CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 20

Jean took ship for France on April 12, the very day the Duke of Cumberland's army crossed the River Spey. The Duke of Perth and Lord John Drummond, who had been assigned to cover all the Spey crossings, brought the news to Inverness.

Alasdair told Frances and Van late in the evening of the thirteenth. "The prince has summoned the army to march tomorrow," he said. "We have come to the crisis point. If we can beat Cumberland, we will put heart into our troops and take the heart from theirs."

Van's slender, high-cheekboned face looked somber. "The Macphersons are not here, Father. Nor a great number of MacDonalds."

Alasdair looked at her from under his brows. "Lochaber and Alan rode in a few hours ago," he said.

Van felt fear catch in the back of her throat. So Alan had made it back in time for the battle. He would be happy, but she would much prefer to see him safe. This was not the time to fight the English: the Highland army was undermanned—even she knew that. "He said he would come to see you tonight," her father was going on, and Van nodded and took a deep breath.

"Father, wouldn't it be best to retreat? Postpone this battle until you are at full strength?"

Alasdair cast a quick glance out of the corner of his eye at his wife. Retreat had been his own counsel, but, as usual, the prince's Irish officers had prevailed. Frances was white as a ghost. He turned back to his daughter. "The prince has given his orders. We are to rendezvous tomorrow at Culloden House." He held Van's eyes and went on carefully, "Should we loose this battle, Van, Niall and I may have to flee for our lives. Do not worry about us. We can take to the heather well enough. But you and your mother must leave Inverness immediately. Go to Morar. There must be someone there for our people."

Van met his eyes and then nodded slowly. "Aye, Father. Be sure we will not remain in Inverness to greet the Sassenach. I have no wish to join the Duchess of Perth and Lady Strathallen in prison."

Thank God for Van's cool brain, he thought. "If things become impossible"—he stared at her meaningfully—"you must join Jean in France."

Almighty God, thought Van as his meaning struck her. Her throat was dry. He was looking at her as if he wanted an answer, and she managed to say, "I understand, Father. Do not worry. I will take care of Mother for you."

He smiled at her. "Thank you, Van."

Frances said absolutely nothing.

There came a knock on the front door and Alan MacDonald was announced. Alasdair took Frances up to bed and left his daughter alone with the young clansman.

There was silence in the room after the older couple had left. It had been raining lightly and there was the glint of moisture on Alan's face and hair and shoulders. He unpinned the brooch on his shoulder and let his plaid fall to a chair.

Finally Van spoke. "I wish I could say I'm glad to see you." Her face was thin and strained-looking. "I know the prince needs your men. But... oh, Alan, I would rather you were still safely in Lochaber!"

"You don't mean that," he said soothingly as he came across the room toward her.

"Aye. I mean it all right." She smiled up at him a little unsteadily. "I did not nurse you back to health from one battle only to see you throw your life away in another."

He reached out and smoothed a stray curl off her cheek. "You are too pessimistic, m'eudail. No English troops have yet withstood a Highland charge. I think we will win this battle."

She felt as if a strong hand were squeezing her lungs and her heart. "I have just been talking to Father." Her eyes closed briefly and then she looked up at him once again. "He thinks he is going to die," she said.

"Oh, Van." He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her against him. She went willingly, glad for the comfort of his strong arms. "I cannot pretend that there will be no deaths," he said over her head. "But remember this: we all go out to this battle because we wish to."

He was so dedicated. So brave. She did not have it in her to feel as he did. She pressed a little more closely against him and shivered.

"Do you remember what you said when last we met?" His head was bent close to hers, his voice very close to her ear.

She remembered well, and until now she had not known what it was that she would answer him. Standing here now, so close to him, the both of them so near to the edge of defeat and death, her little fears and concerns seemed infinitely trivial. If she could make him happy, why should she hesitate? "Aye," she said strongly. "I will marry you, Alan."

His grip on her tightened for a moment before he put her away so he could look down into her face. "Do you mean that?" he asked a little unsteadily.

"Aye. I mean it." She smiled at him and when he reached out for her again she raised her face.

