Midnight Honor

ominous as the sky, for he had made the promise well known throughout the entire camp that he would hang every last one of them by his own hand if they even gave a thought to turning and running from the field this day. He had also heard that his cousin ofteninspired his troops by marching in their ranks, and so, when it came time for him to join his men, he dismounted and handed the reins to an aide, then fell into step beside a regiment of Foot that cheered loudly enough to drown out the timekeeping of the drums.
    Twelve miles later he mounted his horse again and assumed the higher ground on the southeast bank of Drummossie Moor for a vantage point. It was cold and the weather was abominable, but at least the sleet was driving at their backs and not into their faces, as it was for the Jacobites.
    Angus could not help but stare across the field at the howling wall of plaid and steel, wondering at the insanity of so few standing up against so many. Major Hamilton Garner rode past, distracting him momentarily by asking if he had seen Major Worsham that morning. Out of the corner of his eye, Angus saw Ewen MacCardle blow a puff of steam into the misty air, for he had caught up with his captain on the road and casually mentioned the “problem” had been disposed of in the huge pit where the cooks burned their garbage.
    And then there was nothing to distract him as he heard the officers passing up and down the lines, ordering the men to prepare their weapons.
    MacGillivray had ridden straight into a sodden gray curtain of driving rain and sleet that swept from one side of Drummossie Moor to the other and obscured what lay half a mile away on the other side of the field. When the squall passed, he was not the only one who drew back on the reins in shock.
    There were thousands. Eight, nine, maybe ten thousand scarlet-clad soldiers lined up in squared divisions, marching onto the field in perfect precision, like blocks of Roman centurions. Each wore the red tunic and white crossbelts, the knee-high spatterdash gaiters and stiff leather neck stocks. To the right, the first division extended so far it straddled the moor road. Far, far to the left, on an angle that seemed to jut away from the Jacobite front line, divisions of cavalry were standing patient, the animals trained to wait until the artillery did its terrible damage before they thundered out onto the field.
    The Jacobite army was half the size and spread half the length of the moor, even though the chiefs attempted to draw their companies out to give the impression of substance. Lord George was in command of the right wing, comprising Camerons, Stewarts, and his own Athollmen, the last with their collective shoulders butted up against a sod dike that had been extended over the years as the parklands of Culloden spread eastward. It had been another point of contention between the prince and his general that the edges of the field had too many dikes and low stone walls that could encumber the men. The prince argued they would afford some protection; Lord George worried they could become a trap.
    Lord John Drummond had command of the center, and it was here that MacGillivray rode to meet the cheers of the men from Clan Chattan, five hundred strong and near enough to their own lands and homes that they took comfort knowing if they fell on this field of honor, they would not lie alone and forgotten in some faraway unmarked ground.
    The Duke of Perth commanded the left, and had to deal with the thousand-strong MacDonalds of Keppoch, Glengarry, and Clanranald, some of whom had only arrived at Culloden that morning, and were angered over being so far from their traditional place on the right. It was the crusty old Keppoch, swallowing his ire a moment to study the field, who also noticed the left wing was aligned at a skewed angle, making the distance between the two armies as little as five hundred yards at the one end and as much as eight hundred yards at the other. He sent a runner to Lord George to see if this should be corrected, but before he could receive any answer, the first of the prince's mismatched artillery guns was mistakenly fired by a half-asleep gunner.
    Anne had never liked storms; as a child she had thought the sky was cracking apart and would come crashing down over her head while she slept. When the cannonading began, it sounded and felt just like a cataclysmic thunderstorm, and fears she had not thought of for twenty years came back to haunt her. The