Authors: Bob Atkinson
Longholme drew a long breath. “Whether or no you
choose to believe the facts of our miserable fate, you must at least hear what
we have to…”
“…And how should ourselfs know truth from
fancy?” Achnacon interrupted sharply. “You may tell ourselfs any story that
pleases you. How shall we know you are not a part of this wickedness that is
planned against us?”
Indignation coloured Longholme’s face, painting
his scar a vivid purple. “Sir, as an officer and a gentleman I give you my word
of honour…”
Achnacon handed his musket to the nearest
bodach
,
and drew a long, wicked-looking dirk from its scabbard. He pointed the blade at
the officer’s chest, then spun it around to offer him the handle. Uneasily
Longholme took the weapon.
Achnacon spoke as if he was preaching fire and
brimstone to a sinner: “In this land men of honour swear upon the holy iron of
the dirk, that they be cursed to suffer a coward’s death, alone and without
friends, should their word be broke.”
Longholme forced the cold metal to his lips.
“All that I have told you is true, ’pon my sworn oath as an English gentleman,”
he announced stiffly.
Achnacon stared into the officer’s eyes as he
retrieved his dirk. At last he nodded and looked beyond Longholme to his
bedraggled companions.
“How long since yourself and your men have
eaten?”
The officer’s brow furrowed as he counted back
the lost meals. “The breakfast before yesterday. A last ration of bread and
cheese before we were transferred from Fort William.”
“Yourselfs will be hungry then.”
Longholme nodded, rigid and formal. “Whom do I
have the honour of addressing?”
The old clansman bowed, as elegantly as any
well-bred gentleman.
“I am Donald Cameron of Glen Laragain, known to
friend and foe alike as Achnacon.”
“Achnacon,” repeated the other. “Achnacon of
Glen Laragain.”
“And yourself, sir?” Achnacon enquired lightly.
The officer directed a sharp bow at the
Highlander. “Giles Fawkener Longholme… formerly lieutenant of a grenadier
company, now a wretched bandit skulking in a land at war with itself. We meet
under extraordinary circumstances, sir, but I am no less honoured to make your
acquaintance.”
The two men shook hands briefly, aged clansman
and elegant gentleman, before Longholme motioned his men to join him. As the
redcoats came forward two of them addressed the Highlanders in their own
tongue. Achnacon saw the surprise on Andy’s face.
“Soldiering is an honourable profession, is it
not? Many a canny chieftain has sons in both armies, as an inshurance, you
understand.”
They were to learn that two of Longholme’s men
were clansmen of Macleod of Raasay, who’d found themselves in the wrong uniform
when the rebellion broke out. They’d refused to take part in the Glen Laragain
operation and had been arrested on their return to Fort William. The remaining
redcoats came from the northern shires of England. Four of them had also
grounded their weapons rather than take part in the slaughter. All claimed there
were many others of like mind who’d been too afraid, or too prudent, to do
likewise.
The two other redcoats had been arrested on
charges of cowardice in the face of the enemy. Both had been ostracised by
their fellows. One was a pale, nervous-looking boy of sixteen. Andy took an
instant dislike to the other man; a stocky, brutish-looking individual who
glanced slyly around him without making eye contact with anyone. Andy
recognised the type: coarse, primitive, drawn to the military, not by
patriotism, or the promise of regular meals, but by murderous instinct.
He made up his mind to keep them all at arms
length, advising Achnacon not to reveal him as anything other than a common
clansman.
Achnacon began to lead the motley group along
the path, his aged comrades holding the flanks, Macmillan bringing up the rear.
Andy smiled at the image of that half-naked old warrior subtly interrogating
the elegant individual who strode beside him.
“However did yourselfs manage to escape the
clutches of your gaolers?” he enquired casually.
Longholme’s face darkened. “ ’Pon my arrest my
commanding officer saw fit to transport his former second in command in a
damned supply ship, as though he were a common criminal, by God.”
“The chentleman shows as much regard for his own
people as he has shown for mine.”
