turning back to Scotland 130 miles short of their goal and now all that had been won swept away, in less than an hours time. They had gone from heroic patriots to outlawed rebels in the blink of an eye.

A shadow slowly materialized above him. He saw the glint of steel and felt the cold impact of a bayonet being thrust through his body. A tear escaped to run slowly down his cheek to seep away into the soil along with Charlie’s noble cause and the blood of so many of his courageous brothers lying silent and broken among the soft grasses of Drummossie Moor.

His tears began to flow freely as he realized that this was not only the death of their bid to return the Stuart to the throne, but the end of their highland way of life. It took less than an hour to utterly destroy the heroic highland army, to cut down their best and brightest, a massacre from which the highlands would never fully recover.

Cumberland saw to that when he gave the order, no quarter. For the next few hours the English ran down the fleeing highlanders shooting them in the back, bayoneting the wounded and immediately executing those foolish enough to surrender.

As the darkness overcame him he heard nothing except the odd musket shot and the laughter of the English soldiers as they walked the moor now soaked with blood finishing off the wounded. As he slipped into that dark void he wondered if in the coming years any would remember what his countrymen had tried to accomplish and how it all came to a fiery blood soaked halt on that 16th of April 1746.

He opened his eyes again and saw the lone thistle standing proudly in defiance amongst the utter devastation of the battleground. As he watched the tiny flower sway in the night wind he came to the realization that the thistle was truly the Scots flower. A weed that others sought to destroy and be rid of. But though it could be cut, burned and hacked, it survived to flower once more. A hearty bit of God’s creation that refused to be eradicated no matter what the odds. The coppery smell of blood and the stench of exposed entrails, scents of a battle reserved for the vanquished brought him back to reality. The scent of death and butchery hung heavy in the air. The sounds of steel crashing against steel and the screams of the wounded and dying now distant echoes. Only the sobbing of loved ones moving across the moor searching for fathers, husbands and sons could be heard now.

His eyes glowed as a low growl rumbled through the mangled flesh of his chest. Slowly, painfully he rolled to his knees, sniffed at the air heavy with death. His muzzled twitched in the cold night air as he searched the winds for the scent of the men who had carried out this massacre. After all, he had sworn an oath.

He stood slowly, his shirt and kilt still covered in dried blood as if it refused to wash away in the cold rain. He staggered a step or two on unsteady legs, his head low on his shoulders, his visage no longer human, fiercely glowing eyes were deep set in lupine features, large cruel teeth glistened and flashed in the wane moonlight.

Women gasped and shook with fear as a hauntingly mournful howl rolled out of the cold mists covering the moor. They gathered children close and huddled in fear as the shadow loped through the mists, whispering in hushed tones of the Deamhan Madadh-Alluidh, the Demon Wolf.

The four red coated soldiers approached the small cottage, showing little regard for caution. Two circled around to the back and two to the front.

The leader of the small squad pounded on the door and demanded entry in the name of the king. “By order of his majesty, King George, all premises and domiciles are to be searched. Any found harboring or giving aid to the traitor, Charles Edward Stuart or any of his rebels are to be arrested. Open in the name of the king!”

Private Clackburn stood in the darkness at the rear of the cottage gripping his musket in sweaty hands as he listened to his sergeant’s pounding and bellowing voice. He knew the chances of finding the Stuart this close to Culloden were slim to none, but the chances of finding a few coins or a recently widowed wife were very good indeed. His face was painted with a toothy grin at the sound of the cottage door being smashed in. His sergeant never failed to pick the fattest sheep, always able to sniff out coin or a succulent maiden. He felt a slight jolt and looked down. His eyes widened in uncomprehending surprise, not realizing the blood splashing over his hands was his own. He dropped limply to the ground never knowing what had happened.

Private Smith stood at the opposite end of the cottage and turned as he heard something thud to the ground. He called out Clackburn’s name, asking what he had over there. Though dark, he could just make out the shadow coming towards him through the mist. Tightening his grip on his musket he asked, “Clack? What have you got? Did you catch one of the rabbits trying to flee?”

Huge teeth and the head of a large wolf suddenly flashed into view. Strong jaws clamped around his neck before he could raise his weapon.

Smith’s mouth worked feverishly, calling out to his sergeant, but the only sound was the muted thud of his decapitated head striking the soft ground.

Sergeant Bretway stood imperiously before an old woman that cowered against the wall of the little one roomed cottage. “Mistress, your men folk have all been slaughtered this day and if you would not add your name to the list of dead, tell me where the Stuart is.” He nodded to private Lapp, giving him the go ahead to start searching the contents of the small cottage.

Lapp began using his bayonet to overturn crockery and tear the linen from the bed with glee. His efforts became more and more destructive until he was brought up short after overturning the bed and saw the figures huddled beneath.

