Returning to the window seat in her bedchamber, she rested her forehead against the glass, closing her eyes to block out the dark clouds and driving rain. Willing herself to conjure up an image of Fraser in her mind’s eye, she was horrified to find that her memory could not summon his face. Determinedly, she forced herself to concentrate and see him standing tall and proud on the castle ramparts. In the picture she created, he wore his kilt and tartan shawl. The highland breeze ruffled his red-gold hair, and his tawny eyes were narrowed against the low sunlight. Then he turned and saw her. His lips curved into the smile she loved so much, and he moved toward her, his stride lithe and easy, disguising the hard, solid strength of his body. No matter how hard she tried to will him to touch her, to take her into his arms, her imagination would not stretch that far, and his beloved face began to fade again.
Reality hit her like a blow from a cudgel, and she doubled over with the force of it, covering her face with her hands. There must be something she could do to make sure he came back to her. To make sure she had more than memories. The realisation that there was nothing brought a fresh wave of pain rolling through her.
“No.” She sat up straighter and looked out of the window in the direction of Drumossie. “You get yourself back here and call me crabbit again, Scotsman.”
Rising and shaking out her skirts, she made her way down to Rosie’s room. She found her cousin lying face down on her bed, her pretty face swollen with tears. With a little cry of sympathy, Martha ran to Rosie and drew her into her arms.
“I can’t bear it,” Rosie sobbed, pressing her face into Martha’s shoulder. “I may never see Jack again.”
There were no words of comfort Martha could offer, so she rocked Rosie in her arms as she had done when Rosie was a child, and in consoling her cousin, Martha found a small measure of relief from her own pain.
“But, Martha, I know I am not alone in feeling this way,” Rosie said, when her tears had subsided and they had made their way down to the great hall to hear the news from the battlefield. “You love Fraser, do you not?”
Martha nodded. There was no reason to deny it now. “It is not the same between us, however. If Fraser returns, he does not return to me.”
“I am not so sure.” Rosie took and clasped her hand firmly. “I have thought of late that he cares for you very much.”
“He does, I think.” She felt a smile tug at her lips as she recalled Fraser’s comments likening her to a thistle. “But love is a different matter.”
Rosie lowered her eyes. “Martha, I went to Jack’s room before he left…”
“I know. I saw you.”
“Oh.” Rosie was silent for a long time. “I’m not sorry,” she said at last, with a toss of her curls.
“Nor should you be,” Martha replied, returning the clasp of her hand.
Reports began to come thick and fast from the battlefield then and throughout the course of the day. Rab came straight to Martha with any information, somehow sensing, without a word being spoken, that she was in a position of authority. None of the news was good. The highlanders were maintaining their reputation for fierce bravery in battle. Martha smiled as she thought of Fraser. Nothing would daunt him, she knew. The Jacobite technique was to fire a volley from their muskets then charge into the foe with broadswords drawn. This struck fear into the hearts of the redcoats, who were used to more formal warfare, and in the past, they had tended to flee in the face of the charging Scotsmen. The highlanders had expected to use this tried and trusted technique again. The prince, however, had chosen to ignore the advice of the chieftains, including Fraser, and his more experienced generals. Instead, he had lined the highlanders up on the boggiest ground of Drumossie Muir.
“In Gaelic Drumossie means Stinking Ridge. ’Twas a place well named, my lady. ’Tis a foul moor. Nought but fetid bogwater. And, in his wisdom, this fine, proud prince of ours has positioned our brave clansmen right in the middle of it. Their feet sank right into the bog, trapping them there.”
“Why did the prince choose that position, Rab? He must have given a reason,” Martha said.
“Och, aye, he did indeed. He said ’twould protect them from a cavalry charge by the Duke of Cumberland’s men. And it did, of course. It also protected Cumberland from our charge. It trapped the highlanders there in the bog. They could’nae make their way out of the boggy ground, so they were sitting targets for Cumberland’s shells. ’Twas one in the afternoon when the battle began in earnest, with our Jacobite cannons firing the first shots. These were the only shots fired by the highland artillery, because the rest of our ammunition had been left in Inverness.”
“Rab, this incompetence by the Jacobite commanders is truly staggering. It is little short of murder.” Martha covered her mouth with her hand.
“Aye, my lady, there are some questions will need answering about this day. But I fear there will be few men remaining to give those answers. The redcoats opened up then with their cannons. It was, as our own laird predicted, a carnage. No command was given to the highlanders to charge. After thirty minutes of enduring the bombardment, during which our men fell like dogs in the filthy ground, small groups of Jacobites began to break ranks and charge anyway. They fell, stumbled, tripped and got stuck as they fought to make their way across the wide bog which is Drumossie Muir. Will I away and see what more I can discover?”
“Yes, of course, Rab.” Martha nodded.
“They may already be dead.” Rosie’s lips were white. Martha automatically reached for Fraser’s precious decanter of whisky and poured them each a dram.
“Drink it, Rosie,” she said, as the girl shuddered at the smell. A memory came to her of Fraser, and she quickly dashed back her own measure of the amber liquid. “It will warm you, and it is insulting to a Scot if you do not.”
When Rab returned again some hours later, they stood together on the battlements, looking out over the loch. Even though Drumossie was too far distant to see anything, Martha almost imagined she saw the smoke rising in the distance.
“So they were brave to the end?” Martha asked. Rosie slid a cold hand into hers.
“Och, can ye doubt it?” The old man’s face was proud. “When our highlanders finally reached the bayonets of the redcoats, that devil Cumberland decided to deploy new tactics. If the Jacobites did cut through the front line, they were wiped out by a new, second line. While ferocious hand-to-hand fighting took place, a regiment of redcoats came up on the extreme left and poured a murderous volley of fire into our Jacobite right flank. Our brave lads began to fall back. The retreat became a rout as panic took over our fleeing troops. The king’s dragoons chased after any stragglers and killed those in their path.”
“No!” Martha placed a shaking hand over her mouth. “Rab, they cannot have killed men who were retreating. Even Cumberland would not conscience such slaughter. Surely not?” Martha was aghast at the thought of behaviour which was contrary to everything that was humane and decent. Not for the first time in recent months, she felt shame at her English heritage.
Rab had tears in his eyes as he nodded. “Aye, my lady. This was at the orders of the Duke of Cumberland himself. His words were that none should be spared. The redcoats then walked the whole length of the battlefield. Their mission was the systematic butchery of those wounded on the field. Cumberland had told them they must take no prisoners. There was to be, in his words, ‘no quarter’ for the Jacobites. The only useful highlander was a dead one. They butchered them, my lady.”
“All?” She looked out across the Great Glen. She could not bring herself to ask the other question that burned itself into her heart. Rosie made a choking sound, and Martha slid her arm around her, drawing her trembling body close against her side.