Poetry Train Monday - 91 - A Place to Start

This may be an entire year of found poetry for me - I'm having so much fun doing it. I've found quite a few poems in my prose fiction, and here is another one from my WIP about the aftermath of the Battle of Culloden, which took place in Scotland in April, 1746.

Last week I turned a scene from my story into a bit of an epic Naisaiku Challenge. This week I'm introducing Emma, the daughter of a clan chief who will cross paths with Jock, the narrator of last week's poem, a little later in my WIP. You can read some prose excerpts HERE.





















A Place to Start


“Soldiers! Run! Go to the hills!”
Emma looked up from her stitching
Thomas ran toward the house from Nairn road
Mother quickly made the sign of the cross

Emma raced down the back stairs
“We must fly from here, now!”
“But the pies, Miss-”
A dozen of them moved into the trees

Then she heard it - a low rumble
A shout. Emma tried
But she glanced over her shoulder
Red-coated soldiers swarmed

Hens and pigs turned out
Horses tried to avoid the hands
Cattle dogs barked angrily
Washstand hurled from third-floor window

“Saints preserve us,” Enid said.
“Keep moving!” Thomas called.
Emma turned from the ruin of her home
The English had won the day

Her father, clan chief of MacBean
Did he lay broken on the field?
Her brothers...fiance...
Emma refused to hear the crackle of flames behind her

What of the oil portrait
Charred and blackened now?
Her brother Murray stared with eyes
Haunted by second guesses

“Come, Murray,” she coaxed.
She turned to look with him
Black smoke rose lazily from barn roof
Animals wandered past silver and crystal glinting in the grass

The rest lay twisted in death
“Murray MacBean,” she said. “You mustn’t
Stand here while your women are going alone
Into the hills.”

Murray looked at her, swallowing hard.
So dejected he’d been, left behind at fifteen.
Look after the manor house, while the other men
Fought for the Stuarts

“You may be the only MacBean left
To us. Be sure that your women and servants
Get safely away. Come, now.” Emma
Began walking, slowly so he would follow

Murray turned wordlessly
Scanning the trees
He strode quickly up the low slope
Emma peered hard between trunks and branches

Searching the gloom for a flash of red
This forest, the scene of countless
Family outings filled with basket lunches and games
How sinister it now seemed

Enid’s pies. The English had devoured them by now.
It was cold out here without a shawl
Her slippered feet wet in the April afternoon
Was she walking toward safety here in the hills

Or merely putting off the inevitable?
Would tonight be the night she would
Dwell in the house of the Lord?
And was it wrong to wish with all of her heart

She might see her Douglas once more?
“Come, Emma!” Murray called.
She ran, trying not to think. More important things now.
Staying alive was a place to start.

- Julia Smith, 2009

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Poetry Train Monday - 89 - Turned in the Road

This is my latest found poem, taken once again from one of my works in progress. This story follows Jock MacKeigan, who survives the Battle of Culloden in Scotland, 1746. He comes across the family of the MacBean chieftain, whom he saw fall to several English dragoons. He is taken in and tended, discovering the daughter who nurses him so protectively is the fiancee of his commanding officer.

I decided to go for a bit more form this time. I've used the villanelle, but didn't hold to the rhyme scheme. I wanted to stick to the found poem category.












Turned in the Road


He felt a shudder erupt at images sprung to mind
The soldiers - the soldiers, if they fell upon them
He could hear Montford barking orders even now

Lieutenant-Colonel Montford, engaged to Miss MacBean
Her intended was a good man, as officers went
His voice booming through the clamour of musket fire

Not one to tolerate any loafing. No sloppiness. Unreadiness.
Jock and the others pressed on through the night march to Nairn
He could hear Montford barking orders even now

Montford’s regiment a fit one, not like some, plagued with desertions
Incredible folly, tiring them to the breaking point before battle
His voice booming through the clamour of musket fire

Surprise the English camp - their march halted so often
The grey light of daybreak came before they reached Nairn
He could hear Montford barking orders even now

A weary messenger appeared and Montford bent low in the saddle
So very long before he turned the Scots Royal in the road
His voice booming through the clamour of musket fire
He could hear Montford barking orders even now

- Julia Smith - 2009

You can read excerpts from this story here and here and here.

