Page 20 of A Fire in Their Hearts

‘I’m running out of powder and shot,’ says Calum.

The three hundred of us started this fight with extra bandoliers of powder charges, plus plenty of spare shot and waterskins, which we filled in the Clyde under the cover of darkness. Once a musket has been discharged about a dozen times, it’s unusable until the barrel has been washed out.

Empty waterskins litter the ground at our feet. After two hours of fighting there’s not even a mouthful of water remaining and men can barely speak for thirst. A bone-deep weariness overtakes me and I slump down behind the shelter for a brief rest next to Calum.

I check the leather bag holding my shot and a few moments later hold up the one remaining ball between my fingers, so blackened with powder that it’s difficult to tell metal from flesh.

‘That’s all you’ve got?’

‘One ball and just enough powder to fire it,’ I reply.

‘What then?’

I look at my brother, his handsome face so altered by dirt, horror and fear that even the angels would struggle to recognise him. I replace the ball then gently pull Calum towards me and kiss his head. I hold him tight, like I used to when we were children in our box-bed.

‘The end, Sam?’

‘We are more in God’s hands than ever, for there is little left for us to do in this fight.’

‘I am so weary of it.’

‘I know.’

‘I wish I could have seen Sarah and wee Calum again, even just once more.’

‘I know.’

I stroke his long blond hair and we lie without speaking because there are no more words to be said.

The battle seems far away. But it has not forgotten us and soon Hackston rides towards our position.

I watch him in awe – up on that horse, he must be a target for half the soldiers in the king’s army, yet he seems fearless. We sit up when he gets close.

‘Sir,’ I say in a rasping voice, ‘we’re out of powder and shot.’

‘I’ve already sent word up the hill.’

I look ‘up the hill’ to a sight that’s beyond all understanding.

Thousands of Covenanters stand idly watching the carnage taking place in front of them, yet despite our obvious desperate situation we’ve not been relieved by a single man.

They’ve been turned to stone by dispute and distrust. Captain Turnbull rides up, his face red with fury.

‘No one will give us shot or powder! I’ve ridden around begging fellow officers, yet they all say there’s none to spare.’

It’s a testament to Hackston’s character that he retains his composure. ‘Calum and Samuel, run up and down the lines. Tell men to share out their powder and shot. Let them know that there is no more coming and we will soon be finished here.’

With a nod to Calum I rush off, keeping low and stopping at every fifth man to pass on the message. Men swear and curse but readily follow the command. By the time I’ve reached the end of the line our cannon has fallen silent and figures are beginning to run back.

On the bridge, a fierce fight has broken out between our dragoons, led by Hackston, and the King’s Life Guard.

I see that some of the barricade has been pulled away to allow our horsemen to attack the approaching enemy, no doubt with the intention of holding them back while the exhausted men on foot get away.

I load my musket then set off towards the relative safety of our own line.

Firing one ball will make no difference now in defending the bridge, yet to have this for the hand-to-hand fighting that is to come may be much more useful.

I’m still some distance from the main Covenanter army when shouts of alarm make me turn.

Enemy horsemen pour on to the south side of the Clyde and stragglers on foot are their obvious target.

Some Covenanters throw away their unloaded muskets to run faster but it’s a futile gesture for most of them.

I drop to one knee and aim at the rider heading in my direction, his sword held out and urging on his mount with kicks and shouts as if he simply can’t wait another second to kill me.

*?*?*

Violet

There’s a slight rise in the ground off to one side that provides a view of the bridge and of the two armies.

Huddled together with a dozen other women, I watch in horror as the few hundred men who so bravely defended the crossing run to join the main Covenanter force.

Too soon the enemy’s horsemen cross the bridge and gallop after them.

‘Our men are going to be caught and they’re the only ones who’ve fought,’ says a terrified voice nearby.

When it seems that a slaughter is about to occur, hundreds of Covenanters on horseback charge down the hill and quickly drive the outnumbered Life Guards away.

‘The bridge!’ cries another woman.

Large numbers of foot soldiers rush over to the south side of the Clyde, where their lines grow longer with every minute.

‘We’ve lost,’ I say, turning to the others. ‘You should go now. Head back over those fields towards the woods.’

‘What about you?’ someone asks.

‘Almost everyone I love is on that hill. I’m staying.’

‘So am I,’ says another.

‘Me too,’ agrees a third. ‘I wish I had a weapon.’

After standing doing nothing for the last couple of hours, some men hurry down to meet the advancing government soldiers but there seems little co-ordination. Plenty of Covenanters hesitate and all the time more Royalist soldiers join in the fight.

‘Officers are leaving!’ cries a shocked voice behind me.

I look over to see several Covenanters on horseback gallop away, a few forcing apart the formations in their desire to escape and creating even more confusion amongst those on foot. Soon others begin to flee in the same direction.

