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  MALCOLM

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor (No. 16)

  By Cathy MacRae

  www.cathymacraeauthor.com

  AMAZON KDP EDITION

  PUBLISHED BY

  Short Dog Press

  Malcolm © 2015 Short Dog Press

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor © 2015 L.Lytle

  All rights reserved

  DEDICATION

  To fellow whisky lovers everywhere.

  Read with abandon,

  Drink responsibly.

  Out of the frying pan and into the fire

  Malcolm Sinclair believes himself to be the only Jacobite soldier in the Earl of Cromartie’s regiment who escaped the devastating defeat at the hands of the Sutherlands at Little Ferry on 15 April, 1746. Approaching Inverness, alone and nearly frozen, he joined with a group of Frasers, only to face the Government forces—and his death—on Culloden Moor, 16 April, 1746.

  Restless and haunted by the terrible tragedies that encompassed the last 36 hours of his life, Malcolm jumps at the chance to do a heroic deed and escape the moors—and hopefully the demons that lurk in his mind—forever.

  But he didn’t realize the damsel-in-distress would be a despised Sutherland …

  BOOKS IN THE SERIES

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor

  1. The Gathering (by LL Muir)

  2. Lachlan (by LL Muir)

  3. Jamie (by LL Muir)

  4. Payton (by LL Muir)

  5. Gareth (by Diane Darcy)

  6. Fraser (by LL Muir)

  7. Rabby (by LL Muir)

  8. Duncan (by Jo Jones)

  9. Aiden (by Diane Darcy)

  10. MacBeth (by LL Muir)

  11. Adam (by Cathy MacRae)

  12. Dougal (by LL Muir)

  13. Kennedy (by LL Muir)

  14. Liam (by Diane Darcy)

  15. Gerard (by LL Muir)

  A NOTE ABOUT THE SERIES

  Although the individual stories of Culloden’s 79 need not be read in strict order, The Gathering should definitely be read first to understand what’s going on between the Muir Witch and these Highland warriors from 1746.

  The Reckoning, Number 79’s story, will finish the series.

  The names of Culloden’s 79 are historically accurate in that we have used only the clan or surnames of those who actually died on that fateful day. The given names have been changed out of respect for those brave men and their descendants. If a ghost happens to share the entire name of a fallen warrior, it is purely accidental.

  MALCOLM

  CHAPTER ONE

  This night was different from the countless ones before it. Malcolm could feel it in his ghostly bones. He’d waited what seemed like forever for Soni to take notice of him. Of course, he’d been waiting nearly two hundred and seventy years to get out of the aimless, drifting space between life and death, and a few days more or less shouldn’t matter.

  But it did. He wanted to get away. Yearned to breathe the air and walk the moors without fearing the sudden memories of battle. To spend one day, just one day, without falling to the ground in helpless surrender to the horrors that stalked his mind, the lingering effects of war.

  Mists lay heavy on the ground as the cool summer night blended with the lingering warmth of the day past. The ghosts Soni hadn’t yet sent on their quest idled about the campfire, some in huddled groups of two or three, others alone as they pondered some memory from their past. A few had not yet risen from the misty moor, but they were those who rarely left their graves.

  Malcolm recalled the night of summer solstice only a few days earlier when their charming mascot, Soncerae, who was obviously something other than just a precocious child who could see ghosts, had arrived with her proposal. It had been a beautiful night full of promise for one such as him who lived only partly behind the veil that separated the living from the dead. He could remember few times he had felt so alive since the fateful day that had ended his life on Drumossie moor in 1746. The solstices were like that, though, breathing a new awareness in his soul, though he’d felt no premonition of things to come.

  This time, however, Soni—as they called her—offered them the gift they all longed for—to step past the veil and emerge among the living again, even if only for a short time. And the added boon! To say what was on each man’s mind to their illfated leader, Bonnie Prince Charlie. And perhaps free Malcolm at last of the disquieting memories that plagued him.

