Page 4 of Highland Fire

David imbibed slowly, and without giving the appearance of doing so, made a study of his fair-haired companion.

His cousin had a heroic look about him, the shade of some unknown Viking ancestor.

To David, Rand had always seemed like a storybook character, someone larger than life.

He was romanticizing, and knew it, but even knowing it, he still could not suppress the lingering hero worship that had got its start when he was a boy in short coats and Rand was a leggy adolescent.

More times than he cared to remember, Rand had been held up to him by his father as a model, the paragon of every masculine virtue.

Even the scrapes Rand had fallen into—his duels, his women—had only added to the glamour.

If Rand had been a different kind of a boy, David would have ended up hating him.

As it was, he admired his cousin enormously, and never more so than when Rand had forsworn his life of ease and pleasure-seeking to throw in his lot with Wellington.

They had been a grim four years. His own stint with the Scots Greys was of shorter duration, and he never would have joined the regiment if Rand, all unknowingly, had not exerted a powerful influence.

It was a pity, he was thinking, that his own influence with Rand was almost negligible.

“Now that is what I call an enigmatic smile,” said Rand.

“Was I smiling?”

“More or less. Share the joke.”

“I was thinking how abysmally ignorant we both are about Scotland.”

“What’s to know? It’s where the best hunting and fishing are to be found.”

“There’s more to Scotland than that!”

“Sorry. That was a facetious remark.” Rand sank further into his chair until his neck lolled comfortably on the backrest. “Go on, David. I’m listening. What about Scotland?”

Now that he had Rand’s full attention, David’s confidence ebbed. “Well…you are the chief of Clan Randal. You must understand the problems better than I do.”

“I’m sure I don’t. Those matters relating to my duties as laird and chief are largely in the hands of my solicitors and factor.

Besides, the only problem that concerns me at present is the one out there.

Napoleon Bonaparte. I’ve given the last four years of my life to trying to solve it.

With luck, after tomorrow, I can get back to the real business of living. ”

David leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his thighs, cupping his chin in both hands. “After this is over, what are you going to do, Rand?”

Shrugging negligently, Rand replied, “I haven’t given it much thought. And you?”

“Oh, I’m going back to Scotland. I thought…I thought we might go together, and not just for the hunting and fishing.”

Rand’s look was shrewd, but not unkind. “It’s that girl, isn’t it? She’s made a convert of you?”

“No…That is…we correspond.”

“Do you indeed?” The smile on Rand’s face was still in place, but the warmth had gone out of it.

David stared, then made a small sound of impatience. “For the last time, it’s not what you think it is. The girl and I are friends, nothing more.”

“And for the last time, I shall tell you that I could not care less what the girl is to you.”

“Oh? Then I don’t suppose you would be interested in what I was going to propose?”

“What were you going to propose?”

“That if you care to come to Scotland with me, I’d make it a point of introducing you to the girl. Without betraying her trust,” he added for emphasis.

“You’re on,” Rand said at once, and they both laughed.

What they were thinking was that no one could predict who would survive the morrow’s carnage.

At two o’clock of the afternoon, in the thick of battle, General Picton ordered his Scottish infantry forward to a line of holly hedges which concealed them from their advancing French counterparts.

It was a tense moment. On his signal, they rose in formation and emptied three thousand muskets into enemy lines at point-blank range.

The French were taken completely off guard and wavered.

“Charge! Charge!” roared Picton, pressing his advantage.

At that precise moment, an enemy bullet found its mark and Picton fell dead from his horse.

Sir William Ponsonby, commanding the Union Brigade, saw at once what was afoot.

The order was given and the twelve hundred horse and men of the heavy cavalry began to get into position.

Rand looked over his Scots Greys. They were a fearsome spectacle—row upon row of redcoats, with their distinctive bearskin hats with white plumes, and to a man mounted on immense white chargers.

As the shrill bugle call rang out, Rand transferred his saber to the ready position, up and forward over his mount’s neck. The Greys broke into a walk and then a trot. “Don’t fail me, Hotspur, don’t fail me,” he murmured and dug in his spurs as the bugle sounded the charge.

Their horses took the hedges like hunters and at full gallop, gathering momentum, charged down the incline to where the hand-to-hand fighting was going on.

As they swept past their own infantry, some of Picton’s kilted Highlanders, maddened by the death of their leader, reached for their stirrup leathers.

Hoisting themselves up, they were carried into the thick of the fray as the Greys chased down the enemy.

The air reverberated with the sounds of bagpipes, bugles, cannon fire, and the earth-shattering thunder of a thousand hoofbeats.

“Scotland forever!” The cry was taken up and rang out above the tumult.

And then, another cry arose from the young Highlander who had attached himself to Rand’s stirrup.

“For Randal and for Scotland! For Randal and for Scotland!” A moment later, the French flank retreated in disorder under the crushing impact of the Greys, and the Highlander threw himself after them.

