Full passage
It wasn’t long before the orders came to march towards Sheriffmuir. The night before the battle, Don gathered his brothers in their tent, the cold stone walls casting long shadows as the fire crackled before them.
'You know what’s coming tomorrow,' Don said, his voice low but steady. 'We fight, but we fight with our eyes open. This isn’t the war of glory you’ve heard about, it’s the war of survival. If we survive tomorrow, it’s because we’re smarter, faster, and luckier than the rest of them. Keep your heads, and stay close. We fight as one.'
Callum, ever eager, grinned wide, the excitement danced in his youthful eyes. 'We’ll show them what the MacKails are made of, Don. You’ll see — we’ll win.'
Willie’s face was more sombre. 'I’ve seen men fight before. I’ve heard the sounds — heard the screams. Don, is it really worth it?'
Don hesitated, meeting his brother’s gaze. 'I don’t know, Willie. But what’s the alternative? Sitting here, waiting to starve or be crushed by the Redcoats? We have to try.'
They spent the night in the shadow of their campfires, awaiting the dawn.
The Battle of Sheriffmuir came swiftly, and the world broke into noise. Steel struck steel. Muskets cracked through the smoke. Men shouted orders that were lost almost as soon as they left their mouths. The MacKail brothers fought close together at first, bound less by discipline than by instinct and blood.
Don shouted commands above the din, trying to keep the line from buckling. Willie fought close on one side, while Callum pressed forward with the fierce eagerness of youth. His face was set, his eyes bright with the terrible certainty of a boy who had not yet learned what battle truly cost.
‘Callum, stay close!’ Don shouted.
But the smoke swallowed him.
For a few moments Don saw only flashes: Callum’s blade rising, a redcoat falling back, the wild turn of his brother’s head as someone called his name. Then a musket fired at close range. Callum stumbled as if the ground had shifted under him, his sword slipping from his hand.
Don forced his way through the press of men and dropped beside him.
‘Callum!’
The wound was already darkening his shirt. Don pressed both hands against it, though some part of him knew there was nothing to be done.
Callum’s pale face turned towards him, and a weak smile touched his mouth. ‘We’re winning, right?’
Don swallowed hard. Around them, men still fought and fell; the whole field seemed to tilt between victory and ruin.
‘Aye,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘You’ve done well. Rest now.’
Callum’s breath left him quietly. His body slackened in Don’s arms, and for one dreadful moment the battle seemed to fall away, leaving only the weight of his brother against him.
Willie stood frozen, white-knuckled, his innocence broken in the space of a heartbeat. Don seized his arm and dragged him back into motion.
‘Stay with me,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens, stay with me.’
Sheriffmuir ended without the clear victory the men had imagined. Some claimed triumph; others spoke of failure. To Don, the argument meant nothing. Callum was dead, and the cause had swallowed him without even knowing his name.