Page 19 of A Fire in Their Hearts

We’re silent for a while, satisfied with holding each other. Finally, he pulls back to speak.

‘I should have gone with Samuel and Calum. I got into such an argument with a couple of other men that I hadn’t realised they had left.’

‘Look at that gap, Hamish, between the river and where we stand on the hill. That’s not a distance that can be measured in yards or covered in a few minutes. It’s a gap of beliefs that I fear will not be crossed this day.’

‘You need to leave, Violet, before the fighting begins.’

‘I feel as though I’ve been fighting most of my life.’

‘I’ll find Father and keep close to him. I’ll watch his back.’

For a long while, we hug each other again in silence.

Perhaps he is wondering if this will be the last time.

I know I am. I don’t want to let go. Then my baby twin brother kisses me once more on the forehead and walks briskly away, probably hoping I haven’t noticed the tears flowing down his cheeks.

He soon disappears amongst the throng of men, and I’m filled with fear; Hamish will watch Father’s back, but who will watch his?

*?*?*

No one orders the women to be anywhere in particular and, although some have moved further away from the expected violence, a few dozen are still with the main body.

Scattered around us are several groups listening intently to their ministers, for it’s the Sabbath as well as a day of battle.

The biggest congregation is gathered around the famous Reverend Cargill, who’s now one of the most wanted men in Scotland.

A hand strokes my arm and I turn to find Father next to me. I rest my head against him and he puts an arm about my shoulder.

‘Hamish has gone looking for you.’

‘He found me. I’ll go back to him in a while.’

Despite the presence of thousands of people there is very little sound apart from the voices of the ministers. We stand in silence listening to snatches of different sermons. We’re not here long when we see three men walk down the hill towards the bridge.

‘There’s the Reverend Welsh,’ says Father. ‘He must have finally won agreement from Hamilton that he can attempt to approach the Duke of Monmouth to discuss the Covenanters’ petition.’

‘Petition?’

‘Yes, for all the good it will do. He’s going to request the creation of a General Assembly for the Church of Scotland that is free from control by the state or monarch, and that Presbyterians have the right to practise their religion without fear of punishment.

Apparently he’s even going to ask for a pardon for those who have gathered here under arms.’

‘Would the duke consider such things?’

‘Oh, he’ll listen. We may yet end up trying to kill each other but there is a certain etiquette in these matters.

I doubt that he’ll give what Welsh says much consideration.

Most of the demands are exactly what Covenanters have been fighting to achieve for years.

At least there shouldn’t be any attack until Welsh returns with Monmouth’s reply and it may be that he has to go over again with Hamilton’s answer. ’

We watch as the famous minister and his two companions climb the barrier and walk slowly across the bridge, hands clearly visible to show they hold no weapons. As they reach the other end, an officer steps forward and they speak for several moments before they are taken away out of sight.

‘If I don’t make it home—’

‘Don’t say such a thing, Father.’

‘Violet .?.?. I hope that one day you’ll have children of your own and then you’ll understand the love I feel for you and Hamish.

Promise me that before the fighting starts, you’ll move to the rear.

You’ll still be in some danger, but I can’t be worrying about where you are if I end up in the middle of it all. ’

I don’t want to do this, yet I don’t want to disobey my father. Nor can I tell him that he should leave this to the younger men. Hamish is expected to fight, even though it’s not in his nature, while I am expected to avoid it, even though I would take up arms.

‘I won’t promise to stay away if I think you’re in trouble.’

He nods. ‘We can wait together until Welsh returns. Nothing significant will happen before then.’

So we wait. I’m good at waiting.

*?*?*

Samuel

Like most of the defending men, Calum and I are armed with the latest flintlock muskets, which can be fired without the use of a burning match cord.

We’ve got ourselves a position close to the bridge where the most intensive fighting will take place.

If the enemy gets to this side of the river, then we’ll watch out for each other, as we’ve done throughout life.

For the moment we’re resting, waiting for the return of the Covenanter delegation.

‘If I’ve never actually said it before, I’m proud to have you as my little brother. When we get home .?.?.’ I stop because I can’t actually think of what to say.

‘Do you think we’ll get home, Sam?’

I don’t answer straight away. Such a question deserves thought, and honesty. ‘I fear not all of us. The danger is too great for everyone to escape unhurt. But which ones of us may be injured, killed or captured .?.?. God only knows such things.’