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Poetry Train Monday - 56 - A Third Excerpt From My Culloden Story

Here's my final installment of my Culloden story. It takes place after these two excerpts posted previously on the Poetry Train:

Culloden excerpt 1
Culloden excerpt 2

I've modelled Jock MacKeigan on Scottish actor Robert Carlyle, and Emma MacBean on English actress Emma Samms.



Near Drumossie Moor, in the hills outside Inverness, April 1746


He could tell by the way they snuck glances at him. Lady MacBean felt it was time to leave the cavern. But what to do about him?

His leg was useless. Not that it wouldn’t heal with time. But several more patrols had come looking for them. They must steal away now or never.

Perhaps she could spare a few days’ provisions. By that time he would have some strength returned to him. Stumbling upon the MacBeans had bought him some valuable time. That was more than he could have hoped for a few days ago.

He would need a crutch to lean on. Fashioning one would give him something to do while he waited. He must trust that whatever the Almighty’s reason to see him through thus far would continue to help him. It gave Jock a strange confidence, considering what he was facing.

The young boy Davey joined him on the edge of the pallet. “Mistress wants to know if ye have need of anything,” he asked. The boy’s face was unusually guarded. If Jock had doubted Lady MacBean’s intentions, Davey’s expression removed any misconceptions.

“I would at that. Fetch me a stick so I can make something to help me hobble about.”

Davey was off like a volley of muskets and out of the cave. A bit like talking to a ghost, it seemed.

Jock moved his leg gingerly, growing stiff from sitting in the same position for hours. The pain ignited from his ankle to his hip, up his spine, hammering Jock’s head so that he shut his eyes against it.

How could he let them go, five women with just an old man, a youth and a boy to protect them? Jock felt a shudder erupt as images flared through his mind. The soldiers - if they fell upon them - he shook his head to chase the horrors away, but they lurked uneasily.

Jock’s fingers played with the fringed edge of the wrap that covered his leg, keeping it warm against the damp of the cave. He thought of Lieutenant-Colonel Montford, of Miss MacBean and her engagement to the officer of his regiment. He could hear Montford barking orders even now, his voice deep and resonant, booming through the clamour of musket fire and the cries of other officers.


Her intended was a good man as officers went. Decisive and practical. Not one to tolerate any loafing, sloppiness or unreadiness. That is why Jock and the others pressed on through the night march to Nairn. Montford’s regiment was a fit one, not like some that were plagued with desertions, the men unfed, bitter and without a shred of confidence in the prince’s generals.

Such incredible folly that had been. Tiring them to the breaking point before such a battle. The original orders for a surprise attack on the English encampment would have made all the difference. Jock still didn’t understand why the march had gone so badly, why they’d been halted so often that the grey light of daybreak came before they’d reached Nairn.

But he vividly remembered the moment it was called off. The English drums rolled the general call to arms in the distance. A weary messenger appeared from the head of the column and Montford bent low in the saddle, his ear close to the panting youth. It seemed a very long while after he’d finished speaking before Montford straightened to send him on his way.

The Scots Royal turned in the road and headed back to camp, every man silent with his own thoughts or simply pure fatigue. Even then, they’d all sensed it. The late change in orders boded ill for victory.

Not a man on that march could have forseen what awaited them. Not even the lieutenant-colonel, not even in that suspended moment when he must have been sorely tempted to disregard orders. To fall upon the English as they were turned out of their bedrolls. To pursue the only reasonable course of action.

As Jock was doing now.

The lady must take her daughter and the servants and flee for their lives. He must warn her son just how dangerous it would be for them.

He could see Miss MacBean watching him even as she made to appear engrossed in collecting up the meagre belongings scattered throughout the cave.

Miss MacBean would become Montford’s wife, if Montford survived as Jock had done.


And if Jock was made to stay in hiding much longer with her, his greatest threat would no longer be the English soldiers.

