Authors: Bob Atkinson
They’d been following the path for less than ten
minutes when a dark mass of trees loomed out of the murk. Shawnee recognised
the avenue of Caledonian pines which led to Inverlaragain Cottage. Soon they
could make out the familiar shape of the house, a sentinel standing in the
mist. Both knew at once that something was wrong. This was not the house they’d
left only a matter of hours before. Gone was the air of neglect and decay that
had settled over the building like a shroud. Its walls were no more than rough
dry-stone construction, its roof of homemade thatch, but the cottage was
clearly inhabited.
“Tell me you’re seeing this,” Shawnee whispered
hoarsely.
As Sam tried to respond the silence was
shattered by a loud commotion on the other side of the house. At first they
could make out only a high-pitched wailing, but after a few moments came the
sound of male voices.
Sam bundled Shawnee into the cover of the trees,
just as a number of figures materialised out of the mist. At first he was aware
only that most of the group were dressed in red. It was a few moments before
his brain acknowledged he was seeing not the scarlet anoraks of the outdoor
elite, but the blood-red uniform of an ancient army.
His mind became strangely detached then. He was
aware that Shawnee’s breathing had grown fast and shallow, and that her
fingernails were digging into his hand. He could hear her whispering; “Oh my
God… Oh my God,” over and over.
Five uniformed figures were half dragging, half
carrying a young woman towards the cottage. She clawed and snarled at her
captors, but this only seemed to add to their enjoyment. The soldiers dragged
the woman into the cottage, then retraced their steps, their laughter rising
and falling as each tried to outdo the coarse innuendo of the other. Within
seconds the mist had swallowed them up again, leaving only the splashing of the
stream to disturb the silence.
Long moments passed before Sam realised Shawnee
was talking to him; “…what it was like for you the first time?”
“Huh? What… what’re you saying?”
“That time you saw those Confederates at Gettysburg;
was that what it was like for you?”
“I’m not altogether sure this is the same thing
…”
“What d’you mean, Sam? My God, didn’t you see
them? Didn’t you see the redcoat soldiers?”
“Oh yeah… I saw them. It’s just that…”
“I totally cannot believe it,” Shawnee went on
blissfully. “We’ve seen the ghosts of Glen Laragain. Dad woulda given anything
to be here today.”
Sam tore his eyes away from the cottage. There
was no trace of fear on Shawnee’s face. She was like a little Sioux maiden
who’d followed the braves on a war party.
“Listen, I’m not convinced we’re seeing only
fragments of the past here.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I dunno; this is just so weird. That cottage
looks nothing like the ruin we saw when we first got here.”
Before Shawnee could reply, three of the
soldiers reappeared out of the mist. All now carried muskets, their long
bayonets stained from muzzle to point in scarlet. Shawnee gasped and put her
hands over her mouth as she watched the soldiers re-enter the cottage.
Sam took Shawnee’s arm to attract her attention
and whispered urgently in her ear: “Listen, we should seriously think about
getting the hell outta here.”
“What? We’re seeing history being re-enacted
here. It doesn’t get any better than this. You can’t wanna leave now.”
“Look, you just don’t get it, do yuh? We are in
real trouble here…”
Shawnee’s answer was drowned out by the sound of
gunfire reverberating down the glen. They listened as the crack of single shots
was engulfed in a series of booming explosions. As a second burst of gunfire tore
through the air the door to the cottage was flung open and a tall figure
strutted into view.
To the concealed watchers, here was a man who
commanded attention. He was resplendent in a uniform of scarlet and white, his
wide-skirted coat edged with silver braid. Beneath his black tricorn hat he
wore a grey wig, which hung over the scarlet collar of his uniform like the
locks of a Greek hero. He stood a hundred yards from Sam and Shawnee, his
outline blurred by the mist, but both could clearly make out the vivid red scar
that extended from his right eye to the corner of his mouth.
