Page 9 of A Fire in Their Hearts

We practised this during our few days of training and throw ourselves forward to lie with faces, limbs and bodies hugging the earth as though we want to disappear under the grass and be part of the soil.

We do this in those few crucial seconds between an officer shouting ‘Fire’ and the inevitable delay there is before the muskets discharge.

The air above my head shimmers and in my chest I feel the shock of so many weapons fired together.

Something plucks at my jerkin, followed by a sharp sting down my back.

Either side of me there are cries from those hit, either because they were too slow or merely unlucky.

‘Up! Up!’ shouts Captain Arnot.

We jump to our feet to find that the enemy has all but disappeared behind a thick haze of blue-grey smoke.

It’s almost impossible to see an individual figure.

Our own muskets, few as they are, send their balls of lead down the hill then, orders or no orders, we’re charging after them with such fierce determination it’s as though we intend to catch up with every single one.

We run with the knowledge that we’ll win this battle because the enemy fights for a man they’ve never met, who only sits on the Scottish throne because his father or uncle or brother once sat there, and so it goes back in time and will go forward in time and all of them will one day be dust. But we fight for God – and He is in our hearts and daily lives and has never been a stranger.

If I die today it will be for a freedom that is every Scotsman’s right, and I will face any danger for my family and friends and those in the Kirk to have that freedom.

My long legs take me near the lead, the halberd in my hands stretching out its deadly point.

The dense smoke is to our benefit, for the enemy doesn’t realise we’ve charged until we’re so close it’s impossible for them to defend themselves quickly.

Most of the musketeers are in the process of reloading and stare with shock as we burst into view like demons emerging from the underworld.

I aim at a particular figure but as I race the last few yards his features become clear; and he is so young, just a boy, like Calum, holding out his discharged musket towards me with unpractised, shaking hands. He hasn’t even fitted the plug bayonet or turned the weapon around to use as a club.

He speaks to me in the instant before the rusty iron tip of my halberd pierces his skin with such force that the boy is thrown backwards into the man behind.

My momentum carries us on. The spike goes deeper into the boy’s chest. He’s still speaking as I wrench it out and face the soldier behind, who has regained his balance and comes at me with a sword.

For the present, the six-foot shaft gives me an advantage and I simply lunge.

His blade hits my weapon, which deflects it slightly so that the spike pierces the side of his stomach, but it’s likely a killing blow and when he falls to the ground, I ignore him.

Just in time. Out of the corner of my eye there is a flash of metal – I raise the halberd like a staff to take the blow intended for my head on the shaft.

The force embeds the sword into the wood, and in this brief opportunity, I kick my opponent in the knee as hard as I can. He cries out in pain as I try to headbutt him. It’s a foolish mistake, for I’m too tall. We’re becoming hemmed in, so I let go of my weapon and retrieve my dirk.

The exact moment he frees his sword, I stretch to my full extent, aiming for his face, by good fortune piercing his eye.

It’s enough to render him helpless and the blade that was hammered upon a forge by my ancestor proves its sharpness when it’s driven into his stomach.

I push the dying man away, grab his sword and straighten up with only a heartbeat of time to prevent my skull being split in half.

Nothing in the world could have prepared me for this.

No words or training or descriptions or sermons.

We are all of us in Hell and the Devil stands at our shoulders and laughs.

Men cry out for their mothers. Men shit themselves.

Men die. There’s so much blood you can taste it in the air.

Men step over bodies in order to kill some more without hesitation or mercy.

My world shrinks until it’s nothing beyond the face of my next opponent . .?. until I’m no longer Samuel Colvil.

I don’t think I’m even human any more.

A hand takes hold of my arm and I’m already turning with my dirk when the figure shouts into my face.

‘Samuel! It’s George .?.?. George! We have to run.’

‘What! We can’t retreat now.’

‘We’ve no choice. Look!’

I follow his outstretched arm and in that instant everything changes.

God is not letting us win this battle. Dalyell has sent his entire cavalry into our right flank, swamping our own horsemen.

Covenanters are being cut down like wheat under the blade of a farmer’s scythe.

We have seconds to escape. I’m about to say I can’t leave without Hamish when he appears by our side, having also seen the danger.

‘Run!’ I shout. ‘Don’t stop for anything.’

And the three of us tear back through the throng of dead bodies, dying men and those still fighting. Scores of Covenanters are scattering in all directions, some chased by soldiers, others by those on horseback.

‘This way,’ I shout, having made a snap decision on where to head. ‘Throw away your weapons.’

Speed is our potential saviour and Hamish and I are fleet of foot, soon outpacing the older men ahead.

We gradually leave behind the noise of battle and the sound of pursuit.

The light is fading when we finally collapse upon the ground, unable to speak for many minutes because of our exhaustion and shock.

I’m surprised to see that the Colvil family dirk is still in my hand, the intricate carvings obscured by a hideous gore.

My fingers have locked and I have to prize them open to free the handle.

‘What’s happened to George?’ asks Hamish eventually.

I look around, half expecting to see him catching up, but realise I haven’t been aware of his presence since we left the battle. In fact, I think we’ve been alone for quite a while.

‘I guess he couldn’t keep up. I hope he’s found shelter somewhere and gets away. There should be enough darkness for cover but sufficient moonlight for travel. Hamish, your clothes have blood on them. Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Sam .?.?. you’re soaked in it. You must be hurt somewhere?’

‘I can’t feel anything.’ I check my body and limbs but don’t find any obvious injury. We are both shivering. ‘We can’t stay here.’

‘Where do we go?’

‘Most Covenanters will probably go west, heading straight for home.’

‘That’s where we should go.’

‘No, that’s what the soldiers will expect. They’ll be hunting for days in that direction. We’ll go north, then work our way towards Ayrshire from wherever we find ourselves.’

‘Will we get back, Sam?’

‘God willing.’

Hamish shakes his head, looking so utterly downcast. When he speaks it’s with a bitterness I’ve never heard from him before.

‘I killed a man, Sam. As he lay dying at my feet, he started to cry. I’ve never heard a sound so awful. It didn’t feel that this was part of a great cause in God’s name.’

I don’t know what to say to him, don’t even know what to say to myself.

‘Come on, Hamish,’ I say eventually. ‘Unless we find shelter we’ll have to keep moving throughout the night or the cold will finish us off.’

Our bodies, and our souls, weigh so heavily that we have to force ourselves to stand, then, walking into the approaching night and whatever fate awaits us, we head north.