Glencoe,
Scotland, February 13, 1692
You
are all going to die.
See
how the snow swirls and rises in high drifts, the wind hard pressed to conceal
your glen and its cottage dwellings? It quickly piles the snow and beats against
walls as the storm intensifies outside your tiny havens, to serve well those
who will need it within the hour…
Dallan MacDonald awoke with a
start. He lay wrapped in his plaid, his
young brother Alasdair beside him in front of the hearth. He wiped the slight
sheen of sweat from his brow as he always did after one of his dreams. The garbled,
chilling voice from some unseen source in the dream now fading. They were becoming more frequent of
late. Odd and strange dreams that made
no sense at all. But this one seemed more
like a premonition. And why shouldn't
it?
He took a deep breath, settled himself and
began to muse over his unexpected arrival and his grandfather’s greeting when first
they spied each other. The MacIain’s eyes had been warm for the briefest of
moments then suddenly consumed by cold warning, the auld Fox’s first words
anything but friendly. Of course Dallan had learned to expect nothing else from
the chief of the Glencoe MacDonalds. MacIain could be a hard man when he wanted
and usually became just that when in Dallan’s company. In fact, Dallan couldn’t
remember him being any other way.
Alasdair moaned softly in his sleep. Dallan
turned to his brother and smiled. The boy had not left his side since the big
Scot came trudging through the snow two days ago. He gazed thoughtfully at him
with a slight pinch of envy. Alasdair’s face was peaceful, content. Soaking up
the weak glow of the dying fire as if ‘twas all he was meant to do. The boy
held not a care. No. Not a one.
Unlike the rest of his clansmen.
Confused at the number of Lowlanders and Campbells
residing in the glen when he first arrived, Dallan made his way directly to his
elder uncle’s house to find what was amiss. His uncle John had given him the
information he wanted to know but it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Indeed, the Campbells had come into the glen
almost two weeks ago with papers signed by the king himself. Papers which
demanded quarters be given in Glencoe for two companies of his majesty’s foot
soldiers.
Dallan didn’t trust the Campbells, nor did his
grandfather. Fearing disarmament, MacIain ordered his people to hide their arms
in the peat stacks or on the brae beneath the stones. If the soldiers were
going to take their weapons, let them take the old rusty ones.
Alasdair moaned again. Dallan thought of the
harsh night and gently pulled the boy into his plaid with him to fend off any
chill. The small form immediately snuggled close. Dallan again smiled and let
go a lengthy sigh. How he wished he could stay this time. Wee Alasdair had just
reached the age of six and would soon be old enough for fostering. Dallan
wanted to take him under wing but wasn’t sure how he’d manage it. It would mean
taking the boy to France and he doubted the auld Fox would let him. Perhaps
their mother could be persuaded, and then she could work on the MacIain. Dallan knew he needed something in his life
besides weapons and constant training. Alasdair would be perfect.
After twenty years of living Dallan still felt
as if he’d done nothing with his life. Something was definitely missing, but he
couldn’t figure out what it was. Perhaps he just needed to feel like he
belonged. If only the MacIain would accept him, treat him with some respect
instead of cold, silent disdain.
A shout from outside drew the Scot out of his
musings and brought his attention to a small window. The three Campbell soldiers sheltered in his
mother’s house were reportedly pulling out in the morning. Could it be they
were preparing to depart? Perhaps the reason the three had not returned to the
house after meeting with their captain was due to the preparation. But that
wouldn’t have taken them all night. What could they be doing all this time?
His earlier dream flooded his mind and the
hairs on the back of Dallan’s neck rose with the thought. He detached himself
from Alasdair and went to the window, dirk drawn. He’d had this warning too
often to ignore it; something was wrong. Bad enough a sense of dread hovered
over the glen yesterday to put everyone on edge. But later the Campbell’s own
piper was the one to keep Dallan up most of the night. He’d heard the piper play, knew it to be more
than a pleasant passing of the time. There had been something in the music. A
message. Flee.
Yet his mother, along with many of his other
clansmen, had not taken heed and insisted on staying. The soldiers would be
gone tomorrow and all would be well…
Another shout. Dallan hurried back to
Alasdair’s sleeping form and quickly pulled away the blankets. “Wake up, lad,”
urgency in his deep velvet voice. “Alasdair, wake up!”
The boy opened his sleepy eyes and gazed at
his older brother. “Wha…what’s wrong then?”
Dallan grabbed up his plaid, wrapped it about
himself then reached for his sword and shield near the hearth. He’d brought
them out of hiding in mute preparation for what he knew must surely be
happening now. “Wake mother and Fergus, tell them to dress quickly.”
Alasdair popped up to a sitting position, his eyes blinking back sleep.
“What’s wrong? What’s happening?”
“I dinna ken, but I’m going to find out.” Dallan
hurried to the door. “Wake them and prepare to leave. Ye may ha’ to head into
the hills, lad.”