It would be the way she stood in her thin frock, trying not to shiver in the cold. The stocking she wore beneath her skirts, stained with his blood although she’d washed it in the icy stream with her gentle fingers. The blue eyes blazing with her father’s courage, reaching into him so he could bear the pain.

Jock had survived the worst of what the English could dish out. But he had nothing left to resist Miss MacBean.

***

(This scene comes a bit later, but I'm telescoping the storyline for the Poetry Train.)

Jock lay very still on his side, pressing himself as closely into the wall of the cave as he could. He heard someone moving not too far from the entrance.

Three days had passed since the MacBeans and their servants left the cave, three days of more patrols and Jock barely escaping detection. Yesterday a soldier actually pushed his way partially past the brush which Thomas had wedged securely behind them to better conceal Jock.

“Oh, mercy,” the soldier had grunted.

“What is it, Marks?”

“I’m bloody stuck! Come get me out!”

Jock had heard laughter from several men. If he’d had to take on that many he’d have been done for.

“How’d ye manage this, then?”

“Shut yer gob and give the old heave-ho, eh? And be quick about it, I can’t catch my breath.”

Were they back to check the cave again? The screen rustled ominously.

Whoever it was knew exactly what he was about. Several blows to the edge of the screen frame and it came free from the rock wall.

Jock opened and closed his fingers around the handle of his dirk. Felt the weight of it, knew just what he would do to the first one that came upon him. If they didn’t miss him completely in the gloom.

He would wait, still and silent. He’d gone over this many times in those three days. First, watch and wait. If detection was certain, the first man would be down with a slit throat before he could call to his fellows. Several good-sized stones were at hand to take down a man or two. From there, well it would depend on who was left, wouldn’t it?

Someone was definitely entering the cave. Jock’s ears strained to hear how many there were. He couldn’t turn his head to look without giving himself away.

Cautious steps, quiet as a cat. Not the usual blundering infantryman. Jock waited to hear any others approaching but there seemed to be only one.

He took a deep, calming breath. There was a chance, then. Only one. He could dispatch one easily enough. He resheathed his dirk, needing both hands free.

The soldier neared. Jock could see a slight form in the dimness, heard his quickened breathing. The fellow didn’t call to anyone. Strange.

Steps scratched in the dirt as the man turned. Jock lunged like a coiled snake.

His arms wrapped tightly about the lad’s calves, tugging hard to bring him down with a grunt. Before the soldier could regain his senses, Jock rolled forward, crawling up by handfuls of clothing till he had the man by the collar. Twisting sharply, Jock rammed him against the cavern wall.

A sure motion down to retrieve his dirk, a swift arc upwards and the blade pressed in warning against the man’s throat.

In the second it took to size up his foe, Jock heard his name whispered frantically. A chill went up his neck.

His fingers clutched thinner cloth than a redcoat.

“It’s me. It’s me. Emma! It’s Emma.”


Jock relaxed his grip, pulling the dirk away from her neck, hoping he’d not already drawn blood.

She panted with fear. Jock pulled her to face him, shaking with relief he’d not discovered her too late. “What are you doing here?” he fairly shouted.

“I couldn’t leave you behind.”

“I nearly killed you!”

“I had a horrid row with my mother. I snuck away.”

“What - have you lost your mind, girl? Had a row with your mother? What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t think it was right to leave you here on your own,” she choked out, her voice tight with tears she fought to keep back. “Mother was furious with me. She said things. She...struck me. She’s never struck me since I was a wee bairn.”

Jock felt as though the cave was closing in on him, pressing the breath from his lungs. “Where are the rest of them?” he asked, trying to sort his swirling thoughts.

“I don’t know.”

Jock squeezed her shoulders as though he could press some answers from them. “Where were you heading, then?”

He felt her stiffen against his roughness. “We were heading north. I think it was north.”

“Where, north?”

“Away from the patrols!”

Jock pushed her away from him in frustration. “She’ll probably send someone after you.”

“She won’t.”

“Your brother, likely. And he’ll be lucky to make it this far. I’ll bet you weren’t giving any thought to that when you were stealing away. Were you?”

“She won’t have anything more to do with me, I don’t think. Nor will Murray.”

“What are you talking about? Will ye no make any sense at all?”