  Malcom’s view of Culloden was crystal-clear, even in the dark of a moonless night, for nearly three hundred years of memories—intrusive, distressing—haunted him. The waning sliver of moon—as it had been that fateful night in 1746—was quick to trigger his memory. Even the pervasive aroma of the damp moor recalled to mind the odor kicked up by churning boots charging through the mud. Some days he woke to the tourist-filled day-to-day life on Culloden’s battlefield, but on others, at the whim of sound or circumstance, he relived the horror of war and defeat. The other 78 ghosts who shared the moor took care to avoid him on those days. Only the wee ghost Rabby and his equally ghostly dog, Dauphin, dared to venture near, and the sight of the dog’s head as it rested companionably on his thigh, comforted him. But Rabby and Dauphin had stepped through the veil long days ago, leaving an enormous black hole in Malcolm’s heart that threatened to consume him. His fingers twitched, nervous to be alone on the moor should a fit of memory take him. He stared into the night, wondering what a difference Soni’s challenge would make. Stars winked overhead and the moon sent its cold white light across the moor.

  This night he saw it as it was the day of 16 April, 1746, when Jacobites stood, hungry and weary and cold, against the bloody English. He had escaped death only the day before when his regiment, led by the Earl of Cromartie, was set upon by Government forces and the Earl of Sutherland’s stragglers.

  Fresh from the success of capturing a French ship said to be laden with gold and arms, the Earl of Cromartie had ordered his men to Dunrobin Castle, the Earl of Sutherland’s home. The Earl was known to be in league with the English. His wife, however, was sympathetic to the Jacobites.

  With the luck of the devil himself, the Earl of Sutherland barely escaped the Jacobites through a back door of the castle. Declaring Dunrobin Castle now in the hands of the Jacobites, the Earl of Cromartie toasted the Countess with a goblet of rather fine wine before he and his troops departed to rejoin Prince Charles’ forces at Inverness.

  Heady with their victories, Malcolm and his comrades-in-arms trudged onward, somewhat envious of the officers who lagged farther and farther behind, astride their horses. But there was little concern, for surely the mounted lads offered a swift measure of protection should the need arise. And all believed the Earl of Sutherland’s men to be completely routed and no danger to the brave Jacobite soldiers.

  But some Sutherlands remained in the hills, and when General Louden’s men attacked the marching Jacobites in the gap between the officers and soldiers, the Sutherlands quickly joined the fight, capturing most of the straggling officers. Many of the Jacobite soldiers were killed, the rest driven into the waters of Loch Fleet where many drowned. Malcolm, a strong swimmer who had grown up in the far northern reaches of Sinclair land, had surfaced some distance away, lingering in the bitterly cold water until he thought he would perish, watching as the Government forces marched what remained of his regiment away.

  Scarcely able to move from the cold freezing the very marrow of his bones, surrounded by bodies floating in the icy water, the cries of his fallen friends ringing in his ears, he crept away and silently joined the only other brethren he knew—the Jacobite army near Inverness.

  He found himself in a regiment of Frasers, and huddled gratefully near the fire as dawn’s first streaks lit the horizon. They were quickly mustered, forming
up near the right flank on the front line amid grumblings that the battle should have been fought the night before. The officers’ poor planning had sent the Frasers across Malcolm’s path, fortuitously enough for his sake, but the result was they little resembled the army Prince Charles anticipated. They were cold, hungry and weary—and facing the guns of the Hanoverian army.

  The twitter of birds and soughing wind gave way to the creak of wheels and the snort of horses. The men stared across Drumossie Moor, over the marshlands and ponds. They scrugged their bonnets—those who still had them—pulling them low over their brows so they wouldn’t fall off in the ensuing battle. Each of them had lost a friend or brother in recent days, and their fierce faces reflected their rage and need for revenge.