“But Dallan, that far? What are the Campbells
doing?” A woman’s scream carried on the wind was answer enough.
“Hurry lad! I’ll not see this family’s blood
spilled.” He opened the door to a blast of wind, “Go!” And as Alasdair
scrambled to his feet, Dallan left the cottage.
Snow beat relentlessly against him as he
stumbled out into the storm while shouts and pistol shots echoed above the wind
in the distance. Sounds the wind carried ever closer to his family’s cottage.
He picked up another sound among the rest, one much closer, and ducked into a
sheltered area between some of the houses. Sword drawn, shield ready, his every
muscle screamed for release for a few tense seconds before Dallan recognized
the labored breathing of his clansman and grabbed him. “Ian! What happened?” He
pulled his grandfather’s servant into the shelter with him as the more menacing
noises drew closer.
“Dallan lad!
The MacIain! Yer Grandmother!” The man pushed out terrified. “The
soldiers got into the house. We let them in! I swear we didna ken what they
were about!”
Dallan shook him, his grip tight on the old
man. “Campbell has set his dogs on us, then?”
“Aye! Get yerself and yer house to the hills!
Be quick!” He struggled to get away, his clothes tearing with the effort.
Dallan held him fast. “The
MacIain?”
“I dinna ken! There were shots! The
Lady, she screamed something terrible! We tried to get to them, but there were
too many soldiers. We got out as fast we could, and they came after us!” Ian
glanced fearfully about, body trembling as more shots fired. Closer. “Believe
me lad; there was nothing we could do to help them! Get ye gone to the hills!
Now!”
Dallan loosened his grip. Ian
wrenched his arm away and ran into the storm as sounds of the soldiers’
slaughter neared, death with them.
Within moments Dallan burst through the door
of his family’s house, the snow and wind with him. His mother gasped at the
sudden entrance. She and her husband of
eight years, Fergus MacDonald, stood against a far wall wrapped in whatever
they could find to bear the storm outside. Alasdair huddled between them.
Dallan gave his step-father a curt nod. “It is as we feared. We must flee.
Now.”
Fergus closed his eyes and lowered his head a
brief moment in mute acceptance, then ushered his wife and son to the door. They
allowed Dallan out first and, at his signal, followed him into the blinding
snow.
Cold bit through the plaids they wore, the
wind nearly tearing the clothes from their backs. Yet the small family ignored
the harsh elements that greeted them. As long as it was not Death extending his
greetings this day, the light of dawn only an hour or so off, the elements were
welcome. Dallan silently vowed to keep death from his family as long as he
could, no matter what the cost. They were all he had.
Screams rent the darkness around the four as
they haphazardly fought their way through the storm. They’d managed to get
themselves some distance from the house, and Dallan, now grateful for the storm
which kept them hidden and would perhaps see them to some semblance of safety,
allowed himself a brief sigh of relief. It was then his mother screamed.
Her voice and the clash of steel were quickly
carried away by the wind. Dallan hoped not in the direction of more soldiers as
he felled the first of two of Campbell’s men. He recognized him as one of the
soldiers who partook of Fergus’s hospitality. Irony has a strange way of
working. The second soldier lunged, bayonet in hand, as Dallan tried to wrench
his sword from the first. The big Scot leapt to the side, the deep snow thwarting
his movement as the bayonet missed its mark yet scored all the same. Pain seared
through the back of his left shoulder as the blade cut its way to the bone.
Dallan clenched his teeth against a sick wave of dread, only two thoughts in
his mind. He had to save his family. To do that he had to fight.
He didn’t remember falling, but found himself
in the snow next to his shield, his sword no longer in his hand. He must have
let go of it when he was hit, or perhaps as he fell. Either way, there was no
sign of his sword anywhere. Dallan looked up and dark as it was, met the eyes
of the man about to kill him, the bayonet already on its descent. Dallan briefly
contemplated closing his own eyes when the soldier suddenly fell to the snow
next to him. Dead.
“Go!” Dallan commanded as he struggled to his
feet. He gave a thankful nod to Fergus as the older man pulled his dirk from
the soldier’s back. He then sought and retrieved his own weapons and reached
for his mother.
Her face turned frantic as Dallan took her by
the arm. “Alasdair!” She screamed and turned a circle in the snow that nearly
pulled him off his feet. “Where’s Alasdair?”
“Quiet woman!” Fergus warned. “The wind will
carry yer voice!”
Dallan scanned the area and cursed. The boy
was gone.
“He must ha’ panicked and run back to the
house. I thought he was right behind me.” Fergus told him in a low voice.
“Take her to the hills, man. Keep her safe.”
Dallan grasped his mother’s hands firmly in his own. “I’ll see to him. Go with
Fergus now.” He gave Fergus another quick nod then wheeled back in the
direction they had come, his tall form quickly swallowed up by the storm.
