Page 8 of A Fire in Their Hearts

F EELINGS OF HOPE AND DESPAIR , certainty and doubt hang about the camp as sharply as the fierce early morning frost, each competing with our hunger and cold for attention.

In the end, we marched to Edinburgh not to make war but to present the Covenanters’ demands to the Privy Council: the king is not the head of the Church of Scotland and cannot use his bishops to force Presbyterians to worship in ways that go against their beliefs.

It had been anticipated that our arrival would result in a great uprising of support within the city, which would force the authorities to listen.

However, the three messengers sent yesterday were not even permitted entry through the gates.

There’s been no uprising, no hordes of volunteers rushing out to join us, no supplies of food or weapons.

In fact, at first light there was a skirmish between our watchmen and a small detachment of government soldiers, who fortunately withdrew quickly.

We’re alone, our company comprising mainly of the nine hundred who set out from the Bridge of Doon. Along the journey, some have added to our numbers with loud acclaim while others have slipped quietly away or simply not been able to keep up, and now the total is much the same.

To add to our distress, we’ve been pursued by a Royalist army believed to be headed by Sir Thomas Dalyell of the Binns, Commander-in-Chief of the king’s army in Scotland and a fierce enemy to face.

So far we’ve managed to stay ahead of them, but with no help coming from the capital, the story going around is that we’re about to break camp and head west, back towards an area where there is greater support for the cause.

‘What are you thinking?’ asks Hamish.

‘I don’t know what to think,’ I say. ‘We’ve come all this way, not just in distance, only to head back to where we started and, when we get there, more than likely disperse so that there’s no army for the bastards to chase.’

‘Can we win if it comes to a fight?’

Hamish always expects me to have answers that I can’t possibly know. He was the same when we were children, even though I’m only three months older.

‘Look around us. Most of those who don’t work the land are weavers, shoemakers, bakers and carpenters.’

‘But we’re fighting to restore Jesus to his rightful place as head of the Kirk. God must be on our side.’

‘That doesn’t mean God will ensure we win a battle if it comes to it. He may well want to test us more.’

Hamish falls silent, then says quietly, ‘I miss Violet.’

For a moment I’m lost for words. In so many ways, Violet is like a beacon of light in our lives.

Our mothers may feed and care for our families and our fathers are the heads of them, but we’re drawn to Violet like moths to a candle, and she is all the brighter for not realising how her love captivates us all.

I put a hand on Hamish’s shoulder. ‘So do I. If events turn against us, then we must do everything we can to survive and fight another day. Don’t get captured or you’ll likely be transported to America or the West Indies, and I’m not brave enough to tell Violet such news.

’ I cuff him gently on the head. ‘And don’t get hurt. ’

‘I’ll try not to,’ he says, attempting to smile but failing.

George approaches, trailed by several others. ‘It’s time to pack up,’ he says, the urgency in his voice obvious. ‘We’re heading home as fast as we can.’

‘The Royalist army?’ asks Hamish, in alarm.

‘No sign of them,’ says Cornelius, ‘and Colonel Wallace is trying to keep it that way. Whatever you need, collect it and get moving.’

*?*?*

We don’t make it. Our mounted scouts reported that the main Royalist army would have been directly in our path on our original route, so we’ve headed east and south in an attempt to use the Pentland Hills as cover to get around them.

However, by late morning we had to stop for men to rest and let stragglers catch up.

Hamish and I have stayed close to the men we’ve befriended.

Alexander knows the area, which is apparently called Rullion Green.

Around noon our scouts drive off a small force of government cavalry and with our presence discovered, Colonel Wallace orders us into formations on the slopes of Turnhouse Hill, men on foot stretched out in lines in the middle and those on horseback protecting our left and right flanks.

It’s not long before the enemy appears and forms up along the slope of a hill facing us, with an unoccupied glen between the two sides.

Most Covenanters stand watching, although there are plenty sitting, a few eating some saved cheese or bread, perhaps thinking it might be their only chance to have it, maybe their last meal.

Some men jeer and shout insults, which are returned in kind by those facing us.

How strange it is to so naturally consider fellow Scotsmen the enemy.

‘What are we waiting for?’ asks Hamish.

