Highland Dragons

There weren't always dragons in the valley. My daughter called them dragons, and perhaps they were. Though they were horsebacked, they swept the Scottish Highlands, forcing many of my people to bow in fear to a foreign and Protestant king. They didn't breathe fire, per se, but the coats they wore were the color of blood. These dragons carried more ammunition than we'd ever seen.

I never expected them to show up in our small village, demanding our food, horses, weapons, housing, and loyalty. This king that commanded them, compelled them to obey. At first, they were cordial, reading foreign words on paper to us as if we'd understand. When we didn't, they turned against us - setting our homes and farms ablaze after they pillaged what they pleased. They called it justice. We called it terror.

After the first visit, we gave them what they wanted. We learned their words, their ways, their laws; adopted them as our own. Dragoons, they called themselves; dragons indeed. My town learned quickly as they took and hoarded our treasures. I watched as our livelihood dwindled down to almost nothing. The Highlands were tempered and tamed, bent and reshaped to accommodate these beasts of men.

But not all bowed. Not all obeyed. Some clans stood against them. Dragons and men died, and more dragons came. How many were there? Could we beat them? I wasn’t sure. The military officers were worse than the enlisted, as an elder dragon is more dangerous than a youngling. I and some of the men petitioned to our laird for protection, but either our pleas went unheard, or they refused to help. I hoped our message had been intercepted.

Weeks later, reinforcements finally showed, and beat the Dragoons back and away from our village. Then we were presented with a new problem: feeding our new protectors. Hours faded into days, and days into weeks. The English soldiers seemed like a bad dream. For a long time, they stayed away, to the point where I wasn’t sure they had come in the first place.

Then they came by twos and threes, redcoat scouts. A week later, they came full force with twenty men, and again our protectors sent them on their way. But our stores of grain and flour were depleting; we could not continue to feed our protectors, nor ourselves.

And so they left us to the mercy of the Dragoons, who came by every so often for food, horses and supplies. Every now and again they took a young Scottish girl to bed, and she would be found weeks later, in a different town, as a whore.

The whole thing irritates me. Those girls deserve better. What if they come for my daughter? I will fight these red demons, these English Dragoons, to protect my children. In order to do so, I found my protectors and offered my dirk in solidarity, to rid myself of the red dragons that scourged our lands. I wanted my children to be safe as they grew up.

Many battles waged, skirmishes in the Highlands, and soon the Stuart Prince came to fight with us. Weeks passed, and we began to win. Then, Scottish officers fought on Culloden moor against the English. We lost the ultimate fight. I was part of them, but my story is small. I hope my small achievements on the battlefield last a lifetime, and then a lifetime more. My name may fade, and so may those of my children, but at least I fought a worthy cause. A cause worth dying for. Was it all hopeless in the end? I cannot say.