‘Do you regret what we’ve done over the years?’

‘No. You?’

‘No. It’s what we’ve had to do.’

‘I wish Violet had stayed in Ayrshire, like your Sarah.’

‘Well, with wee Calum to take care of .?.?.’

‘Yes, a son makes a difference. I guess that’s my biggest regret, that for some reason we don’t understand God did not bless us with children.’

‘Welsh is coming over,’ says a man nearby, joining our conversation.

‘His expression isn’t encouraging,’ notes Calum.

‘Brother, he always looks like that.’

Like many men before a battle, I make an attempt at humour and those close by respond by laughing loudly.

It’s all forced but nonetheless a ritual, like praying, touching a cross or lucky charm .

.?. anything that might help a man stay alive and unhurt.

We assist the returning figures over the barrier.

Someone calls out a question and people fall silent in order to catch the answer.

‘Reverend Welsh, what was the duke’s response?’

‘That we have to lay down our weapons before he’ll even entertain discussing anything.’

‘We might as well hang ourselves where we stand,’ says another voice.

‘I suspect that’s what Sir Robert will say,’ replies the minister, before setting off up the hill to confer with the waiting officers.

*?*?*

John Welsh’s guess was right and shortly afterwards the fighting begins when the enemy discharges muskets and its four cannon moments before a troop of the King’s Life Guards gallops across the bridge.

Our officers Hackston and Turnbull are inspiring leaders, giving clear orders that we willingly follow.

‘Wait! Wait,’ calls Hackston from his grey courser, ignoring the shots that whip through the air around him.

I’m staring at a potential target as our cannon fires and I never in my life want to see such a scene again. People and animals explode in a mist of red as the cannonball tears through arms, legs, bodies, heads .?.?. they all just become one mass of gore lining the parapets.

‘Dear God above,’ says Calum, his voice cracking with shock. ‘Did you see, Sam?’

‘I saw, and I fear we’ll never unsee it. Steady your nerve, Calum. This will get worse. Every scene like that will beget another in revenge.’

The closest forty men either side of our cannon have been ordered to concentrate only on the bridge. I had been aiming at one of the leading horsemen, but he’s disappeared before my eyes and I’m just trying to pick a new target when Hackston shouts at us.

‘Aim at the far end of the bridge. The far end of the bridge.’

Hundreds of Royalist foot soldiers are jammed together in a huge mass with nowhere to go now that the charge on horseback has been stopped so completely. I merely aim at the group. Even at this distance, it’s almost impossible not to hit someone.

‘Fire!’

We discharge our muskets and I immediately use a finger to quickly rid the pan of any embers before priming it with loose black powder from my flask.

We’ve been drilled in the procedure and around me men cast about their muskets, putting the stock on the ground so that the barrel points to the sky and can be loaded with a charge, ball and wadding.

I ram the components down the barrel with a scouring stick, my heart pounding in my chest; the longer this takes, the longer I am vulnerable to the enemy’s fire.

The barricade is nowhere near high enough to protect us.

Earlier that morning, men joked that the man operating our cannon had been born holding one.

He’s so skilled that people call him ‘Gunner’, his true name unknown to anyone except his mother.

I’m astonished when I hear the cannon fire again so soon.

I can’t help looking up from my task and see that the ball has torn into the foot soldiers.

In their terror, a couple of figures jump into the water and are instantly swept away, their cries for help joining the cries of the wounded.

‘Sam, this is slaughter,’ says Calum, who has also stopped to watch.

‘It will turn if they get across. Then it will be us who are slaughtered. Remember your training and just concentrate on the job in hand.’

‘Job, Sam! Is killing Scotsmen now a job, like ploughing the land?’

I’m as scared as my brother but am saved from having to reply by Hackston, who is close by and shouts out.

‘Reload! Reload! The enemy will come to you soon enough. Reload fast and fire slow. Pick your target. Allow for the wind.’

We reload, fire and kill, then reload, fire and kill until the air is thick with the stench of blue-grey smoke and the bridge is soaked in the blood of men from Perth and Aberdeen, Inverness and Edinburgh .

.?. strangers we could have met in some remote tavern and enjoyed an ale with.

All around me men wipe their eyes and blame the smoke, but that’s not the cause of our tears.