‘We hold the high ground,’ replies George, ‘and Wallace won’t want to give up that advantage. What we’re seeing is only the vanguard of the king’s army and they won’t want to come charging up here until the main body has arrived.’

‘So we wait?’ I say.

‘Perhaps not without some encounters,’ says Alexander, who’s looking over to the enemy’s left.

Opposite, about fifty men on horses are moving away from the foot soldiers, heading slowly south. To our right a similar number of Covenanter horsemen mirror their position, each group riding along the side of the hill they possess.

‘They’re trying to turn our flank, but they won’t succeed because there’s not enough of them,’ says Cornelius.

There’s no one sitting down eating now and we gaze in a fascinated silence at the events unfolding before our eyes. When the two troupes of horsemen reach flatter ground, they spread out and fire a mixture of carabines and pistols.

‘They’re too far apart,’ says George.

As if to confirm the accuracy of his comment, and the inaccuracy of the weapons, none of the riders appears to be hurt by this exchange, and moments later the two groups charge over the open ground, swords drawn and their shouted battle cries carrying clearly to those on the hills.

Captains Paton and Arnot are there and I hope they make it safely back.

‘For king and country!’

‘For God in Heaven!’

The horsemen on both sides are experienced soldiers.

Labourers, craftsmen and those too young to call any trade their own stare in horror at the carnage that unfolds before us.

Blades clash, they bite into flesh and sear gashes across bodies while men scream in pain, fear and hate.

I can barely breathe because of the tension in my body, for the truth is that Hamish and I wouldn’t last a single minute against such opponents.

Men fall – dead or too injured to remain in the saddle – and in the mayhem they’re trampled upon, whether friend or foe.

Desperate to avoid hooves, a few crawl along the hard earth, still covered in frost where the sun hasn’t reached .

.?. now turning red. Others ride slowly away, hanging on with their last strength in an attempt to reach the safety of their own lines.

The fighting is beyond anything that the majority of us have ever witnessed.

Some of the sword skill of the officers is astonishing.

‘How can Scotsmen end up on such opposite sides?’ says George. ‘You would think we worshipped a different God.’

No one answers. Gradually there are fewer horsemen able to continue and then suddenly the government soldiers break away.

A couple are injured in that brief moment of retreat when they’re still close enough to their foes to be reached by the tip of a weapon.

About a dozen Covenanters chase after them, but they quickly give up when they’re within musket range of the enemy soldiers.

‘That was the most awful sight I’ve ever seen,’ says Hamish.

‘Be prepared, lad,’ says George. ‘It’ll be worse when we’re fighting on foot.’

Whatever Hamish and I imagined we were heading towards in the early days of leaving our families, it wasn’t this. We had faith and belief and perhaps a little courage, but no idea of the reality.

As the afternoon wears on, the main bulk of the government army arrives, spreading out along the flat land in front of the bottom of Turnhouse Hill. With their appearance, the soldiers who’ve been opposite us for several hours come down from their position.

‘Sam,’ says Hamish.

‘I see them.’

‘There are thousands.’

‘I see them.’

Like most of us, they wear knee-length breeches with stockings, plus short jackets and a mixture of hats.

Some groups are dressed identically, indicating that they’ve been raised by a particular commander who has paid for their clothing and arms. These men know what they’re doing as they form up, row upon row, and begin to load their muskets with a confidence that stems from experience.

Terror creeps towards us like a mist of madness, and when it reaches the toes of the Covenanters at the front, the terror crawls up their legs and moves on to the next row.

It consumes them. Up and down the lines, men hurriedly take out their cocks to piss where they stand, a few have to drop their breeches.

No one comments. It’s as if nobody sees what the man next to him is doing.

‘Steady, lads,’ says George, who’s kept close to us. ‘The waiting is the worst bit.’

We hear the orders from the enemy’s officers loud and clear, and soldiers blow on the lighted cords used to ignite their muskets.

Moments later, we’re faced with a black wall of muzzles which any second will fire thousands of lead balls, each one capable of killing a man or causing terrible injury and a slow, agonising death.

I’ve never wished more to be with Violet, surrounded by heather on our hill, so removed from all this hate.

Captain Arnot, who returned unharmed from the earlier encounter, picks his moment precisely when he screams, ‘Down! Get down!’