He kissed her passionately and Van put her arms around him and held him tightly. His touch awoke no sexual feeling in her, only an endless tolling sorrow for the warm flesh so close to her own that tomorrow might be cold and still.

It was Alan who stepped away first. His eyes were golden, his breath coming hard. "I love you," he said in Gaelic.

"Ailein, Ailein, Ailein," she replied in the same language, "I love you too." And she did, if not in quite the way he wanted.

He looked down at her, his eyes devouring her face. Then, reluctantly, "I cannot stay, Van. There is much to be done before the morning.

She nodded, unable to speak.

"I wish we had a minister here right now," he said with barely concealed violence.

She would have to tell him about Edward, she thought. She could not marry him without telling him the truth of that. But not now. "After the battle there will be time enough," she said, and hoped devoutly that she spoke the truth.

She sat for a long time after Alan had left, staring sightlessly into the fire. She had sent her men into battle before, but this, she knew, was different. This time they would not all be coming back. She sat on until her brother arrived home, thinking and planning, trying to foresee all the possibilities.

Niall was surprised to see her still up. He yawned and sat down on the sofa across from her, lounging on his spine.

"Dhé," he said. "What a day this has been."

Van had been thinking very hard for the last hour. "Niall," she said to her brother now, "if you have to take to the heather, remember the cave at the head of the loch."

He sat up, his attention arrested. The cave Van referred to was one they had found as children. It was carved into the rock of the mountain and screened from view by a waterfall. To their knowledge, no one else knew of it. "If the worst befalls," she continued steadily, "I will take Mother home to Morar. I can get provision out to the cave by boat."

Two pairs of darkly lashed light eyes met and held, "I will remember that, my sister."

"Niall..." Her voice was not as steady as she had hoped it would be. She took a deep breath and tried again. "Father thinks he is going to die," she said for the second time that night.

Like Alan, he made no attempt to allay her fears; they were Highland and took premonitions very seriously. "I will do my best to bring him back, Van," he said at last.

"Dhé." Van's face was stark. "What will Mother do should anything befall Father?"

"Mother is stronger than you think," Niall said firmly.

Van's fine lips thinned and set. "I wish to God the prince had never come."

"You don't mean that," Niall replied, as Alan had before. "Nor would Father agree with you. He is our prince, and if we must die for him, then that is our privilege." He meant every word of it.

Van smiled a little bitterly. "Women regard these matters differently from men," she said, and for the first time realized that this was true.

He held out his hand. "Come and sit next to me," he said. "We are both of us lonely this night, I think."

She changed her seat and he put his arm around her shoulder. They sat for a long time in silence, until the fire burned out, the two similar black heads close together, the two fine-boned dark faces quiet and very grave.

There was no peace for Frances that night. Alasdair's lovemaking had been long and slow and lingering, as if he wanted to touch and memorize every part of her, as if he knew he would never touch her like this again. As if he knew he were saying good-bye.

The worst anguish of all was her own helplessness. There was nothing she could do to stop him. But I cannot live without you, her heart cried out to him silently. Alasdair, I cannot. I cannot.

He murmured to her, and called her love names, and the anguish rose even higher in her heart.

He went to sleep and she lay awake and stared at the partially open window. She tried not to be restless; he needed his sleep this night. Finally she could bear lying motionless no more and got out of the bed.

He woke a few minutes later, sensing her absence. He looked around and saw her standing in front of the window in the darkness, her head pressed against the glass.

"Frances," he said. "Do not."

She heard his voice, heard the pleading in it. She wiped the tears from her face with her fingers before she turned around. She could not let go now. She could not let him leave with his mind full of fear for her.

"I'm all right," she said shakily. "I will be all right."

"Come back to bed, m'eudail. It's cold."

She crawled in next to his warmth and lay against the hard strength of his body. His arms enfolded her.

He spoke over her head. "Frances. In the future it may be necessary for you to remember you are English. You have family with some... influence. You may find it necessary to call upon them."

She knew, without asking, that he did not mean she would need help for him.

"I will remember, Alasdair." She drew a deep breath. "And Van and I will take care of the clan."

He held her closer. "That's my brave girl."

"Go to sleep, darling," she said softly. "You need your rest." And a few minutes later, still holding her in his arms, he did.

