November 13, 1715
On the field of Sherrifmuir, six miles northeast of Stirling Castle...

      At the sound of the bagpipes and the roaring command of his chief, Alex MacLean drew his sword and broke into a run, charging up the north face of the hill.
      A wild frenzy of bloodlust exploded in his veins and fuelled his body with savage strength and determination, as he and his fellow Jacobite clansmen advanced upon Argyll’s left flank. Their lines collided in a heavy clash of bodies and weaponry, and suddenly he was thrashing about in a red sea of chaos. Men shouted and lunged, shot each other at close range, they severed limbs and hacked each other to pieces. Blood splattered onto his face as he spun around and swung his sword at one soldier, then another. Adrenaline fired his instincts. The fury was blinding. His muscles strained with every controlled thrust and strike.
      Keenly aware of all that was happening around him, he raised his targe to encumber the piercing point of a bayonet. Dropping to one knee, he dirked the offending redcoat in the belly.
      Eventually, in the distance, beyond the delirium of combat, the Government Dragoons began to fall back, retreating through their own infantry. The fury was too much for them. Alex raised his sword.
      “Charge!” he shouted, in a deep thunderous brogue. “For the Scottish Crown!”
      He and his fellow clansmen cried out in triumphant resolve and rushed headlong at the breaking enemy ranks, while the Jacobite cavalry thundered past, galloping hard to pursue the Hanoverians into the steep-sided Glen of Pendreich.
       Moments flashed by like brilliant bursts of lightning. The battle was nearly won. The redcoats were fleeing….
       Before long, Alex slowed to a jog and looked about to get a better sense of his bearings. He and dozens of other clansmen were now spread out across the glen with precious space between them and clean air to breathe.
       It was over. Argyll’s opposing left flank was crushed. They were retreating to Dunblane.
       Stabbing the point of his weapon into the frosty ground, Alex dropped to his knees in exhaustion and rested his forehead on the hilt. He’d fought hard, and with honor. His father would be proud.
       Just then, a fresh-looking young redcoat leapt out from behind a granite boulder and charged at him. “Ahh!”
       He was naught but a boy, but his bayonet was sharp as any other.
       Rolling across the ground, Alex shifted his targe to the other hand to deflect the thrust of the blade. The weapon flew from the soldier’s hands and landed on the grass, but before Alex could regain his footing, a saber was scraping out of its scabbard, and he suddenly found himself backing away defensively, evaluating his opponent’s potential skill and intentions.
       Blue eyes locked on his, and the courage he saw in those depths sharpened his wits.
       Carefully, meticulously, they stepped around each other.
       “Are you sure you want to do this, lad?” Alex asked, giving the boy one last chance to retreat with the others in his regiment. “I’ve done enough killing this morning. I don’t need more blood on my hands. Just go.”
       But why was he hesitating? The dark fury of battle still smoldered within him. What difference would it make if he killed one more? All he had to do was take one step forward and swing. The boy was no match for him. He could slay him in an instant.
       “I’m sure,” the lad replied, but his saber began to tremble in his hands.
       Alex wet his lips. “Just drop your weapon, boy, and run.”
       “No.”
       Alex paused. “You’re a brave one, aren’t you? Or maybe you’re just stupid.”
       All at once, the young soldier let out a vicious battle cry and attacked with a left-handed maneuver that cut Alex swiftly across the thigh.
       He gaped down at the wound in bewilderment.
       Musket fire rang out in the distance. The morning chill penetrated his senses, steeled his warrior instincts.
       The next thing he knew, he was whirling around with a fierce cry of aggression. He swung his targe and struck lad in the head. The young redcoat stumbled backward. His saber dropped from his grasp.
       Then, as if it were all happening in a dream, the soldier’s hat flew through the air, and long black tresses unfurled and swung about. The boy hit the ground and rolled unconscious onto his back.
       Alex’s eyes fell immediately upon a soft complexion and lips like red cherries. All thoughts of war and the Jacobite triumph fled from his mind as he realized with dismay that he had just struck a woman. 
 

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