Roots in the Ash

Chapter 1 – The Battle

Glen Torridon, Scotland · 1689

The cry came on a summer morning in 1689, carried across the glen by a lone rider whose horse was lathered and heaving, his cloak soaked through.

Torin MacKail stood in the croft doorway, sickle still in hand. Kate was beside him. The younger children gathered behind them, silent now, already sensing the urgency.

The rider slid stiffly from the saddle. His boots struck hard; his breath came ragged.

‘Torin MacKail?’

‘Aye,’ Torin answered.

From beneath his cloak the man drew a sealed parchment, the wax hastily pressed and smudged. Torin broke it open. Inside was a name every Highlander knew — John Graham of Claverhouse. Bonnie Dundee called loyal hearts to arms.

Torin’s jaw set.

His younger brother Malcolm came from the byre, hay clinging to his sleeves, eyes already lit. ‘Then the time’s come,’ Malcolm said.

Kate slipped her hand into Torin’s sleeve while the children watched him.

‘And what of us?’ she whispered.

Torin folded the parchment slowly. ‘We stand with the King. There’s no choice.’

Kate’s eyes shone; she did not weep. She gripped his arm, lowering her voice for the children. ‘Then promise me — promise you’ll come back.’

Torin cupped her face. ‘If God grants me breath, I’ll find my way home.’ Their foreheads touched briefly.

The children could no longer contain their fear.

Fiona wept, Gregor stared at his father in shock, and Ewan stood rigid, trying to appear older than he was.

Within the hour the brothers were mounted. Their claymores caught the weak morning light, and Torin raised a hand in farewell.

Then they were gone — hooves drumming over sodden ground, the croft shrinking behind them until it was swallowed by the hills.

They rode first to the MacKenzie stead, the hall rising dark against the hillside, half-fortified like a statement of pride. Angus MacKenzie himself came to the door, a heavy-shouldered man with a voice like gravel. His sons clustered behind him, wary, hands on dirks.

‘Why should we ride for the Stuarts at a MacKail’s bidding?’ Angus asked. ‘Old disputes aren’t forgotten.’

Torin held his ground. ‘This is no time for grudges. Claverhouse calls. Stand divided, and we fall.’

Angus weighed him for a moment.

‘Five men,’ he said at last. ‘My sons and two cousins. But hear me — cross us again, and there’ll be no second warning.’

Torin bowed his head. ‘Five men may make the difference. I’ll not forget it.’

The road turned westward, to the lands of the MacLeods. Their stead stood bleak on a rise, the sea wind in their tartans. Lachlan MacLeod, a tall man with a weathered face, met them at the threshold, hands folded across his chest.

‘You’ve nerve coming here,’ Lachlan said. ‘Your father’s men raided our cattle two summers past, and your uncle left my cousin bleeding in the heather. Blood lies between us still.’

Malcolm flared. ‘And your raiders never touched MacKail herds? Don’t play innocent. Winters make thieves of us all.’

Torin cut in before tempers broke. ‘Aye, wrongs were done — on both sides. But weigh them against what’s coming. The Williamites march with muskets and cannon. They’ll grind us all underfoot.’

Lachlan’s eyes narrowed. ‘And what profit is there in dying for a Stuart king in exile?’

Torin’s voice hardened. ‘We fight not for James alone, but for the Highlands — our land, our faith. Yield to William, and your sons will plough for Lowland masters while your name is forgotten.’

An older clansman at Lachlan’s shoulder answered first. ‘Better to fight with the MacKails than be driven from our own land altogether.’

Lachlan considered him. ‘Very well. I’ll send ten men and ride with them. When this is over, Torin MacKail, the score between us will still be reckoned.’

Malcolm spat. ‘We’ll settle it then — if we live.’

Torin raised his hand, cutting off the rising heat. ‘We’ll stand together now. For the King, for the Highlands.’

The MacKails rode on with uneasy allies.

At the smaller crofts, men joined them readily. Seed shared in lean years and help given during hard winters were repaid in loyalty, while those unable to fight offered food and charms. By the third day, the two brothers had gathered a rough company of Highlanders.

Ahead, the campfires of Dundee’s host glimmered on the ground near Blair Atholl, within reach of the pass at Killiecrankie. As they drew nearer, the air thickened with the scents of peat smoke, sweat, and iron. Hundreds of tents sprawled across the ground, banners of many clans snapping in the wind. The sound of pipes and drums carried over the valley like a battle already begun.

Torin reined in his horse on a rise. ‘So this is where Scotland’s fate will be forged.’

Malcolm’s eyes shone. ‘Aye — and where we’ll carve our names in it.’

They urged their mounts into the camp, where men prayed, sharpened blades and cleaned muskets while others laughed more loudly than the occasion warranted. Peat smoke, roasting meat and powder hung in the air.

Among the gathering, rivalries flared. At one fire the MacKenzies growled low at the MacLeods.

‘You keep your distance, Raasay dogs,’ one MacKenzie snapped, hand on his dirk.

‘Aye,’ came the retort, ‘or you’ll find we’re sharper company than you can stomach.’

Torin stepped between them, voice firm. ‘The Williamites won’t ask if you’re MacKenzie or MacLeod before they shoot you down. Save your venom for the redcoats.’

