The Gathering Storm
The boy born under storm and prophecy was now a man grown. Twenty harvests had passed since the night of his birth, and Seumas mac Dhomhnaill Ghunn stood tall upon the same Caithness cliffs where his father had lifted him to the dawn.
He was broad of shoulder, with a frame built not by idle strength but by toil — peat-cutting, cattle-driving, hunting in the glens, and endless drilling with blade and gun. His hair was black as raven wing, his eyes dark and watchful, like the sea before rain. In his hands, the great claymore that had once seemed monstrous to his childhood arms now swung with ease, each arc cutting the air with a whistle.
The longhouse yard rang with the sound of steel. The claymore rose, fell, struck against a targe in practice, then spun again. Sweat gleamed on his brow despite the cool wind. Seumas grunted as he lunged, his dirk flashing from his belt to stab an imaginary foe in the ribs. A twist, a pull — and then the pistols.
He drew the matched brace of Thomas Murdoch flintlocks, their butts polished oak, barrels engraved with curling lines. Donald had traded dear for them years ago, claiming a Gunn needed weapons worthy of his blood. Seumas fired at a target board — one shot, then the other, smoke billowing sharp and acrid. Both balls struck within the painted ring. He smiled grimly, reloading by habit, powder and shot moving with quick fingers.
Nearby, boys of the clan watched him with wide eyes. To them, he was already half legend — the storm-born son, the one the Cailleach had marked with fate. Some whispered his name with awe, some with unease.
The bard, older now and bent, still sang by the fire at night. He had added verses to his song over the years. Seumas mac Dhomhnaill Ghunn, breithte fo stoirm, clann fola is stàilinn. — James, son of Donald Gunn, born under storm, of blood and steel. The men muttered it in pride, the women in fear. Prophecy was a burden no child could escape.
Seumas heard it all, but he kept his silence. He was no longer a boy who dreamed of omens. He was a man who trained for war.
Donald Gunn was older, though his back remained unbent and his hands unshaken. He watched his son from the longhouse doorway, arms folded. The father's hair had gone to iron-grey, his face lined by years of weather and grief. His brothers had died in feuds, his cousins in skirmishes, his land whittled by the Keiths' long reach. Clan Gunn was diminished, but never bowed.
When Seumas finished his drills, Donald stepped forward. "Your hand grows faster than mine ever was," he said, voice as low as the sea.
Seumas lowered his blade, breathing hard. "And yet yours strikes truer."
Donald smiled faintly. "Not for much longer."
They stood together a moment, the wind tugging at their plaids. Beyond, the sea rolled endless, its voice steady and unchanging.
At length Donald spoke again. "News comes north. The Prince has landed."
Seumas turned, his eyes sharp. "Am Prionnsa?" — The Prince?
"Aye. Charles Edward Stuart, son of James, grandson of kings. He has come to reclaim the throne, and the clans gather to his banner. The Camerons, the MacDonalds, the Frasers — aye, and others yet. He marches south already."
Seumas's chest stirred. He had heard the stories since childhood — of the old Rising in 1715, of the cause of the Stuarts, of the promise that one day the rightful king would return. The songs of the Prince had been sung at every ceilidh, every hearth, as if prophecy itself demanded they keep the flame alive.
"Then the time has come," Seumas said.
Donald's gaze was heavy. "It has. But mark me, son. This cause is not for dreamers. It is for fighters, and for graves. The Prince is bold, but boldness does not always win battles. If we ride with him, it will be blood and steel all the way."
Seumas's jaw set. "We are Gunns. What else is there?"
Donald nodded slowly. "So it is."
He turned, looking back toward the longhouse. Women were gathering food into sacks, men checking straps on dirks and polishing steel. The word had already spread; the clan was moving before it was commanded. Old loyalties stirred in Highland blood faster than reason could still them.
"We march south at dawn," Donald said.
Seumas looked once more at the sea. The gulls wheeled, shrieking, their wings flashing white. The wind caught his hair, cold with salt. He felt the prophecy in his bones, though he would not speak it.
Blood and steel.
The storm had come again.
The March South
The morning broke raw and sharp, the kind of dawn that made the skin of the hills look like iron under frost. The Gunns gathered in the yard, plaid and tartan hidden beneath rough travelling cloaks. Since the Act of Proscription, the wearing of Highland dress was outlawed — yet beneath wool and linen, every Gunn carried his colours.
Seumas tightened the strap of his targe across his arm, the round shield faced with thick leather and studded with iron bosses. On his hip hung his dirk, long and narrow, its hilt black and plain. Across his chest the belt carried pistol and powder-horn. The great claymore was strapped to his back, its weight as familiar as breath.