“We shouldn’t have left you here," she said. "My Douglas wouldn’t approve.”

No wonder Lady MacBean had lost patience with her. “Look. I’m sorry to have to be the one to say it. But...” Jock took a very deep breath. “There’s not many of us made it off that field.”

She lay very still beside him.

“I was separated from most of my regiment," he said. "I don't know the lieutenant-colonel's position at the end. Once the fighting stopped. What I can tell ye is this. No wounded were taken from the moor. The English swept over us with bayonets and...there’s not many of us still livin' who fought that day.”

Emma said nothing, only lay there beside him in silence.

“I don’t know what ye were thinkin’ when ye left yer mother like that. Ye’ve no idea how lucky ye are to have got here at all. I’ve had four patrols come since ye left. I thought ye were another one.”

“Then I must help you get to someplace safe.” Her voice was full of hurt feelings and stubbornness. Jock reached for her in the dim light, pulling her to rest her head on his shoulder.

“We must wait till the soldiers stop paying us so many visits.” Jock sighed. She curled against him. How warm she felt after the hard dampness of the past few lonely days.

He should be as outraged as Lady MacBean at Emma’s thoughtless risk taking. And he did rather feel like throttling her.

How could he admit to himself how it terrified him, that she’d nearly died under his own blade? How it made his heart swell almost painfully with joy that she'd done something so foolish as to come back for him.

- Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Photo of Robert Carlyle by Brian Pendreigh

Poetry Train Monday - 55 - Excerpt From My Culloden Story

Here's a second excerpt from my Culloden story. This takes place shortly after this excerpt:

Culloden excerpt 1

Jock MacKeigan is lucky to be alive. He's somehow managed to survive the Battle of Culloden and made his way into the hills, where he's found by Emma MacBean and her family. He's gravely injured, however, and needs his broken leg set and multiple stab wounds stitched up. We join the story as Emma's mother finishes the first gruesome task in the safety of their cavern hideout.

I've modelled Jock MacKeigan after Scottish actor Robert Carlyle, and Emma MacBean after English actress Emma Samms.

Excerpt


Near Drumossie Moor, in the hills outside Inverness, April 1746

Mother pulled, groaning herself with the effort of righting bones in a swollen cage of damaged muscle. Jock screamed again, a sound so laden with suffering that Emma shook to hear it. She held tight to him, focusing intently on his good eye which stayed squeezed shut. God help him. God help him.

Then suddenly it was over. Mother straightened. Jock sagged against Emma.

“Get the plank, Thomas,” Mother said, her voice breathless. “We’ll lash it to the leg. Enid, fetch me the linen.”

Murray knelt beside Emma. “How is he?”

She slipped the leather from Jock’s mouth. He let his head fall forward onto her breast and she cradled him protectively.

Jock tried to speak.


“Hush, now,” Emma said, a bit of her mother’s no-arguments tone entering her voice.

Jock pulled away from her and fell back onto the pallet. Emma saw a bright new stain at his shoulder. Then noticed a red smear on her own frock.

Murray stood. “I’ll tell her,” he said, moving quickly across the cave.

Emma sat on her hip, reached quickly under her skirts and took hold of her right stocking. Pulling it off, she folded it down and pressed it against Jock’s shoulder. He gazed at her, smiling a distant smile that made her slightly uneasy.

“You’ll be fine, Jock. Just keep on! You’ve come so far already,” she said, unhappy with how quickly the stocking was reddening.

Mother returned, lifting Emma’s hands away. “Just keep holding it like that, Emma. We’ll get his leg trussed up and then we’ll stop that shoulder from giving him any more troubles.”

Emma glanced back at Jock, who’d closed his eye and seemed so awfully pale. She felt a stab of dread. His lid fluttered open, his unfocused gaze roaming before his good eye found her.

Her heart surged with relief even as her fingers slickened with his blood. The stocking soaked through, but she held it there anyway as Mother had bid her.

“Talk to me,” the clansman said again, smiling a faint smile.

“I’m so glad you found us, Jock. So very glad. I want to hear all about you. How you came to be in the Scots Royal. Murray recognized your colours. My future husband is in the Scots Royal.”

