16 April 1746
Kerr had the wits to remain still when he awoke. He was terribly cold, the pain in his legs was hideous; but he kept his eyes closed. The coppery taste of blood in his mouth helped to prevent him from crying out. The battle was lost – oh, how it was lost, and more besides, all was lost, the cause in chaos – but for the moment all he could do was remain alive. Not moving, not screaming, not drawing attention. That was the first thing.
Swallowing blood, biting back a howl of pain, Kerr took stock of himself. He could still hear, although there was a dreadful ringing in his ears. All around was noise – screaming, crying, praying. Odd, in this God forsaken place, that he could hear laughter, too. It was over then, he realised – the thunder of cannon was gone, and the sickening crack and whine of musket fire echoed only in his memory. When the laughter begins the fighting is done. He had no idea who might have survived the day.
Nonetheless. Lying prostrate, he could feel the earth wet under his back, soaking up through his woollen jacket. It was strangely warm, warmer than the freezing rain falling on his face. That was a riddle; earlier, he had seen the grass covered by an unseasonal frost. A bitter wind stole the breath from his mouth. Carefully, through slitted eyes, he took a look around. Black clouds scudded overhead. Smoke hung heavy in the sodden air. The noise continued. Kerr rolled his head and chanced a glance at the battlefield. Although he had seen combat many times, nothing had prepared him for this.
"Mother of God...", he said, his voice strangled and raw.
The ground beneath him was warm because it was red. The grass, the heather - all painted with gore. He was lying in a vast pool of blood, inches deep. The air was not smoky, after all – in the freezing air, steam was rising from the awful warmth of the stuff. Opening his eyes wider, he could see no end to it – the moor was covered. Severed limbs lay hither and yon, some still clothed in bloody tartan, others hideously naked and torn. The laughter came again and again, always followed by more screams.
He closed his eyes against the sight. How had it come to this, he wondered – the rebellion in disarray; his kinsmen butchered. Only hours ago the day promised so much. The Clans that had rallied to the cause of the Jacobites, under the standard of the Bonnie Prince, gathered together on Culloden Moor, stoic against the driving sleet. The Government forces outnumbered them by three thousand, but Kerr had had little doubt the ferocity of the Highland Charge would put the fear of God into the British Army regulars; the day would be won. The throne would be won.
The charge had sounded, and Kerr was lost in the roar of a thousand throats as they rushed at the massed forces ahead of them.
But God had turned his face from them. The death knell for the Clans had been sounded; and it had taken little over an hour. Like all of the Highlanders, Kerr had never seen regimented musket fire before; the troops ahead of them patiently fired and reloaded, fired and reloaded, cutting down hundreds before the fight was truly engaged. Where were our Cavalry, he thought? They never came. Cannonballs thundered across the moor, and the highlanders could only run headlong into them.
Shrieking, at the limit of his strength, Kerr had raised his claymore above his head. So close, now, the redcoats of the Hanoverians. He swung the huge blade at the soldier in front of him, but even as it connected, a blade pierced his side from the left. He reeled back to strike again, but his legs were taken from under him by another volley of musket fire. In agony, he tried to get up, but a bayonet ran through his shoulder. The last thing he saw was the stock of a musket, swinging for his face.
Now. Lying on a field of blood, unable to move, Kerr could only wait. He looked across the moor again. About twenty yards away, in the mist, he could see one of his kinsmen lying, alive but terribly injured. The man’s breath was visible in the air as he howled. Six redcoats stood around. Their white britches were spattered red to the knee; as if they had been paddling in gore. Laughing, one of them raised his bayonet and placed it at the injured man’s breast. He paused for a second, then pressed his weight down, driving the blade home.
It had come to this, then. Culloden Moor was being drowned with the blood of the slaughtered. No quarter given, the injured were being murdered where they lay. All around him, Kerr could hear the thud as cudgels dashed brains across the grass, the whicker of the blade, the crack of the musket. Honour had no place here.
The Redcoats were moving toward him now. One carried a sword. One was swinging a cudgel. One was priming a musket. They were all smiling.
Kerr prayed the freezing rain would dull the pain.
He closed his eyes.