Behind him came two of the soldiers they’d seen
earlier. The tall figure listened as the gunfire echoed amongst the surrounding
hills before it finally died away. What he had heard was not to his liking. He
barked out a series of commands which sent his men trotting westwards.
He glared after them for a few moments, his
right hand idly tracing the scar on his cheek. Suddenly he turned and stared
directly at his two watchers, as if he sensed their presence amongst the trees.
At last his gaze fell away and he turned and
withdrew into the cottage.
“Have you ever seen such a mean-looking son of a
bitch?” Sam hissed.
Shawnee seemed distinctly unsettled. “I know
that guy’s face; there’s a book my dad got me…” She glanced uneasily around
her. “Maybe it is time we thought about getting outta here.”
He nodded in sharp agreement. “We need to work
our way round the back of the cottage, try to locate the car. If it’s there,
fine. If not, we go on foot and get the hell outta this godforsaken place.”
Shawnee gave him a reassuring smile. “No one’s
gonna believe a word of this when we get back home.”
Sam did his best to smile in reply.
Keeping low to the ground they circled around
the back of the cottage. Sam regularly glanced over his shoulder to make sure
Shawnee was behind him. Absurdly, he’d never seen her look so lovely. Her
beautiful features were flushed with excitement; her long, auburn hair damp and
untidy as though she’d just stepped out of the shower.
They reached the patch of scrub that marked the
spot where they’d left the car. Sam worked his way through the undergrowth
until he was on the edge of the clearing, then came to a halt.
Shawnee nudged him from behind.
“Is the car there?”
He turned and shook his head.
“What’s wrong?” she hissed.
He shrugged evasively. “Car’s not there. C’mon,
we’ll back off and try somewhere else.”
“What is it, Sam? What are you seeing?”
She edged him out of the way, and looked beyond
him, into the clearing. The spot where they had earlier parked the car was now
occupied by a little stone-built outhouse. Along the near wall, face down on
the ground, lay three figures; an elderly couple and a youth of about twelve.
All were dressed in shades of red tartan, which appeared to be melting into the
ground. Shawnee held her hands over her mouth as she realised each figure was
lying in a pool of its own blood.
“Oh sweet Jesus, that girl we saw; oh Jesus,
Sam… This is all for real, isn’t it?”
Sam’s eyes were wide with shock. “We need to get
outta here. Need to get away from this place… Get as far’s we can.”
“Oh dear God, Sam, what’ve we got ourselves
into?”
His face taut with fear Sam led the way back
through the bushes, away from the clearing, keeping the enclosure wall to their
right. At the opposite side of the wall they came upon a track, well-churned by
footprints, which seemed to follow the same route as the road on which they’d
earlier driven.
Sam was reluctant to lead Shawnee away from the
undergrowth, but this seemed the only exit from the glen. Nervously they joined
the path. As far as they could see in either direction the landscape was empty.
The only sound to be heard was the gurgling of the burn to their left. As
Inverlaragain Cottage began to disappear behind them there was a temptation to
believe that all was normal in the world; that any abnormality had also
vanished into the mist.
This illusion lasted all of two minutes. Ahead
of them the path sloped gently for about fifty yards before disappearing into
the gloom. Out of this grey blanket two scarlet shapes suddenly materialised.
Sam had thought himself prepared for anything, but he stood frozen in horror as
two of the redcoats they’d seen earlier emerged from the mist. Any hope that
they were merely phantoms from the past disappeared when the soldiers began
running towards them, barking out commands.
Shawnee grabbed Sam by the hand and led him
scampering back along the path towards the undergrowth. The shouts of their
pursuers grew more distant as they fell farther and farther behind. By the time
Inverlaragain cottage loomed out of the mist the soldiers could barely be heard
behind them.
As the couple came abreast of the cottage they
stopped, uncertain whether to continue westwards, or risk being cornered amongst
the undergrowth. During that moment’s hesitation another burst of gunfire
echoed down the glen. Before they could react the door of the cottage was
angrily flung open and the tall officer reappeared barely ten yards away.
