And there was plenty of blood. The blood of his countrymen, his clansmen soaking into the highland soil. He’d never witnessed anything so terrible.
So pointless.
He was not a religious man. He didn’t feel compelled to do anything simply because God or King demanded it. Only his father could have compelled him to take part in such a futile endeavor. He already regretted giving into the summons prompting his return, calling him to this place.
Cannon fire from the Hanoverian army whistled like perverse birdsong through the air before crashing through man and earth alike, raining bits of dirt and body parts down like a burst of fireworks.
The loss of life sickened him As it might in any war but more so when the cause was a fruitless one. The Hanoverian army woefully outnumbered the Jacobite regiments, made up of mostly Catholic Highlanders intent on restoring the Stuart line to the British throne. But whatever support Bonny Prince Charlie might have roused among the Highland chiefs, it obviously wasn’t enough to make a successful stand against the Duke of Cumberland’s superior forces. Not an hour into battle, and nearly a thousand of his countrymen had already washed the green moors red with their blood.
While he might mourn the loss of life, he felt no sadness at the loss of the cause. In fact, he felt not much more than disgust for that. It was the loss of his people. His clansmen. His countrymen.
Such a bloody, fucking waste.
The mount standing alongside his own horse shifted restlessly and Keir glanced at his cousin Hugh Urquhart, the Duke of Ross, seeing the same impatience in the man as in his mount.
Unlike himself, Hugh was a poet. An idealist. He would view the massacre below with far more passion than Keir. He would hear the battle cry of their clansmen with his heart and soul rather than a logical mind. All he saw were men too tired, too hungry, and too outnumbered to make any sort of impression on the well-rested and well-supplied Hanoverian army.
“Your Highness, we must retreat.”
Keir rolled his eyes. Leave it to the Prince’s adjunct general, O’Sullivan, to make the plea to his liege to abandon the fight when it was O’Sullivan’s fault they were in this position to begin with. It was he who had chosen this wretched stretch of moorland between the walls of the Culloden enclosure to the north and parkland to the south. His senior commander, Lord Murray, had attempted to protest the unsuitability of taking such an open position on soft ground against the Duke of Cumberland’s heavy artillery but the Prince had upheld O’Sullivan’s choice.
And look at them now.
For an instant, it had been a splendid visual. The Highlanders charging, banging their spiked shields and shouting out their clan’s war cries.
Then their advance was forced to veer to the right around a previously unnoticed bog, leaving the far left regiments under Glengarry, Keppoch, Ranald, and Chisholm almost unusable in the battle.
Leaving the men on the right ripe for slaughter.
He ground his teeth in frustration. Even Hugh’s jaw clenched at the words, but he knew his cousin well. Hugh would never give over to surrender, even if it were the only sane choice.
No, Hugh was a romantic. He would take it upon himself to be the avenging angel of his clansmen and swoop in to save them all.
Even as the thought crossed Keir’s mind, Hugh unsheathed his mighty claymore and dug his heels into his horse’s sides.
“Nae, cousin!” he shouted as the beast surged forward. “Ye dinnae hae tae!”
“Aye, Keir, I do.”
“Bullocks,” Keir cursed before he, too, drew his sword and followed his cousin into the fray with the battle cry of Clan MacCoinnich on his lips. If a man had to die, it was a fine spring day for it.
Hungry and weary from days of marching without adequate supplies, the Jacobite army still rallied for this last charge. Into the guns and bayonets of Cumberland’s army. Many of them raked by cannon fire and grapeshot before they even reached the enemy. They gave it every last ounce of heart they possessed, taking down as many of the enemy as they could.
Despite his lack of devotion to the actual cause, Keir was intent on supporting his clansmen in battle to the best of his ability. He attacked aggressively, working his way deeper and deeper into the foray until the enemy surrounded him. With a grim smile, he sent redcoat after redcoat to meet his Maker. It wouldn’t be enough though. It couldn’t be. They were weaker than their enemy, outnumbered.
It couldn’t last long.
The scream of a horse drew his attention and he saw Hugh go down, rolling away to escape being crushed by his injured mount. Knowing his cousin had no hope of survival on foot among the overwhelming odds and long reach of the enemy’s bayonets, Keir kicked his mount into motion. Slashing his way through a sea of redcoats, he made his way toward Hugh.
Such magnificent valor, he thought with a grin of admiration. Hugh continued to fight the enemy with his every fiber. He towered over them all, twice the man any of them were. Giving twice the fight.
Then one of the cowardly Sassenachs struck Hugh from behind and Hugh dropped to one knee. Fear for his cousin’s life surged through Keir. He was just close enough to see that his cousin had been pierced in the leg by a bayonet. Judging by the angry expression on Hugh’s face as he turned to face his attacker, the spineless Sassenach didn’t have much time remaining in his life. The redcoat turned tail and ran like the coward he was. Despite the injury to his leg, Hugh gave chase, working his way through the battlefield with but one target in mind now.
The fight in the Jacobite army diminished now and their slaughter assured, the horns ultimately sounded for the Jacobite