Pain registered on his face as the linen strips were tightened about his leg, securing the plank.

“Future husband...” he whispered.

“Douglas Montford.”

Jock’s expression changed. He sized her up now and she could feel him retreat from her. “Lieutenant-Colonel Montford,” he said, verifying.

“Yes.”

Mother and Enid joined her. Emma removed the stocking and Mother peered closer at his wounds. Reaching out carefully, she touched a spot here or there until Jock twitched.

“Wash him down, Enid,” Mother said. “We’ll get started once we can see what’s what. Tell me, young sir,” she addressed her patient. “Do you remember how you came by these?”

Jock nodded weakly. “English bayonet, Madam.”

Emma felt queasy.

“You’re an extremely lucky man, Mr. MacKeigan,” Mother explained. “That steel missed your lungs and heart both.”

“Just stubborn, I imagine,” he smiled, swallowing dryly.

“Shall I fetch the ladle, Mother?” Emma asked.

“Well, he’s kept the rest of it down, even after all that. But see if you can get Thomas to part with more whisky. There’s more to be done and though you’re a brave man, Mr. MacKeigan, you’ll do as I ask and take another dram.”

His smile got wider. “A man knows when he’s beat, Madam.”

“From the looks of you, I’d like to see the man could do that,” Mother said.

“I’m at your mercy, ladies,” he said softly. “That should be answer enough.”

“Come now, Emma,” Mother said. “Fetch the flask and let’s patch him up.”

Emma rose and saw how Jock’s gaze followed her every move. As she turned to find Thomas she knew tonight would be just as sleepless as last night had been.

Best get the whisky. There was more agony to inflict before the clansman got his rest.

***

The MacBean’s daughter wiped the stale sweat from his face.

“All over now,” she said.

The mother rose and stepped away with the servant, murmuring in the background.

“You must rest,” the young lady said. Her fingertips brushed away the sticky strands of hair from his forehead.

“Don’t leave me,” he said suddenly.

“Hush, now. We’ve no more to do, Mr. MacKeigan. All over now.”

His vision was blurry and he shook his head to clear it.

“Lay down! You musn’t try to get up.” Her voice was conspiritorial, as though she tried to guard him from detection.

But Jock had taken too much whisky, had gone through too much to let sense get between himself and what he desired. He craned his head, blinking hard until her face took shape before him.

Such a sweet thing. Look at the way she gazed down at him. Had God truly chosen him above other men, sending an angel to watch over him?

“Why to me?” he whispered.

The angel hovered closer. Jock shook his head back and forth, unwilling to accept it. “What do you want of me?”

“Mr. MacKeigan,” she said, laying her hand on his good arm.

Jock felt a cool calmness settle over him. The MacBean’s daughter. Yes. All stitched up now. He could rest then, couldn’t he?

“You musn’t try to speak,” she cautioned. “Close your eyes. Hush. Time to rest.”

Those lovely fingertips stroked his forehead. Jock let his eyelid droop, his chin dropping onto his chest.

Twisted limbs blown off by cannon fire.

Unearthly shrieks.

Howls of frustration as men begged for the order to charge.

Jock started awake.

Two blue eyes gazed into his, steadied him, stopped him from leaping off the pallet away from the guns. Two firm hands pressed him down though his heart beat like a drummer calling the advance.

“You’re safe, Mr. MacKeigan. You’re here with all of us. The soldiers can’t get to us.”

Jock panted for breath, listening carefully just to be sure.

MacBean’s daughter again took his face in her hands. He was forced to look into those eyes.

“I’ll stay with you. Now lay back. You must get some rest.”

Jock nodded and sagged back on the pallet.

Had he...had he really seen an angel just then? No...the whisky. Hadn’t slept...marched all night...Lieutenant-Colonel Montford called the men back to the field. No time to rest. God, he was tired.

“You’ll take first watch over him, Emma. He seems to settle with you.”

“Yes, Mother.”

A plaid pulled up over him and he sighed. He remembered now. The MacBean’s daughter tended him. That’s where he was. Safe to sleep. All over now.

Cpoyright - Julia Smith - 2008