He carefully picked his way through the
blinding snow to avoid as much as possible the nearest sounds of pistol shots
and shouting, praying he didn’t pass the boy. Dallan knew he was not only
losing time but blood. He had to find Alasdair, and fast.
After agonized minutes of bracing himself
against the blinding snow he reached the house. A dim light shone through the
window. A candle; someone was inside. Dallan stilled his labored breathing and
melted into the shadows at the rear wall of the house. The door to the kitchen
area lay open. Alasdair must have gone though the back. Carefully, he made his
way to the door, peeked inside, then silently entered. The hairs on the back of
his neck immediately rose and he quickly crouched behind the thin curtain
separating the tiny kitchen from the hearth room.
“Search the house!” A man shouted in a husky
voice. “No one lives!” Only three of them, a preview to the bulk of the
slaughter Dallan quickly surmised. But where is Alasdair?
He got his answer quick enough. Alasdair
screamed as one of the men pulled him out from behind a chair and threw him to
his superior. The captain grabbed the boy by the back of the neck and eyed him
with an odd sort of numbness, as if he wasn’t sure of what he was. He then
looked the boy over carefully, as one might a chicken or a cow at market, his
mouth curling into a crooked smile. “Ever been buggered, lad?” he asked and
grabbed at his own groin for emphasis.
Alasdair cringed and shrank in the man’s
grasp.
“Well then,” he chortled, “there’s always a first.”
With a wave of his hand he sent his two men to search the back of the house. They
laughed, knowing they were to take their time, and headed for the curtained
doorway.
Dallan’s dirk plunged into the first man, the
action tearing the feeble curtain. The second man, too stunned to react in
time, heard only the snapping of his own neck as Dallan let him drop to the floor
next to his fallen comrade. That left just the leader. A man Dallan knew
immediately and just as immediately, hated.
Robert Campbell of Glenlyon held Alasdair by
the hair, a dirk poised at the boy’s throat. Never taking his eyes off the
scene before him, Dallan took a pistol from the nearest dead man, trained it on
the Campbell, and stepped out from behind the half torn curtain.
“Surrender and I’ll spare him,” Campbell
pushed out, his face pasty, sick-looking, and full of lust.
Dallan’s jaw twitched with revulsion as he
judged where the ball might hit. “Let the boy go first,” he countered his own
voice soft and menacing.
Alasdair let out a yelp of pain as Campbell’s
grip tightened. “You fool! My men are next door and come even now! You are dead
already!”
Dallan’s green eyes grew fierce. “Only a fool
and a coward would harm an innocent lad while one o’ his clansmen has a pistol
pointed at him.” He took aim and prepared to fire, praying the Campbell would
either throw Alasdair out of the way or think to keep himself shielded with
him. Dallan sighted for the man’s face instead of his heart.
Campbell’s eyes suddenly widened with fear.
Good, Dallan thought. He could kill the man,
take Alasdair through the back and hope the storm was still enough to conceal
them in the pre-dawn light. He put the first traces of pressure on the trigger.
Campbell watched in horror and looked as though he was going to scream.
But it was Alasdair’s scream that pierced the
room, bringing Dallan’s attention to his rear. Too late.
The big Scot’s breath was crushed from his
body as blood from his forgotten wound gushed anew, pushed as if everything
within him could be squeezed through the jagged cut in his shoulder. The pistol
in Dallan’s hand dropped to the floor, useless, as two thick black arms wrapped
around him from behind and mercilessly smashed him against a huge body. He
fought the giant holding him, but it was no use. The strength in those arms was
like nothing he had ever encountered or would ever want to. Suddenly a deep
laugh penetrated the air as an odd tingling sensation began to course through
his body. The giant seemed to move but Dallan wasn’t sure, his feet no longer
touched the floor, or did they? By all the Saints, what was happening?
Alasdair screamed and watched in horror as
Dallan was dragged into the shadows. “Dallan! No! Dallan!” He squirmed against
the stunned Campbell leader who, too shocked to cuff the boy into silence,
merely stood, his grip tight, the dirk unmoved. Dallan tried to cry out but his
lungs had no air. The tingling sensation only increased with his efforts to an
odd burning, as though his skin were on fire. And of all things he thought he
heard some sort of music. Dallan couldn’t afford to lose consciousness. He
again struggled against the arms holding him; he had to get to Alasdair! But it
was no use. Helplessly he watched his brother, now cut and bleeding from Robert
Campbell’s unmoved dirk; slowly disappear behind a blanket of darkness.
Dallan MacDonald contemplated if he was dying
but honestly didn’t know; all he did know was he had not saved Alasdair and the
deep booming laugh behind him was getting louder. These were the only two
realizations to accompany him into the blackness that took him from his
brother, his home, and his very life.
