"Mary A. Turzillo - Ben Cruachan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Turzillo Mary A)

stoically before that stupidity, knowing their muskets did nothave the range
to discomfit the French.Duncan fell asleep thinking of his homeland, which he
knew he would never seeagain, of the gorse and bracken, the scent of purple
heather, of beautiful BenCruachan and Inverawe, the lochs and the mountains
all soft gray and green, ofhis sons at home and his son who was with him, and
of his sweet Elizabeth. Hedreamed that night of a man's voice, familiar from
the shades of time: "Duncan,you may na turn away. Go to your death with
honor." And a woman's: "Fly, Duncan.There is still time. In the forest your
Black Watch tartan will be nearinvisible and you can after join your comrades
and pretend you were in thebattle.""How could I face men who had braved death
when I fled? How could I face mysons, or my Elizabeth?""Ah, Duncan, Duncan!
You could be a landholder here. For women's company, youcould have a Native
lass, or I would come to you, not as a wraith, but alive andwarm."Duncan felt
himself bum with love for life; he remembered the scent of everylass he had
ever loved. He wanted to live.But he wanted his own wife, his own sons, his
own Highland castle, and most ofall himself -- his honor.He awoke to the
certainty of his fate. When the day of the battle dawned,Abercromby ordered
his infantry, together with the Forty-second Highlanders, tostorm the French
defenses.And then it became apparent what defenses the French had created.
Montcalm, theFrench General, had ordered his men to fell trees, top branches
sharpened andpointing toward the English enemy. It created an impenetrable
thicket ofbranches and sharpened poles, all pointing outward. This wall of
thorns andlog-spears -- called an abatis -- was higher than a man's head, and
thirty toforty feet in depth. French musketeers could hide in its depths and
fire atwill, but the British allies would be pierced on the branches, open to
enemyfire. Their own bullets would do no good against the wall of
branches.When Duncan saw this he knew that he had met his doom. Abercromby was
mad tothink that anything short of cannon could make a hole in this wall. It
was hisfate to lead his men against this wall, his deadly fate.The pipers
played the tune that called for advance, and Duncan waded into thefray,
loading and firing at every glint that might have been a French fleur delys.
Gunsmoke smelled harsh and hot as he fought. When he ran out of balls, heknelt
amid the thicket and struck sparks with his flint. He managed to setseveral
fires; but when he retreated a few paces, French soldiers quenched themwith
water.Duncan still had his sword. Knowing that he was to die gave him a
strangefreedom. It was as if all the bonds of his nature had been cut loose.
He struckat the branches with his sword, making headway toward the enemy. He
had almostcrawled through the last space into the French defenses when a sharp
painblossomed in his chest.He stumbled a few feet further, then fell, hearing
the piper play, "Are YouWaking Yet, Johnny Cope?" A dark shape materialized
above him."Whiskey," he said, soundlessly, and by some miracle the shape -- it
was his ownson -- bent over him and dribbled a few sweet drops on his lips. I
will die withmy mouth full of Scotland after all, thought Duncan.And then he
was in a mist. His son was gone, along with the roar of the battle.And yet he
could smell the smoke and the raw, torn wood. A tall man came up onhis right
side. "Duncan, I've come for you. You swore amiss those years ago whenyou
protected the Stewart woman. She was a liar, a witch, and a murderess, butshe
dazzled you as she did me, and I forgive you.""Donald," said Duncan."Up with
you, my kinsman. A short walk, and we can rest forever." He offered
hishand.But there was another shape, too. Breathless, its hair a dark corona,