The town of Inverness awoke the following morning to the sound of drums and pipes calling the army to muster. Alasdair and Niall were on foot at the head of the MacIans, not far behind the prince, who rode at the head of his army on a gray gelding. Frances and Van watched silently from the sidelines as the column swung to the east, out of Inverness and toward Duncan Forbes's empty house of Culloden, which was their destination.

Niall marched beside his father, his spirits rising with every step. The sound of his own battle song on the pipes filled his heart with joyous anticipation. They had prevailed against the Sassenach before. They would do so again tomorrow..

Alasdair spent several hours seeing his clan quartered in the park of Duncan Forbes's fine house. Patiently he went from man to man, calling each by name and speaking a heartening word.

"Mac mhic lain, Mac mhic Iain," he was greeted on every side by smiling faces. It was late in the afternoon when he finally went up to Culloden House to meet with the prince and his council of advisers. Lord George Murray was just arriving as well. He had stayed in Inverness to bring up the men who had been quartered in the neighborhood of the town. He and Alasdair went into the meeting together.

Niall remained with the clan, talking to Alan Ruadh and his sons, waiting for the food to be distributed.

Alasdair returned to his men with a deep, hard line carved between his brows. "Father," Niall asked apprehensively, "what happened?"

"That damn fool O'Sullivan has chosen the moor as our battleground," Alasdair replied. "No one, of course, thought fit to consult Lord George on this trifling matter."

Niall stared at his father. "We would do better if we had some hills," he said.

Alasdair cursed. "Any Highlander could tell you that. Lord George wants to take up our ground on the other side of the Nairn water. The ground there is hilly and boggy. The Sassenach could not effectively use their cannon or horse."

"Dhé!" said Niall. "And did the prince agree?"

"The prince is no longer listening to Lord George or to the chiefs," Alasdair snapped. "We are to fight on the moor."

Niall pulled his plaid close around him. It was cold and he was hungry. "When are the provisions coming up, Father?"

Alasdair looked bleak. "There are no provisions. Hay of Restalrig neglected to bring the food wagons from Inverness."

Niall stared in disbelief.

Alasdair straightened his own plaid. "Lord George has given command of the battle to the prince. He himself will command the right wing. We are to fight next to him, then the Camerons and the Appin Stewarts. The MacDonalds are to have the left."

"By tradition the MacDonalds have always had the right," said Niall blankly.

"Not tomorrow," Alasdair replied wearily. "Well, there is food for you and me at Culloden House. The rest of the clan is to be issued a biscuit a man."

Niall cursed in Gaelic, soft and long.

"Aye," said his father. "I quite agree."

The following morning, April 15, the whole army marched up the braeside to Culloden Moor, a flat plain at the northwestern edge of the much larger stretch of rough upland country known as Drummossie Moor. The army was drawn up in battle order and was reviewed by the prince, who was pleased by the spirit of his men.

The clansmen who stood on Culloden Moor that morning, wearing the traditional plaids of their hills and following, in feudal fashion, the orders of their chiefs, had eaten only one biscuit in the last twenty-four hours. They stood, unwavering, in battle formation, their faces to the northeast, their eyes searching the heather for the first sign of Cumberland's infantry.

Cumberland did not come. By eleven o'clock Lord George learned that it was the duke's twenty-fifth birthday and he had decided to stay at Nairn to celebrate. There would be no battle that day. The prince grandly told his men that they might refresh themselves with sleep "or otherwise." But there was no "otherwise." John Hay of Restalrig had still not brought up the food from Inverness.

The chiefs, the generals, the prince, and his Irish advisers held a meeting. Alasdair and Lochiel counseled retreat.

"This is no field for the clans," Alasdair said forcefully. "They have no stomach to stand waiting as they are waiting now. And with empty bellies too!"

"The food will be got!" Hay said hysterically.

"When, for God's sake?" demanded Lord George.

"I will not retreat," the prince said flatly. "You made me retreat from Derby and all has gone wrong since then. I will not retreat now."

"Very well," said Lord George heavily. "If that is so, then I am willing to lead a surprise attack on Cumberland's camp at Nairn."