Donald moved among the men, silent but sure. Each kinsman he touched on the shoulder, giving only a nod. This was no great host — Clan Gunn was scattered, diminished by years of feuding with the Keiths and by Crown reprisal. Yet still they mustered a band of thirty, hardened men and fierce boys both.
At the edge of the yard, the bard lifted his harp. His voice rose, thin and sharp against the wind.
"Eirich, a chlann Ghunn, togibh ur guth,
Airson am Prionnsa, airson ur fuil,
Airson an t-seann ainm nach gabh a leaghadh,
Bàs no Beatha, gus an deireadh."
(Rise, children of Gunn, lift your voice,
For the Prince, for your blood,
For the old name that cannot melt away,
Death or life, until the end.)
The men answered, "Bàs no Beatha!"
The women pressed oatcakes, cheese, and dried fish into hands. Mothers clutched sons, wives kissed husbands with the fierce passion of those who know such partings might be forever. One woman tied a sprig of rowan to Seumas's targe — a ward against musket ball and blade. He accepted it in silence, though his eyes softened with gratitude.
Donald gave the command, and they set out.
The road south was no road at all, but a scatter of deer tracks and cattle paths across moor and glen. They moved in file, boots wet with bog-water, breath steaming. The wind carried scents of peat, heather, and the sea, and sometimes the faint smoke of a distant croft.
By night, they camped under the stars or in the shelter of pine. Fires burned low, lest redcoat patrols spy them. Around those flames came the sound of pipes and low song, voices carrying through the dark like prayers.
One night, an old cousin sang Òran nan Ceannard — the Song of the Chiefs. His voice cracked, but the words carried weight:
"Thig an latha, 's èiridh sinn,
Fo bhratach nan Stiùbhart,
Le claidheamh, le targaid, le creideamh,
Airson an rìgh dligheach."
(The day will come, and we will rise,
Under the banner of the Stuarts,
With sword, with shield, with faith,
For the rightful king.)
Seumas lay listening, his claymore across his knees. The firelight caught his eyes, making them burn with something fierce.
Donald, watching, saw it and was troubled. His son bore prophecy like a cloak he could not shrug off. Men whispered already of his skill, his coldness in drill, the way he never missed with pistol or shot. Donald feared what battle would make of him — feared, too, that prophecy would feed the fire.
As they pushed farther south, the Gunns met with other Jacobite forces.
First came the Camerons — tall men, proud, their bonnets pinned with eagle feathers. They greeted Donald with wary respect, for Gunns were known as fierce fighters, though their numbers were few.
Then the MacDonalds, whose pipes filled the glens with thunder. Seumas stood among them, listening to their war-pipers, and felt his blood stir like a tide.
Finally, they joined the Frasers, whose chief Simon Fraser — the Fox — played a double game, sending some men to the Prince while others stayed loyal to the Crown. Among the rank and file, though, there was no such treachery; the Frasers raised their voices for the Stuart cause with fire.
The Prince himself they glimpsed but once. A tall, fair youth in tartan and velvet, face alight with zeal. He stood before the host near Inverness, raising his hand. His Gaelic was poor, but his spirit caught the crowd.
"Mo chairdean, mo bhràithrean!" he cried. My friends, my brothers! "The throne of Scotland and of England is ours by right! March with me, and we will see the Stuarts restored, and the Highlands free again!"
Cheers thundered, hats thrown aloft, swords raised. Seumas shouted with them, swept by the tide. Donald's cheer was quieter, tempered by age, but he gave it all the same.
They marched on Falkirk.
The days grew shorter, the ground wet under constant rain. Food dwindled; men chewed raw oats and roots, drank from burns. The redcoats harried them but did not yet meet them full. At night, Seumas cleaned his pistols, oiled his blade, and stared into the dark. He thought of the Cailleach's words, of ash and iron, of ghost and love. He told himself such riddles meant nothing. All that mattered was the cause, the sword, and the man beside you in the line.
Still, when sleep came, he dreamed of fire and blood on snow.
On the eve of battle, Donald called his son aside. They stood together at the edge of camp, the wind sharp with sleet.
"Tomorrow we fight," Donald said.
Seumas nodded. His jaw was tight, but his eyes burned.
Donald placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "Remember this: fight with fury, but not with madness. Keep your line. Guard your kin. Let the cause be in your heart, but let your head guide your hand."
Seumas looked at him and said, low, "If I fall—"
Donald cut him off. "You will not. Not tomorrow. Not yet." He tightened his grip. "But if I fall, you must stand. Gunn blood must not die with me."
The words struck like steel on stone. Seumas bowed his head once, then lifted it, eyes shining in the dark.
"Bàs no Beatha," he said.
Donald answered, "Bàs no Beatha."
And in that vow, father and son bound themselves to the storm.