  Men shifted restlessly, their hands clenching and relaxing on their weapons, mostly spears or swords, many of which had belonged to soldiers now deceased. Musket fire opened and the men around Malcolm charged across the moor, the force of their attack carrying him with them as they leapt over tussocks and splattered through shin-deep puddles of icy water. The left flank was hindered by numerous bogs, and the front line quickly skewed across the field. Malcolm’s regiment fired their muskets then tossed them aside with a challenging roar as they charged the Government forces. The Jacobite line staggered beneath the heavy assault from the Hanoverians, and was soon consumed.

  Believing himself the sole survivor of the rout by Sutherland’s men the day before, and unwilling to escape death once only to face it again on Culloden’s bloody moor, Malcolm fought with ferocity and vengeance, felling six men before a bayonet found its mark in his breast.

  It was the sound of the musket fire, the smell of the smoke and the cries of the wounded and dying that consumed him now, and he startled to realize Soni stood before him.

  “Would ye care to take a short walk with me, Malcolm?” she asked, her voice full of concern.

  Embarrassed to realize she caught him in his weakest, he shook his head to clear the memories, offering her the best smile he possessed. “Aye. `Tis not every day I get asked to walk out by a pretty lass.”

  She wrinkled her pert nose as she gave a soft laugh, knowing, as Malcolm did, her heart was engaged elsewhere. It didn’t take much of an effort to realize she and number 79 shared a special bond, though it was difficult to believe anything would come of it—two souls separated by nearly three centuries, yet entwined in an unexplained way. A connection Malcolm had never experienced in his short life, and a wee bit of envy tweaked his heart.

  Though her affection—other than the fondness she showed each of the other ghosts—was beyond his reach, Malcolm still thought her bonnie and didn’t mind the jealous looks sent his way for being singled out by their sweet Soni.

  “Have ye thought on the challenge?” she asked as they strolled away from the others, their feet leaving no prints on the dew-laden grass.

  Malcolm marveled, perhaps for the thousandth time, at how the landscape had changed after the marsh had been drained more than two hundred years earlier. Too late to do the Jacobites any good, for the boggy ground had greatly hindered them, but the footing was much better for the tourists, Malcolm supposed. Though it scarcely bothered him now.

  “Little else has crossed my mind,” he admitted. “I dinnae know the way of it, but we deserved better than a long march and a bloody death at the hands of the Government army.”

  “And I understand how ye must feel—cheating death once at the loch only to find it on the moor,” she murmured. They walked a moment more, then stopped, facing each other. “Are ye ready to accept yer chance to do a heroic deed and receive yer boon?”

  The heel of Malcolm’s right hand rubbed his chest at the entry site where the bayonet had done its damage. It was a habit he’d tried to rid himself of over the years, but the ache—and therefore the action—remained.

  “Aye. Give me my dragon to slay and ready a room for me and Prince Charles to meet.” He shrugged, a haunted twinkle in his eye. “And mayhap a comely lass to rescue.”

  “Tearlach will be waiting to hear from ye as bargained,” she reassured him, pronouncing the name in Gaelic as the Highlanders did, making it sound much like Charlie, and no wonder the prince was often referred to by that name.

  Malcolm boiled with the need to confront the Young Pretender. He and nearly two thousand of the prince’s followers had laid down their lives at Culloden, whilst their leader fled the field, leaving the men to their fate.

  “Remember the caution, Malcolm,” she warned. “Ye have one day, mayhap a few hours more, to accomplish yer task. Dinnae forget.”

  “I have an excellent incentive,” he observed wryly, his fingers, gray from the frostbite he’d not lived long enough to fully develop, absently rubbing his chest again. “I willnae forget.” He halted, question in his eyes. “Will the memories go away if I succeed?”

  Soni’s lips tilted in compassion. “When yer fears are confronted, they will trouble ye no more.”

  Though not the clear answer he wanted, he accepted the knowledge he would someday be rid of the deep sorrow and relentless nightmares that recalled his past and had framed every waking day since. A chance to be free of them! He was getting a chance and could beg no better boon.