“For Randal and for Scotland!” Saber slashing, Rand roared the exultant battle cry. It stirred something in him, some latent pride in name and race that he had never before experienced, as though in this one moment in time, the honor of all the Randals in every generation resided in him.

By now all was pandemonium. Bonaparte’s infantry was in full flight.

Skirmishes and hand-to-hand combat were breaking out all over the field.

And still the Greys pushed on, maddened by the French guns and the appalling slaughter they inflicted on their ranks.

Like a frenzied mob, they ignored the bugle blast which sounded the recall.

Rand heard the bugle call and recognized the danger.

Soon, the Greys would be cut off from their own lines.

Officers were attempting to halt the stampede of their dragoons to no avail.

One lightning glance over Rand’s shoulder revealed David Randal forcing back his men with the flat of his saber.

There was no time to ascertain whether or not David’s ploy was successful.

Digging in his spurs, Rand sent his mount flying to the head of the charge.

“Are you deaf? Obey the trumpet!” He was roaring at the top of his lungs as he tried to turn his men. “Retreat! Retreat! Else the French will have us in a vise.”

As men reluctantly gave way and wheeled their mounts, they saw them—a horde of French lancers swinging down in a circle to cut off their retreat.

Their powerful black horses were rested and straining at their bits.

The huge grays were spent. The battle was unequal and men knew it.

Ever afterward, the survivors of the coming confrontation would swear that for a second, a fraction of a second, a deathly, palpitating silence held men motionless before both sides gave the order to charge.

The shock of that charge was felt by appalled spectators as they watched from a ridge.

The French lancers were deadly, and the Greys could hardly hold up their sabers to ward off their attacks.

Then the red tunics of the Greys were swallowed up as the green-coated lancers ringed them in for the kill.

Unhorsed, his bearskin cap blown off his head by a burst of grapeshot, Rand fought like a madman. When his saber broke and he had emptied his pistol, he knew his time had come. As a lancer bore down upon him, he let out a blood-curdling roar, then yelled the ancient Randal battle cry.

That cry was answered by David Randal. Racing hell-for-leather up the corpse-strewn slope toward the French batteries, from low in the saddle, he took aim and fired. A lancer was blown off his horse’s back and fell grotesquely into the churned-up mud.

Half-crouched over his mount, David reached down and grasped Rand’s right arm. “Up!”

Rand needed no second bidding. He vaulted into the saddle behind his cousin. What the hell! he was thinking. We’re all done for.

He was mistaken. A wave of Uxbridge’s light dragoons attacked the French from the rear. As the way opened back to the British lines, men and horses found their second wind and sprang forward. Those who returned were welcomed with frenzied zeal.

Not a half-hour had passed since the start of the engagement.

Less than half of the Greys had returned.

The battle was a long way from over and already the field was littered with thousands of corpses.

Rand’s expression was grim. He was thinking of comrades whose faces were not among those riders who were dismounting around him.

“David!”

David Randal slipped from the saddle and fell on his knees in a heap.

Rand jumped down and went to assist him.

When he turned him over, he could see the spreading stain on the scarlet, mud-spattered tunic, see the rose-red droplets on his own white gauntlets and on the injured man’s white breeches.

For a moment, horror held him speechless.

“When did this happen?” He was signaling to orderlies to come and help him.

David’s eyelashes were fluttering. “I took a bullet,” he got out hoarsely, “when I turned back for you.”

“Why did you do it?” Rand’s throat was working.

He could see that there was no hope, yet his mind refused to accept it.

It couldn’t end like this, not for David.

He, Rand, was the real soldier. David was a poet.

Rand was seasoned by years of active service.

This was David’s first major engagement.

If there was any justice in this world, their positions would be reversed.

Gripped by remorse, Rand cradled the dying man in his arms. When he spoke next, his voice was a little steadier. “If you were not so confoundedly indisposed, as your commanding officer, I would be raking you over the coals. Why didn’t you obey the trumpet?”

He looked up as an orderly approached. The man did not linger. With a sober look at Rand, shaking his head, he moved off to answer another call.

David’s eyes focused on Rand’s face. “I…did it for…Randal…and for Scotland.”

“I wish I had never uttered that inane battle cry,” Rand said, trying to make light of it.

The knowing half-smile in the chalk white face wrenched at Rand’s heart. He had to bend down to catch David’s next words. “The girl is…a Randal…a Randal of Glenshiel.”

“Miss Randal of Glenshiel?”

David nodded, then a second or two later, “You’ll go to her…take care of her?”

“We’ll go together, just as we planned to do.”

“Together? I wish…”

“What do you wish, David?”

For a long moment, David struggled to get the words out. “You’ll go to her?” His voice was very faint. He closed his eyes and his head sank upon Rand’s breast.

“I swear it!” Rand was never to know whether or not David heard his impassioned avowal.