The prince leapt at the suggestion. After some discussion, Alasdair and the chiefs concurred. It was to be a night attack. The clans were to march at dusk that day, pass around the town of Nairn, and fall upon the Sassenach soldiers in the darkness. As Alasdair remarked sourly to Lochiel, "Anything is better than standing on that moor as canon fodder."

The march to Nairn began at dusk. For as long as he lived, Niall was to have nightmares about that night march. To begin with, it was found that a third of the men had slipped away to Inverness in order to seek food. Time was lost while a futile attempt was made to round them up, and the march did not commence until nearly eight o'clock.

Lord George Murray was in a black mood. Niall, watching, saw the prince put an arm around his shoulders, but Lord George merely took off his bonnet, bowed coldly, and said nothing in reply to the prince's words. Lord George then took his place in the van of the army and the march began.

The MacIans were in the front along with Lord George's Athollmen, the Camerons, and the Appin Stewarts. Their guides were the officers of Clan Mackintosh, whose country this was, but the ground through which they passed was treacherous—boggy and full of quagmires. It was dark, foggy, and cold, and all along the way exhausted men threw themselves onto the heather and refused to move further. The gap between the van under Lord George and the rear under the prince widened.

A halt was called and in the darkness, while tired and hungry men struggled to collect themselves, Lord George and O'Sullivan argued bitterly. Niall listened in a kind of daze. This can't be happening, he thought. The night was eerie with fog. The very ground seemed to shift and move under his feet. It was four more miles to Nairn.

Next to him Niall heard his father's voice, speaking with such familiar acidity that he was, unaccountably, heartened. "If we are to make Nairn before dawn," said Alasdair, "we had best stop arguing and get the army moving forward."

But when the first light began to streak the sky, the Highlanders were not yet at Nairn. In the distance Niall could hear the English drums beating the call to order. A surprise attack was impossible. The army was ordered to retreat. In the growing light, the exhausted, starving clansmen retraced their steps to Culloden House, where they fell in their tracks to sleep. There was still no food.

Two hours later the pipes sounded to call the men into position once more on Culloden Moor.

Niall had had no sleep at all, nor had Alasdair. When they marched back to the moor the army left some thousand men asleep where they had fallen; nothing, not even the rant of their clans shrilled on the pipes, had been able to wake them. In spite of this, behind Niall and Alasdair, to the left of the Athollmen in the line of battle, stood some five hundred MacIans.

The army that faced the Duke of Cumberland on the sixteenth was in considerably poorer condition than it had been twenty-four hours earlier. The men had made a night march of nearly twenty miles and consequently had had no sleep. For two days they had subsisted on a ration of a biscuit and water. They had lost almost two thousand of their number to desertion and exhaustion. The French adviser to the prince, the Marquis d'Eguilles, wrote that morning to the French king: "In vain I represented to the prince that he was still without half his army; that the greater part of those who had returned had no longer any targets; that they were all worn out with fatigue; and that for two days many of them had not eaten at all." In spite of the French ambassador's advice to retreat, the clans that morning stayed in position on Culloden Moor.

Niall stood beside his father and watched the English lines form. Snow was falling. Once Cumberland had his cannon placed, he began to cannonade the Highland line.

The cannon fire went on and on. The prince, waiting for Cumberland to initiate the attack, rode up and down among his troops encouraging them.

The deadly round shot went on. "For God's sake, Father," Niall cried to Alasdair, "when are we going to charge?" Men were falling all around him.

Alasdair stood among his dying MacIans, sword and pistol in hand. There was both anguish and anger on his face. "Go to Lord George, Niall! Tell him I cannot hold my men longer."

Niall ran hard until he reached Lord George, who was seated on his horse among his Athollmen looking like a thundercloud. Niall repeated his father's message.

"I will send to the prince and ask if he wants me to charge," Lord George snapped immediately. "Get back to your position, MacIan."

Niall had scarcely returned to Alasdair's side when the order came to charge.

Alasdair turned to his men and screamed the war cry of the clan: "Buaidh no Bas! Buaidh no Bas!" And, raising his sword, he began to run forward. Without a moment's hesitation, the men of his clan followed their chief.