  He and Soni had strayed a fair bit from the bonfire she’d lit earlier in the evening, and as they retraced their steps, the sky brightened, bursting into a brilliant morning. To Malcolm’s surprise, the moor was no longer underfoot and steep hills sprang up on every side. A narrow road wound through the tiny glen he found himself in, and small pieces of dusty grey rock crunched beneath his feet. Trees, vibrant with spring growth, sporting every delicate shade of pink and green and white, crowded thickly around the edge of the glen and up the mountainsides. A small plank building of weathered wood shingles stood to his right, and a metal-topped shed appeared a bit farther away to his left. In the center of the glen immediately in front of him, an enormous fire raged.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Malcolm squinted his eyes against the glare. Yellow and orange flames leapt upward, reaching eager fingers toward the brilliant blue sky above. The dance mesmerized him, but after a moment he became aware of a young woman, her red hair a challenge to the blaze before her, standing to one side, speaking to an older man, seemingly unconcerned with the immense bonfire. She glanced up, staring at Malcolm as she marked his presence. With a word to her companion, she crossed the yard toward Malcolm, her long stride covering the ground with effortless grace.

  Malcolm was intrigued.

  “Hi. I’m Allison. How may I help you?” She glanced at the timepiece on her wrist. “We hadn’t planned to open today.” The smile she offered him didn’t match the clouded sorrow in her lovely green eyes. A kindred spirit—he felt the pull of her sadness in his soul.

  Malcolm was captivated.

  She waved a hand in a vague gesture. “Since you are here—how many in your group?”

  “Group?” Malcolm asked, wrinkling his brow, perplexed as he glanced about him. He saw no one else close by.

  Allison stared pointedly at his kilt. “I thought perhaps you were from a re-enactment group.” She tilted her head. “You surely don’t wear this every day?”

  Malcolm startled. Malcolm, my lad, we arenae in Scotland anymore. An easy grin slid across his face. “`Tis my usual garb, aye. I dinnae bring else.”

  Her eyebrows shot upward. “And a brogue to match!” She motioned for him to follow her as she strode across to the wooden building with a wrap-around porch. “Nice,” she added.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “To get you signed up. You did want a tour, didn’t you?”

  He opened his mouth to ask what he was touring, but the wind shifted, and the aroma of fermenting grains wafted over him. He inhaled deeply, his eyes closing with pleasure. “I dinnae know what ye are distilling, lass. But I am eager to find out.”

  She gave him a curious look. “Whisky. This is the Sutherland Distillery, makers of fine Tennessee
Whisky.”

  He checked. Darkness clouded his vision and the echo of long-dead cries pounded his ears. Cold prickled his skin, and he clenched his fists against the flash of memory.

  A hand, warm and alive, touched his gently. “Are you okay?” Allison asked.

  Gasping as though he was drowning, Malcolm struggled to push his way through to the present. He swallowed once and took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Sutherland, did ye say?” His eyes narrowed as though the aroma from the distillery suddenly turned sour.

  Her look turned guarded. “Yes. Why?”

  He shrugged. “I am Malcolm Sinclair. The Sinclairs and the Sutherlands have been feuding since before I was born.” He glanced about, getting his bearings, noting the wheeled vehicles in the lot across the street and especially the casual blue pants—jeans he remembered they were called—and pale gray, collared shirt Allison wore.

  Not in Scotland, and not in my day, either. “But I suppose that doesnae matter anymore.”

  Allison gave a short laugh. “The last feuds around here were between the Hatfields and Macoys,” she told him, a touch of a smile lighting her eyes.

  Despite his distrust of her—a Sutherland—Malcolm was entranced by the transformation as her smile dispelled the sorrow on her face.

  He shook his head. “I dinnae know them.” He considered the duty before him. Could the lass be in some sort of trouble? Was he to help her? It was a sobering thought. He had no desire to help a Sutherland, though she could scarcely be linked to the ones who had slaughtered his friends on the road to Inverness.

  He glanced around the yard. The scene was peaceful, busy, likely profitable judging from the smells rolling from the brick building across the narrow street. He cast a sideways look at the young lass, noting her smile was gone. Why was she sad? And why did a sorrowing Sutherland dismay him so?