The sergeant turned to the old woman with a leering grin. “What have we here then?”

Lapp reached down and grabbed the hair of the nearest figure dragging it to its feet.

The young woman screamed and fought only to be struck down by a backhanded blow from Lapp. The young woman reached out to wrap her arms about her frightened daughter. The little girl’s 8 year old eyes were wide with terror as her mother pulled her close.

The sergeant laughed and said to Lapp as he undid his weapons belt, “I think I will take her first, then you and the others can have your pick.” Looking at the old woman whose face displayed pure hatred and fury, “If this one moves, kill the child.”

Suddenly to everyone’s horror and surprise, the heads of Clackburn and Smith came sailing out of the dark to land with a wet thud and roll across the floor coming to rest against the hearth.

Weapons were quickly snapped up at the ready as the sergeant motioned Lapp forward to the door.

Raising his musket, Lapp moved cautiously along the wall, stopping at the edge of the doorframe. Listening then holding his weapon at the ready he slowly peered out, straining to see through the mists.

Shocked with fright as Lapp was suddenly yanked from his feet and out into the night by an unseen hand. The sergeant made the mistake of a raw recruit and squeezed the trigger of his weapon by accident, firing a round through the thatched roof. Frantically he fumbled to reload the musket.

Lapp’s scream was suddenly cut short by the sound of flesh and cloth being torn asunder and the crack and snap of bones.

Shaking uncontrollably he dropped the weapon when Lapp’s faceless head rolled back through the door to bump against his foot. The sergeant’s face suddenly went slack as the blade of a stag handled dirk slammed into the base of his brain. The sergeant tottered a moment then fell limply to the floor atop the sightless head.

The old woman slowly lowered the dirk and spat on the sergeant’s body in disgust. Turning to the young woman and the child “Take this carrion and the others to the forest and bury them. Then ye and the bairn take to the hills until these bastards have moved on.”

The young woman moved dutifully to carry out her mother’s wishes but stopped and asked in a shaky voice, “But what aboot the beastie?”

The old woman shook her head with a grim look, “You neednae worry aboot that one. I think it `tis the English that need fear the night.”

He loped on through the night, slipping through the mists like a shadow. Appearing suddenly to viciously slaughter Cumberland’s outriders when he came upon them while slowly working his way toward the main body of the English army.

As dawn approached, he came upon a ridge and heard the sound of men laughing and a woman’s scream. He drifted quickly and silently between the trees.

There in a small clearing at the edge of the ridge were a handful of red coats bayoneting a herd of cornered sheep while a young maid was held at knifepoint and forced to watch. Her dress was ripped and torn, her breasts exposed as the soldiers mauled and groped her semi-nude body. A number of them were in the process of shedding their belts and equipment in preparation of ravishing her.

He burst from cover and was among them before they could react. His fearsome jaws snapped with fury as talons slashed in wide bloody arcs.

The nearest soldier fell, clasping his hand to his neck, trying in vain to stop the blood that was gushing from the ragged wound.

A second screamed and another clutched at his midsection in a frantic attempt to keep steaming intestines from spilling from his slashed belly.

The others whirled and brought their muskets up in defense as the ravening creature bore down on them.

It was then that he spied the additional troops standing off to the side. His rage had blinded him causing him to forget caution, he snarled furiously as he realized his mistake.

There was a sudden explosion of musket fire as he continued to charge the soldier holding the woman. He staggered and lurched under the impact of the musket balls. The force of the rounds caused him miss his target and slam into a boulder topping the windswept ridge. He was struck again as another volley erupted to echo across the glen. The force of the impact threw him over the edge of the ridge. A cool and soothing wind whipped past his face as he tumbled into the mists blanketing the darkened glen below.

Mary MacGregor walked along the wee burn listening to the water as it trickled over the stones. Its gentle song almost sad in its melody as if it too mourned those brave souls lost at Culloden a few days ago. Her eyes darting this way and that watching for any sign of the hated English who had been razing the countryside while using the excuse of hunting rebels. She had heard no more shots since the day before but she remained alert and cautious all the same.

Ever since her father had left to join Prince Charles’ army earlier in the year, she had been alone. She had gotten word from a passing rider carrying news of the early battles that he had been killed in a skirmish with an English patrol. Now at 20 summers old she was doing her best to keep their small farm running and remain beneath the notice of the English now roaming freely through the countryside.

She knelt to fill her water bucket for the broth she was preparing and watched the last of the morning mists drift along the surface of the water. She stood, then held a shading hand to her eyes as she spied something white covered with dried blood among the rocks and heather along the side of the hill. At first she thought it a stray sheep that had fallen from the heights above until she noted the tartan between the rocks.

Moving quickly she leapt down into the cold waters and through to the other bank rushing towards the body. As she feared, this man was a MacGregor and though she did not recognize him she knew the color and pattern of his tartan and did not hesitate in attempting to assist one of her clan.