Instantly his attention was focused on Shawnee,
even as he pulled a flintlock pistol from his waistband and pointed it at Sam.
“
Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Bonjour, Monsieur
.”
He indicated the entrance to the cottage. “
Ici, s’il vous plait
.”
Like gazelle cornered by lions, the young couple
stared wildly around them, searching for some avenue of escape. Sam considered
their chances of making a run for it.
The officer seemed to read this in his eyes. He
stepped closer and levelled the pistol directly at Sam’s head. “Ah, ah,” he
said reproachfully.
Sam was aware of heavy footsteps approaching
from behind. He caught a glimpse of the officer nodding in his direction.
Moments later he felt as if he’d been hit by a sledgehammer.
Sam regained consciousness. Pain thumped
his skull, far worse than any hangover. Before him stood a character from a
colonial theme party.
“He wakes, sir,” it yelled eagerly. “Shall I
begin…?”
“All in good time, Corporal,” said another, more
cultured voice. “T’will avail us more if we hear what our mysterious visitor
has to say while he yet has the tongue to say it.”
Sam found himself strapped to a chair, unable to
turn and locate the second speaker. He recognised the character standing before
him as one of the redcoat soldiers they’d seen earlier. The expression on his
coarse, rustic face indicated he was having a good day.
It was as though he’d awakened in a museum. By
the light of a tiny window he could see bare stone walls, with here and there
primitive-looking furniture scattered about a straw-covered floor. He realised
he was under the thatched roof of Inverlaragain Cottage.
“Shawnee!” he yelled. “Shawnee! Where is she,
you sons of bitches? If any of you scumbags… ”
“I’m here, Sam,” she called out from behind him.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Really, I’m okay” Her voice was clear
and calm.
He strained against the bindings that held him
to the chair. “Cut me loose, you bastards, or so help me God…”
“Enough!” the cultured voice interjected. “Such
exquisite torturing of the King’s English is but brief entertainment for a
gentleman…”
“Aw screw all that horse shit!” Sam yelled. “Cut
me loose, you sonofabitch!”
The soldier was given a sign by his master, and
brought one of his fists crashing down on the side of Sam’s head, knocking over
both chair and occupant.
Sam took a few moments to absorb the crushing
pain of the blow. He could hear Shawnee sobbing in the background as he and the
chair were hauled upright, and decided a show of defiance was his best way of
keeping up her spirits.
“That the best y’can do, ya pussy? Shawnee could
hit harder’n that.”
The soldier looked at his superior for his
approval. This time his fist caught the side of Sam’s face, splitting his
mouth.
“Stop it, please!” cried Shawnee. “Sam, what’re
you doing? Don’t antagonize them.”
Sam could see the redcoat searching his master’s
face. The look of disappointment told him he was to be spared for the time
being.
The cultured voice continued: “Monsieur, as one gentleman
to another, let us establish an understanding. One of us has been charged, by
God’s grace, to serve and protect the interests of His Majesty throughout this
kingdom. The other has been apprehended skulking in a valley infested by
savages who are embarked in armed rebellion against our noble sovereign. An
unusual occurrence in itself, you must own, but made doubly so by the fact that
this gentleman has been apprehended without weapons, or horses. Most
extraordinary of all, the gentleman and his good lady are attired in little
more than undergarments.” The speaker stepped into Sam’s view. “Of the two
gentlemen, Monsieur, upon whom would one consider it more incumbent to maintain
a civil tongue?”
Even in the dingy light of the cottage the man
cut an imposing figure. He was over six feet tall, his uniform an impressionist
portrait of burning reds, delicate whites, fringes of blue and silver. The
lurid scar that extended from his right eye to the corner of his mouth cut a
savage swathe through an otherwise handsome face, complementing eyes that were
the colour of ice beneath a cloudless sky.