Free Under the Same Sky by Genevieve Graham

razor-edged.
    But the Highlanders were men of honour and ferocious loyalty. They had pledged their lives to Prince Charles’s cause. Andrew understood his duty and would follow through. But that didn’t stop him from being afraid.
    Aye, it was cold. But Andrew knew something much colder. He had dreamed of this place. He knew of the slaughter that was to come. He knew most of these men would never leave this miserable field alive.
    Andrew’s father saw the impending defeat. Duncan MacDonnell, his cheeks purple from the cold, lifted his bearded chin in defiance. His glistening eyes held those of Andrew and his two brothers, and for the first time, Andrew saw fear in his father’s expression. He also saw sadness, regret, and love.
    “I’m proud o’ ye, my lads. An’ I’m proud to be here wi’ ye,” Duncan said.
    He slapped them companionably on their backs, and Andrew’s empty stomach dropped. He felt suddenly older, somehow elevated in status. The feeling terrified him.
    A thunderous
boom
shook the earth as the English cannon began to pound the ragged groups of Highlanders. The air was pierced by an eerie whistling, and a three-pound cannon ball tore through the mist, blasting everything and everyone with grapeshot. From where he crouched, Andrew watched the iron hailstones shred a chestnut pony who had stood a few feet away from him. He witnessed the looks of surprise on two big Highlanders’ faces as one cannon ball tore through them both. A constant pattern of artillery sprayed the Scots, punctuated by thick booms of the cannon, but Duncan held his sons back. The orders were to wait for the command, though they all wondered if they would hear it through the screams of thosewho hadn’t died in the initial blast. Smoke sent tears coursing down Andrew’s face; his ears rang with explosions and desperate cries.
    “We’ll hear the pipes soon, an’ it’ll be time,” Duncan said, his voice like a growl, somehow audible over the guns and screams. “Go for the English throats like wolves, aye? Like I taught ye. Damn all the
sassenachs
to hell. Every one o’ them.”
    Duncan put his hand on Andrew’s shoulder and in that moment Andrew saw his father die. He saw how the bullets would catch the big man. How the bayonets would finish him. How his father’s blood would mix with the blood of so many great men.
    “Don’t go, Da,” he wanted to say.
    Duncan turned to speak with the chief, sitting nearby, and Dougal gripped his brothers’ shoulders. Even Dougal looked paler than usual. His mouth, so often drawn wide with laughter, was a tight line beneath his black beard. Andrew saw Ciaran swallow beside him, and Dougal gave Ciaran a shadow of a smile.
    “Try to keep up, will ye?” Dougal teased. “I’ll no’ have time to come back an’ pick ye up, aye?”
    Andrew snorted and lowered himself into a squat, ready to run. Ciaran’s blue eyes, the same colour as Dougal’s, were wide.
    “I’m—” Ciaran said, then stopped. His voice was hoarse, and he swallowed hard again. “I’m no’ ready to die, Dougal.”
    Dougal’s confident grin wavered, then returned, though it never quite reached his eyes. “No, baby brother,” he said, giving Ciaran’s shoulder a gentle shake. “I dinna suppose ye are. Dinna fash. We’ll none of us die today. We’ll be fine, an’ home for spring plantin’ afore long.”
    Andrew looked from Ciaran’s pleading gaze to Dougal’s narrowed eyes, and saw the image of his father again, dead in the mud. Andrew knew the truth. Dougal knew it, too. They would not be fine. They would all die. Their mother would be left alone to tend the fields.
    “Dougal’s right,” Andrew said. “We’ll be fine.” He pulled Ciaran against him, then felt Dougal’s arms wrap around them both, holding tight.
    The stink of the smoke seeped into the mist, darkening the sky. From somewhere in the depths of the forest a lone piper pierced the air with an ancient call to duty, plaintive and