There were mutters, but both sides relented, if only for now.

Elsewhere there was warmth. Fergus Callahan greeted Torin with a slap on the back. ‘Your father once pulled me from the river when the ice near took me. I’ll not forget. We’ll fight well at your side.’

The brothers clasped arms with their new allies, grateful for the reminder that not every bond was forged in enmity.

At the camp’s centre stood Dundee’s great tent. Men lowered their voices near it and straightened whenever an officer emerged.

Inside, John Graham of Claverhouse was every inch the leader whispered of in the glens. He was tall, his dark curls spilling past his shoulders, his gaze steady and assessing.

Torin and Malcolm bowed their heads as they were brought before him.

‘You are the MacKails,’ Dundee said, his voice low, with the authority of one accustomed to obedience. ‘I have heard your name from MacLaren — he says your steel runs true.’

Torin straightened, meeting the general’s gaze. ‘We fight for the King, my lord. And for our land.’

A faint smile touched Dundee’s lips. ‘Fine words — but I ask more than words. Can you hold men together when fear bites?’

‘We can,’ Torin replied simply.

Malcolm stepped forward, fire in his tone. ‘We’ll drive the Williamites back to their Lowland holes.’

Dundee’s eyes flicked to him, faintly amused. ‘Bravery burns hot in the young. See that it is tempered, or it will burn you out before the battle’s done.’

Torin inclined his head. ‘We’ll stand where you place us.’

‘Good,’ Dundee said, returning his attention to the map. ‘Hold your men on the braes above the pass. Do not charge until the pipes give the signal.’

As they left the command tent, Malcolm whispered, ‘He’s no common man, that one. I’d follow him to hell itself.’

Torin only tightened his grip on the reins. ‘And hell may be where we’re headed.’

By evening, steel was sharpened and prayers were murmured across the camp. Rival clans continued to watch one another, but for the coming battle they served the same cause. Torin checked the edge of his claymore and looked towards Killiecrankie.

* * *

The morning of 27 July 1689 broke under a pitiless sun. Heat shimmered above the pass. From their position on the braes, Torin and Malcolm looked down into the gorge where the River Garry cut its silver path. Steep wooded hills rose on either side, a natural trap for any army that marched through.

By late afternoon, dust rose in the distance. The Williamites — General Hugh Mackay’s redcoats — were advancing in disciplined ranks, their bayonets glinting. A murmur ran along the Highland line: three — perhaps four — thousand. Their own force — no more than twenty-five hundred — stirred uneasily in the heat.

Dundee rode among them, dark cloak billowing, his words sharper than steel. ‘Hold,’ he commanded, his gaze fixing on Torin and Malcolm. ‘Hold until the pipes give the signal. Then strike like thunder.’

The brothers tightened their grips on claymore and targe. Below, the Williamites wheeled two small cannon into place. Smoke belched as they opened fire, the balls crashing into the hillside. Highlanders crouched lower, muskets at the ready, waiting.

At last, as the sun began to dip and shadows stretched long over the pass, the order came. The pipes screamed into life, their skirl cutting through the evening air. A roar erupted from the hillsides as the Highlanders surged downhill, a living torrent of tartan and steel.

Musket volleys tore into the charge, but the clansmen closed the distance in seconds. Torin felt the ground jar beneath his boots as he crashed into the enemy line, his claymore rising and falling. Steel clashed, men screamed, powder smoke thickened the air.

A Williamite officer lunged at him, blade flashing. Torin parried once, twice, but the third stroke bit into his shoulder. Pain flared white, nearly felling him. Malcolm’s answering roar split the din — he cut down the officer and dragged his brother upright.

Somewhere in the melee a musket cracked and Dundee reeled in the saddle, struck under the arm. He clung to his horse, face pale, but his voice still carried: ‘On, lads, on!’ Blood darkened his doublet as aides rushed him from the field.

The sight spurred the Highlanders to fury. They smashed Mackay’s line; discipline faltered, and soon the redcoats were breaking, stumbling backward towards the river. Panic turned retreat into rout. Many were cut down as they fled, the rest scattering into the gloaming.

Within half an hour, the Williamite line had broken and the survivors were fleeing through the pass. The ground was strewn with Highlanders and redcoats, and the victory had cost more than anyone yet understood.

By evening, word passed through the ranks that Dundee had been struck beneath the arm. Before nightfall, the report was confirmed.

‘The Viscount is gone.’

Men wept, shouted defiance or tended the wounded without speaking. Dundee had held the clans together; without him, no one knew who could command the same loyalty.

Malcolm gripped Torin’s arm. ‘We’ve broken Mackay’s men, but who leads us now? Tonight we are victors. Tomorrow may be different.’

Torin looked across the field, where tartans and red coats lay together among the heather.

‘We can’t stay here,’ Malcolm continued. ‘Williamite patrols will be sweeping the glens. They’ll spare neither croft nor kin.’

Torin pressed a hand against his wounded shoulder. The bandage was already wet with blood, but the thought of Kate and the family waiting at Glen Torridon kept him moving.

‘Come,’ Malcolm said. ‘The living must see to the living.’

Torin followed him north towards home.

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