‘Come on!’ I urge. ‘We can’t stay here, or we’ll become trapped.’

With this we run from our vantage point and are soon surrounded by groups and individuals fighting.

The air is filled with sounds; cries of pain and fear, curses and shouts, those begging for mercy, those calling for their mother.

There are bodies and the injured everywhere.

I quickly lose contact with the other women.

Surprisingly, no one bothers me but then I’m unarmed and men are in such fierce conflict that they only have time to notice the immediate danger in front of them.

I’m trying to reach the area that I believe my father is in.

As I step over a body, the man’s eyes open and he grabs my ankle, giving me such a shock that I cry out.

‘Help me!’ he says.

Blood flows freely from a wound to his side. I kneel next to him, but there is nothing I can do.

‘Don’t let me be taken.’

I try to prise his hands off my ankle. ‘I can’t help you, I’ve got to find my own family.’

‘It’s your duty. Get me away from here.’

His grip is so fierce I have to use both hands to try and force open his fingers.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t stay.’

‘You must.’

People are fighting and dying around us while this stranger and I are locked in an oddly intimate trial of strength. With a desperate cry, I yank my leg away and he looks up at me, pleading now.

‘Please.’

‘I’m sorry.’

I run from him with a terrible feeling of panic growing in my chest. I should not have delayed.

The movement of troops has flowed one way and then another and when I reach the spot where I thought my father should be there is no sign of him or anyone I know.

I’m suddenly alone in the centre of a desperate struggle for survival when I hear a voice – one that used to sing to me as a child, one that taught me about medicine, plants and diseases. Frantically, I try to find the source.

He is there, clearly wounded, fending off a soldier who is attacking viciously with a sword.

I run with no thought of what to do when I reach them.

Scattered on the ground are various weapons and I stop just long enough to snatch up a knife.

As I get nearer, the soldier catches my father in the chest. His sword drops and as he falls to the ground, the private pulls back his arm for a killing blow.

I can’t do anything other than strike at the man’s back.

He cries out in shock and turns quickly, sweeping his sword in a large arc, expecting his attacker to be standing further away.

Before he can react again, I thrust the knife upwards just beyond his chin.

He looks utterly surprised as I push the blade higher and for a brief moment we’re locked together in this embrace of death.

Slowly he sinks to his knees, gurgling horribly. I step away and am about to go to my father when someone charges into me with such force that I’m lifted off my feet before sprawling upon the ground, so stunned that I’m helpless.

‘Violet,’ croaks Father, reaching out his arm.

A huge soldier stands above me with an expression of fury.

I can’t do anything to protect myself and stretch out so that my fingers entwine with those of Father’s.

He smiles. It was his wish to name me Violet, after his favourite flower.

He told me that day when I was six, after I brought home the flowers that Samuel had given me.

Strange that I should think of that now.

The soldier raises his sword, holding it with both hands to drive the point into my chest.

We’ll die together then in the cause we both believe in.

It’s not such a bad way to end. I gaze into Father’s face, happy that this is the last thing I’ll see on earth.

In this moment all the violence and death and hate in the world mean nothing to us as we lie upon that ground. We’ll soon meet again in Heaven.

But nothing happens. Nothing .?.?.

I glance up again, this time to see the soldier above me staring in disbelief at the pike that’s been driven deep into his body. With another push my saviour sends him stumbling away beyond my feet, where he lies motionless.

‘Violet!’

‘Hamish! Father’s badly hurt.’

My brother helps me up, retrieves his pike and stands guard while I try to assess Father’s injuries.

‘Violet,’ Father splutters, blood pooling at the corners of his lips, ‘you can’t do anything. Get away while you can.’

‘No, we’ll stem the bleeding and carry you to safety.’

‘Child .?.?. I’m dying. You’ve done what’s been possible, you and Hamish, Samuel and Calum. Find them and go home. Let others take up the struggle.’

‘I can’t leave you.’

‘Drop it! Do it now or I’ll order my men to fire!’

Four soldiers have surrounded us, pointing muskets at Hamish. They’re just out of reach of his pike. An officer steps up between them, his sword drawn.

‘The Duke of Monmouth has ordered quarter to be given,’ says the officer, ‘but you must drop your weapon or I’ll have no option than to have you shot.’

Hamish looks at me. There’s no way he can win. If we’re out of the fight we can tend to Father. I give him a nod, and my brother throws down the pike.

A couple of soldiers step forward and bind his hands. Around us the fighting seems less intense, as if it’s thinned out and perhaps moved beyond the hill.

‘Father, we can see to your wounds. You’ll survive. I’ll save you.’

But I can’t. He stares at me, but doesn’t see me any more.

He doesn’t see anything.