Kneeling by his side her eyes filled with tears she could see that he had suffered greatly at the hands of the English. His once white linen shirt was ragged and filled with the holes of many bullet and bayonet wounds. He was filthy and covered in dried blood his features marred by the swelling and cuts and one of his legs was folded at an odd angle. Mary shook her head sadly as her gaze traveled up the hillside to the ridge far above.

As she began to gather stones to build a cairn for the man, she stopped and gasped in fright when she heard a soft moan. He was alive, but how? With the wounds on his body let alone the fall from the heights he should be dead thrice over. She shook her head to clear the shock of indecision and knelt at his side.

She leaned down and whispered “M’Laird? Can ye hear me?” The only answer was another barely audible moan. Overcome with emotion she leaned down, as her eyes glistened with the tears of compassion and lightly kissed his forehead. Her eyes darted about as she decided what she must do. After fashioning a litter out of two stout branches from a nearby tree and her shawl she gingerly rolled the wounded man onto it and set off across the glen as fast as she was able.

The smell of broth boiling and the warmth of a fire slowly brought him out of the embrace of darkness but when he tried to rise his muscles and flesh felt as though devils stabbed at him with fiery hot brands. His lungs refused to function until he stopped attempting to move.

He lay there confused, wondering where he was and how he had gotten there. He remembered attacking the English on the ridge, them firing at him and the sensation of floating through the air. The face of an angel had appeared and caressed him with her heavenly touch. He had been sure he had finally died. Opening his eyes he saw the roughhewn timbers holding up a thatch roof. He was in a cottage, but how had he gotten there? His eyes widened in surprise when the angel suddenly appeared at his side carrying a washcloth and a bowl of water.

She attempted to keep a stern indifferent face but her eyes gave away the true concern she felt. “How are ye feeling this day MacGregor?”

He attempted to smile but his face hurt too much. “I have felt better lass. How did I get here?”

She looked at him with a haughty expression and said “I dragged ye here, ye great lump.”

He noted her attitude, a strong one this. His eyes flashed weakly in admiration.

She sat on the side of the bed and rung out the wash cloth, gently washing his face and cleaning the wounds.

Her touch was light and caressing; he closed his eyes and sighed thinking that “If this wisnae heaven it couldnae be far doon the road.” Her scent was that of freshness and spring flowers. Her long soft auburn hair flashed with highlights of red, her eyes the color of the sea flecked with the white of the cresting waves. His eyes traveled down her demure form, her soft white breasts barely contained within her laced bodice, the gentle contour of her thigh visible through the slit in her skirts. He asked softly “How….how long have I been here?”

“Two days” Was her curt reply.

Closing his eyes as the stiffness, pain and memory of the smoke filled battle washed over him again.

As she gently wiped his brow she stated, with a hint of fear tingeing her voice, “Sir, I have never seen wounds heal as fast as yers. How is that possible?”

“Damn” it had not occurred to him that his rashness would expose his secret.

Just as he was about to answer the door crashed open and the king’s soldiers spilled into the room. His eyes hardened as he attempted to force his body to respond to the threat but bayonets were at their throats and breast before they could react.

An officer stepped into the room behind his agitated troops and with a pleasant voice said “Good evening Miss, I am sure you are aware by now of the rebel defeat at Culloden and the Kings orders concerning those that would harbor rebels?”

Growling deeply, MacGregor attempted to rise, and with a calm indifferent attitude the officer leveled his pistol and nonchalantly fired a shot into the MacGregor’s chest as if he were shooing an annoying insect.

The officer turned looking about the small cottage with the look of one who had suddenly stumbled into a fresh pile of manure and stated matter of factly “The King’s orders are quite clear on this matter.” He turned to leave and told the soldiers in a lisp used by those of breeding “Kill the livestock, burn the hut and hang the woman.”

The soldiers set about their assigned tasks malicious glee. One of the troops grabbed Mary by the hair and roughly threw the young woman through the door and out into the evening air. The rest set about destroying the contents of the cottage while searching for anything they could pocket.

Outside, Mary was thrown forward, causing her to loose her balance, windmilling her arms as she fell forward to the ground, knocking the wind out of her. Before she could rise, hands were on her wrists and shoulders, pinning her to the hard ground. The soldiers were laughing and carrying on as she felt her skirts being pulled up and linens ripped away, exposing her from the waist down to their leering eyes.

She screamed and kicked but to no avail as more hands grasped her ankles and yanked her legs wide. Hands and fingers mauled and exposed the exposed flesh of her bottom and between her splayed thighs, entering her roughly both fore and aft. She bit her lip at the searing pain of those dry digits tearing into her. Gritting her teeth, she dropped her forehead to the grass, resigning herself to the inevitable.