Midnight Honor

ground shook and the planks of the barn trembled.Straw and dirt fell in gritty showers from the rafters. Ten minutes into the incessant pounding, a loose beam crashed to the floor, missing her by a few feet and hastening her decision to move out of doors.
    The wind caught her plaid, tearing it off her head. Freezing rain pelted down at a sharp slant, cutting into her face, making her gelding more skittish than the sound of the guns. She pulled him under the protection of an awning of trees and craned her neck to see through the mist and sleet, unsettled by the sight of huge gray plumes of smoke rising over the vicinity of Drummossie Moor. From half a mile away she could hear the sound of pipers and men screaming their
cath-ghairms
. She had seen them at Falkirk and she could envision them now, the clans stretched across the field in a swirling, turbulent mass of red and green and blue tartans, waiting for the signal from their general to unleash hell on the English lines.
    The prince would be on the high ground, cheering them on. His huge silk standard would be snapping in the wind, and he would be mounted on his white stallion, presenting a regal figure in royal blue and gold, his eyes possibly even streaming tears as they had at Falkirk to see his brave Highlanders charge into battle.
    Anne tilted her head and listened, still hearing the distant cacophony of screams and skirling, but now there was something else familiar. Above the roar of the heavy artillery, she could hear the crackling pop of musketfire. That, too, brought a vision into her mind, of the clans breaking out of their ranks and running forward. The chiefs and lairds would lead the bloodcurdling rush, for the hierarchy of the feudal system dictated the order of honor. They would be followed by landowners and anyone of ranked nobility, then their tenants, then the lower classes of common workers, shepherds, and humblies. The second Jacobite line consisted of the Irish, French, and Royal Foot guard. Here, too, were Lord Elcho's Royal Horse, the cavalry of gentlemen. Their animals had been sorely decimated by the harsh winter and lack of forage, but there were still about a hundred smartly suited officers who would be eager to enter the fray on a signal from their commander.
    Anne stroked The Bruce's neck, feeling the same impatience and excitement shiver through his muscles as she felt in her own. MacGillivray had said to stay away from the battlefield; he had not expressly forbidden her not to find a better vantage point. With that small qualification in mind, she swung herself up into the saddle and nudged the gray into a quick canter, heading for the higher ground beyond the moor road.
    The clans were stunned by the swift and savage damage wrought by Cumberland's artillery. This was the first time they had encountered English gunners, for they had caught their enemy by surprise at Prestonpans, and at Falkirk the cannon had been mired in mud and abandoned when Hawley's troops fled the field.
    At Culloden, they had been rolled onto the moor ahead of any men, and were manned by officers who knew their business. Round after round was loaded and fired with precision, first upon the cluster of mismatched Jacobite guns, unseating them and blowing them to hell within the first ten minutes. Next, the elevation was adjusted and the big black snouts were pointed into the Jacobite front line. The screaming Anne had heard was not so much from the taunts and war cries of the clansmen but from the men who were being torn apart where they stood. The prince, startled to find his own position under heavy bombardment, was forced to move back, but neglected to pass the order first for the chiefs to release their men. By the time he did so, the English gunners had changed to grapeshot—hundreds of tiny lethal balls packed into an exploding shell that sprayed the field like hail, against which there was no defense but the body of the man in front.
    Lord George, furious at the prince's incompetence, unleashed his men without waiting for the royal order. He was followed by Lochiel and Lord Drummond, and so on down the line like a staggered wave. Last to realize the charge had begun were the MacDonalds, who also had the farthest distance to cross, every step of it under the repeated volleys of musketfire exploding from the unmoving and as yet unscathed wall of scarlet-clad soldiers.
    The men of Clan Chattan charged headlong toward Cumberland's front ranks. With