Blood Spilled

Kneeling on the flagstones beside me, Diego surveys my wound and reassures me, “Maybe you will not die from your injury.” Spilled blood, my Spanish blood, pools on the castle’s stone flagging. The pain is excruciating. What if my life, the simple life of Hernando Sanchez, ebbs away in this foreign country without mi madre knowing? Will I have made a difference? I am not a man of strong political persuasion. The politics of 1719, and Spain’s support for Scotland’s James Stuart, is incidental. As a Spanish soldier I am a pawn in this “Jacobite rebellion.” But my country supports the Scots in Stuart’s struggle for the British crown. I don’t question why 46 of us Spaniards are garrisoned here in a Scottish castle upon a rocky outcrop.

 Carlos, Joaquin, Diego and I are cocky young Spanish infantrymen. Poor Galician villagers seeking adventure and pesos, we are invincible in our black bicorn hats and oversized green jackets with red lapels. None of us is taller than 5 feet 3 inches. I am 2 inches shorter. Until recently we were frequenting cheap bodegas, feasting on tapas and rough wines, listening to gitanos singing and playing guitars. We were eternally  hopeful our bold coats with shiny buttons would attract the eyes of pretty senoritas. Like moths to flames. But two months ago, under the cover of a moonless evening in the Bay of Biscay, we were shipped clandestinely from El Ferrol naval base in northern Spain up to the west coast of Scotland. Sailing between islands in the Hebrides, we were ferried ashore near Dornie. Our cargo included hundreds of barrels of gunpowder. Our instructions… to create and defend a gunpowder magazine inside the nearby Eilean Donan castle with the aid of some local Jacobites. We were informed that Spain would soon send weapons and cannon in preparation for the uprising.

 But the plan was thwarted, our secrecy betrayed. Sails appeared, bearing towards us from the direction of Isle of Skye. I alerted our Ensign, Umberto, who identified three British frigates, heavily armed. The ships hove-to and immediately commenced a naval bombardment of Eilean Donan castle which endured for three days. The ceaseless boom of multiple cannon was nerve-wracking but we felt reasonably safe within the dark, dank bowels of the castle. Some stone walls are almost 14 feet thick. Our magazine of more than 300 barrels of gunpowder sat securely inside its stone vault. While cannon balls smashed repeatedly into the external stonework, our invocation of prayer to God the Father delivered us from the murderous intent of these British dogs.

 After three days the cannons fell quiet. The limited success of the British naval bombardment was apparent. Many of us ventured up to the crenelated sections of our castle wall to taunt and shout obscenities at the British. When HMS Enterprise sent a rowboat towards us bearing a flag of truce, Ensign Umberto correctly assumed the British would seek our surrender. In reply, he ordered our infantry to fire upon the rowboat. We rained balls of lead into the waters around the dinghy which quickly turned and retreated to the armed frigate, much to our amusement. That was the moment Diego, Carlos, Joaquin and I took decisive action. At all times, the honour of the Galician contingent of the Spanish infantry must be upheld.

 Brown Bess muskets are muzzle-loading flintlocks usually only accurate to 100 yards. However, depending upon the amount of charge, they can have a range of 600 yards or more. The English captain, incensed at Spaniards firing upon a flag of truce, summoned Corporal Hebblethwayte to discharge his Brown Bess musket in the direction of the castle as an immediate response. Pouring extra powder into the pan, he raised his barrel above the top of the castle to allow for the extra distance. There was a loud report from the musket and a muffled whimper from Hebblethwayte who sustained minor flash burn to his face.  But from the castle wall there was a piercing shriek which roused a wild cheer from the British crew.

 Usually I am a measured man, not impulsive by nature. On the castle wall, the half-inch diameter ball of lead tears crudely into the cheek of my arse. I am flung face-first into the flagstones in a screaming heap and Diego scrambles to my side. If I survive, I shall forever regret my moment of false bravado when I suggested to Carlos, Diego and Joaquin, “Let’s drop our breeches and moon these English bastards.”