A single thistle swayed in the wind on that cold April night. Its jagged leaves darkened with spattered blood, alone among the trampled grass and turned sod of the killing ground of Drummossie Moor.
His eyelids closed again. A single tear cut a path through the dirt and dried blood coating his face. The images of grinning, red coated riflemen as they fired their muskets and canon point blank into his valiant countrymen filled his mind‘s eye again. The smell of gunpowder freshly turned soil and blood still thick in his nostrils.
Though struck several times, he had continued to charge through the murderous fire with the rest of the woefully outnumbered and desperate Scots.
They had stopped just yards from the first rank of Cumberland’s men, raised their muskets and loosed a thunderous volley. Then screamed and howled as the first rank of Redcoats withered away like smoke in a gale unnerving the second rank of English. The ferocious highlanders dropped their muskets, drew swords and charged.
They slammed into the second rank with shuddering impact. The desperate highlanders hacked through the second rank only to come face to face with the bayonets and gun barrels of the third.
He remembered lunging forward and howling his defiance as a mounted officer barked out the command to fire.
It was odd but at that moment he was captivated by the surreal beauty of those bright flowering blooms and sheets of fire flashing from that seemingly endless line of troops.
The musket balls struck him like the blows of a smithy’s hammer, the pain giving way to a comfortable numbness as he was thrown backward to land twisted and still among his massacred clansmen.
His body was no longer able to respond as he watched with tear filled eyes. Bonnie Prince Charlie’s brave army was cut down like so much wheat. His breath came in slow labored gasps as he heard the skirl of the pipes and the howling scream of the final highland charge, suddenly silenced forever by volley after volley from musket and cannon.
Slowly he rolled onto his back and stared up into the leaden gray sky, unsure if it was the cold rain or death’s caressing hand that slowly chilled him to the soul. He remembered kneeling and swearing his oath of fealty to the young pretender not a year ago.
How his heart swelled as they won victory after victory, Prestonpans, Falkirk, and the numerous towns and villages on their march to London before turning back to Scotland 130 miles short of their goal and now all that had been won swept away, in less than an hours time. They had gone from heroic patriots to outlawed rebels in the blink of an eye.
A shadow slowly materialized above him. He saw the glint of steel and felt the cold impact of a bayonet being thrust through his body. A tear escaped to run slowly down his cheek to seep away into the soil along with Charlie’s noble cause and the blood of so many of his courageous brothers lying silent and broken among the soft grasses of Drummossie Moor.
His tears began to flow freely as he realized that this was not only the death of their bid to return the Stuart to the throne, but the end of their highland way of life. It took less than an hour to utterly destroy the heroic highland army, to cut down their best and brightest, a massacre from which the highlands would never fully recover.
Cumberland saw to that when he gave the order, no quarter. For the next few hours the English ran down the fleeing highlanders shooting them in the back, bayoneting the wounded and immediately executing those foolish enough to surrender.
As the darkness overcame him he heard nothing except the odd musket shot and the laughter of the English soldiers as they walked the moor now soaked with blood finishing off the wounded. As he slipped into that dark void he wondered if in the coming years any would remember what his countrymen had tried to accomplish and how it all came to a fiery blood soaked halt on that 16th of April 1746.
He opened his eyes again and saw the lone thistle standing proudly in defiance amongst the utter devastation of the battleground. As he watched the tiny flower sway in the night wind he came to the realization that the thistle was truly the Scots flower. A weed that others sought to destroy and be rid of. But though it could be cut, burned and hacked, it survived to flower once more. A hearty bit of God’s creation that refused to be eradicated no matter what the odds. The coppery smell of blood and the stench of exposed entrails, scents of a battle reserved for the vanquished brought him back to reality. The scent of death and butchery hung heavy in the air. The sounds of steel crashing against steel and the screams of the wounded and dying now distant echoes. Only the sobbing of loved ones moving across the moor searching for fathers, husbands and sons could be heard now.
His eyes glowed as a low growl rumbled through the mangled flesh of his chest. Slowly, painfully he rolled to his knees, sniffed at the air heavy with death. His muzzled twitched in the cold night air as he searched the winds for the scent of the men who had carried out this massacre. After all, he had sworn an oath.
He stood slowly, his shirt and kilt still covered in dried blood as if it refused to wash away in the cold rain. He staggered a step or two on unsteady legs, his head low on his shoulders, his visage no longer human, fiercely glowing eyes were deep set in lupine features, large cruel teeth glistened and flashed in the wane moonlight.
Women gasped and shook with fear as a hauntingly mournful howl rolled out of the cold mists covering the moor. They gathered children close and huddled in fear as the shadow loped through the mists, whispering in hushed tones of the Deamhan Madadh-Alluidh, the Demon Wolf.
The four red coated soldiers approached the small cottage, showing little regard for caution. Two circled around to the back and two to the front.
The leader of the small squad pounded on the door and demanded entry in the name of the king. “By order of his majesty, King George, all premises and domiciles are to be searched. Any found harboring or giving aid to the traitor, Charles Edward Stuart or any of his rebels are to be arrested. Open in the name of the king!”
Private Clackburn stood in the darkness at the rear of the cottage gripping his musket in sweaty hands as he listened to his sergeant’s pounding and bellowing voice. He knew the chances of finding the Stuart this close to Culloden were slim to none, but the chances of finding a few coins or a recently widowed wife were very good indeed. His face was painted with a toothy grin at the sound of the cottage door being smashed in. His sergeant never failed to pick the fattest sheep, always able to sniff out coin or a succulent maiden. He felt a slight jolt and looked down. His eyes widened in uncomprehending surprise, not realizing the blood splashing over his hands was his own. He dropped limply to the ground never knowing what had happened.
Private Smith stood at the opposite end of the cottage and turned as he heard something thud to the ground. He called out Clackburn’s name, asking what he had over there. Though dark, he could just make out the shadow coming towards him through the mist. Tightening his grip on his musket he asked, “Clack? What have you got? Did you catch one of the rabbits trying to flee?”
Huge teeth and the head of a large wolf suddenly flashed into view. Strong jaws clamped around his neck before he could raise his weapon.
Smith’s mouth worked feverishly, calling out to his sergeant, but the only sound was the muted thud of his decapitated head striking the soft ground.
