Midnight Honor

could not be coaxed up the unstable slope in spite of a steady stream of colorful invectives.
    When Angus heard the haunting strains of the MacKintosh
piob rach'd
, half of him wished he were standing alongside the golden-maned MacGillivray.
    The other half prayed.
    He had searched the moor, the ravine, the surrounding slope for a glimpse of Anne, but he had not seen her—not until the very last, when Hardy, at his wits' end, had been about to drag his master from the field to avoid being seen and shot out of hand.
    Anne had arrived with the men of Clan Chattan, but after securing their position on the battle line and delivering some words of encouragement, she had ridden reluctantly to the rear, where the prince stood with his royal guard. Angus prayed harder than he ever had in his life that she would remain there, surrounded by a phalanx of Highlanders whose sole responsibility it was to protect Charles Stuart and his entourage with their lives.
    Three regiments of dragoons gained the moor first, followed by twelve battalions of Hawley's veteran frontline troops, withthe general's artillery lagging well behind. Despite the far superior firepower of their heavy guns, they were able to haul only two four-pounders and one smaller “grape-thrower” that might just as well have been left in the bog with the others.
    The infantrymen were hardly better off. The rain soaked through their paper cartridges and wet their powder, so that when it came time to unleash their first volley, one in three muskets misfired.
    Hawley was furious but not daunted. He put his faith in his dragoons and ordered the drums to beat, sending nearly three hundred mounted Horse into a full charge.
    Facing them down, their lines holding steady, the Jacobites nervously fingered the triggers of their muskets, one eye on the thundering wall of approaching horseflesh, the other on Lord George Murray, who walked up and down the line encouraging the men to hold their positions, ordering them not to fire until he gave the signal. He, like every other clan chief, was fighting on foot that day.
    He waited until the screaming dragoons were ten yards away before raising his musket and signaling the steady line of clansmen to fire. In the deafening noise and smoke-filled discharge of a thousand guns, the dragoons balked. Their lines broke apart in wild confusion, with half their number dead in their saddles. Those who kept coming forward discovered why the Highlanders had remained so calm: Not twenty feet in front of their lines there was a deep rift in the ground that the rain and mist had obscured and where, lying in wait at the bottom of the trough, there were more Highlanders with pikes and
clai' mórs
ready to slash at the exposed undersides of the horses.
    Hearing the screams of the startled soldiers who were pulled down out of the saddles and slashed to bloody ribbons, what was left of Hawley's cavalry turned and fled the field. Major Hamilton Garner, hatless and splattered with the bloody brains of a fellow officer, managed to turn a handful back through the threat of his own screams and slashing sword, but for the most part it was a repeat of their shameful performance at Prestonpans. So eager and desperate were the dragoons to clear the field, they trampled back through theadvancing ranks of their own infantry, causing an even greater crush of confusion and panic.
    On the left, the Highland regiments led by the Camerons, the Appin Stewarts, and the MacKintoshes took aim and discharged their muskets in response to the first full volley of the opposing divisions of Hawley's infantrymen. As the general had boasted, the line was impressive, once assembled. Their tunics glowed scarlet through the haze of rain, providing well-marked targets between the stiff white leather of their neck stocks and the tall white spatterdash gaiters.
    By contrast, the Highlanders in their muted plaids and plain woolen coats blended into the browns and grays of the surrounding moorland, and with nothing to aim at, most of the royalist volleys went wild.
    As was their habit, the clansmen threw down their spent weapons and ran forward, the air filled with centuries-old battle cries that had carried their ancestors to meet their fate. When what remained of the Hanover front line saw them charging out of the mist and smoke, their broadswords raised overhead, the infantrymen were not far behind the dragoons in breaking rank. As they ran they took the second line with them, and