Lord George and the Athollmen were to their left, Lochiel and the Camerons to their right. The entire right wing of the Highland army came on in a surge of tartan and pipes, and broke through Cumberland's first line.

Niall fought to keep his shoulder next to his father's. The fighting was fierce and Lord George's command found itself pressed between their own center line and a wall on their right flank. The quarters were so tight that Niall could hardly use his sword. They kept going forward, climbing over their own dead as they penetrated the ranks of Barrel's regiment.

It was not until much later that Niall was to learn what had happened to the left wing of the Highland army. It received orders at last from the prince to charge, just as the right had, but the MacDonalds, angry and sullen that their traditional position on the right had been taken from them, refused to advance.

The Duke of Perth, commanding the left wing, vainly urged them on. "Claymore! Claymore!" he shouted. "Convert the left into the right. Behave with your usual valor and henceforth my name is MacDonald!"

The battle wavered before them. In anguish MacDonald of Keppoch called out, "Mo Dhia, an do threig Clann mo chinnidhmi?" (My God, have the children of my clan abandoned me?) He rushed forward, pistol in one hand and drawn sword in the other. He was shot down immediately and the clan, which had begun to move forward slowly, halted.

Niall and Alasdair were deep inside the enemy lines when the English began to reform behind them. Men were falling all around them, from musket shot in front of them and bayonets behind. In ones and twos and then in groups, the Highlanders began to fall back.

Still Alasdair pressed forward with Niall at his side. It was a soldier from Sempill's regiment who fired the shot that hit the Earl of Morar in the breast.

Niall dropped to his knees beside his wounded father. Alasdair's eyes were open and he looked at his son. "I'll get you away, Father," Niall said urgently. "Can you put your arm around my shoulder?"

Alasdair shook his head. His voice was perfectly clear although very low. "Niall," he said, "comma leat misse, mas toil leat do bleatha thoir 'n arrigh dhuit fhein!" (Niall, do not think of me, take care of yourself if you value your life.)

Niall looked around him wildly and a man of his clan came to his side. Together they lifted Alasdair in his plaid and began to retreat from the field.

The battlefield was in chaos, with the Highland army now in full retreat. Niall carried the body of his wounded father further and further away from the enemy lines, away from the moor, his eyes straight ahead of him, his exhausted legs trembling with effort.

He turned at the sound of his name and saw a wounded MacIan clansman leaning on the shoulder of his own son. "Is it Mac mhic Iain?" the man asked sorrowfully.

"Yes," Niall replied. "He has been wounded. We are trying to get him to a place of safety."

The man removed his own arm from around the neck of his son. "Go to Mac mhic Iain," he said sternly. Then, as the boy hesitated, "Your first duty is not to your father but to your chief. Go." And the boy came and took up a piece of the plaid on which they were carrying Alasdair.

On and on Niall and his two clansmen went, Niall in front, the two men behind, Alasdair's body slung in its plaid between them. Toward Balrain they came upon a little barn. "Inside!" Niall called, and they carried Morar in and placed him on the ground. Niall bent to his father and found he was dead.

Outside came the thunder of hooves and then the sound of English voices. A party of dragoons in pursuit of fleeing clansmen had found the barn. Niall drew his sword and motioned the two MacIans to do the same. The three men ranged themselves between the door and the body of their chief and prepared to die with him.

There came another shout and then the clink of steel as troopers once more mounted their horses. The sound of hooves and then silence. The dragoons had been called away.

Niall sheathed his sword and turned back to his father. Alasdair's chest was covered in blood, but his face was peaceful.

"I cannot just leave him here for the Sassenach to find," Niall cried despairingly.

"Mac mhic lain." It was one of the clansmen speaking. Niall looked at him in bewilderment before he realized it was he who was being addressed. "Mac mhic Iain," the man said again, "burn the barn."

Niall looked around him. It was quiet in the small barn now. Peaceful. Fire. "Yes," he said. "We will send him out cleanly, with fire. There will be nothing of him for the Sassenach to defile."

They built a funeral pyre out of straw for Alasdair Niall Hector Donald MacIan, Earl of Morar, Mac mhic Iain, and set it afire. Then the three of them took to their heels and ran for their very lives.