“Captain Caroline Frederick Scott is no
gentleman, sir. The man is as crude and ill-mannered a villain as ever it has
been my singular misfortune to serve under. I daresay it flattered the
creature’s vanity to have been granted power over one such as I.”
“And how did yourselfs manage to escape?”
Achnacon enquired again.
“The fools transported us from Fort William to
our ship in a single wherry, with no more than two fellows to guard us. That
damned idiot Scott must have supposed us disinclined to hazard an escape in
such a dangerous country. My men overpowered the escort in a trice.”
Achnacon came to a halt. “But why came you here,
to the blighted lands of Glen Laragain? Why do you not flee to your homes in
Raasay Isle, or in faraway England?”
“I announced my intention to return to this
valley the instant we came ashore. The others elected among themselves to
remain together as a body. I cannot answer what lies in their souls, any more
than I may claim to be responsible for their conduct. Once they have fed and
rested they may elect to go elsewhere.”
Achnacon continued along the path, drawing the
disparate group along with him.
“…And yourself, sir, what lies in your own
soul?”
Longholme considered the question. “In our
different ways, Achnacon of Glen Laragain, we are not unalike. The mark of a
soldier’s life is upon you, clear as day. You too would have sworn to bear true
allegiance to a royal master. Perhaps you too came to learn that allegiance and
conscience sometimes make uneasy bedfellows.”
“Yourself has found your conscience amid the
ruins of Glen Laragain, sir?” The Highlander’s voice was edged with outrage.
“Whatever may have been in my heart, sir, my
hands are free of blood,” Longholme said briskly. “That’s the God’s truth of
it. I answered my orders, I directed my men, as any officer must. There alone
lies my guilt.”
Achnacon nodded, the red anger fading from his
cheeks.
“Yourself has said that each and every one of us
is in mortal danger. Are we to be attacked again, like wounded deer that have
survived the hunt?”
“Your resistance three days past has made your
enemy all the more determined, sir. Since the original order came from none
other than the Duke of Cumberland, the matter has become an issue unto itself.
Captain Scott has sworn to carry fire and sword from one end of this valley to
the other. He has vowed that the least resistance will incur the severest
penalty, irrespective of age or sex. Privately he has sworn vengeance for the
losses suffered on the previous occasion. I have endeavoured to inform the good
captain that His Royal Highness will deny any part in the madness as soon as
other men see the insanity of it. The fool believes his craven obedience to the
royal command can only lead to his own advancement.”
“And yourself, sir; you have chose to forsake
your oath of allegiance, to risk the gallows for a people you thought your
enemy… ’tis a queer tale.”
Longholme’s face tightened, but his voice
remained impassive. “How fickle is human fate, Achnacon of Glen Laragain. It
has occurred to me that men are as leaves borne on the wind, to be carried
where e’er the winds may please. As you say, sir, mine is a queer tale indeed.
Three days past I was the King’s man and proud of it. But my mind was turned in
the most extraordinary fashion. I scarce still believe the facts of it myself.”
Achnacon looked questioningly at the officer.
“Suffice it to say that formerly my conscience
belonged to my royal master, but my conscience is now my own again.”
The Highlander nodded. “…And what would your
conscience have to say about The Chuke of Cumberland’s unfinished business?”
Longholme looked directly at the old clansman.
“My conscience would cry out to all in this valley; leave here now, this very
day. Take as much as you may carry, and flee from this place. Harbour no
thoughts of returning until this damnable business is over, or until the Duke’s
wrath has been satisfied elsewhere. Then and only then should you turn your
face to your native heath once more.”
Achnacon paled. “But where would we go? Who
would dare giff us food and shelter in defiance of the king’s son? Our
neighbours in Glen Loy? Glen Mallie? They are Locheil’s people like ourselfs,
but who among them would risk such terrible retribution? And what would we
return to? With our homes burnt, our crops destroyed, our cattle took, we would
return to a slow death in a country ravaged by war. No, sir, every one of my
people will tell yourself what I am telling you now; if we must die, then
better we die here in our own land.”
Longholme nodded impassively. “In truth, sir,
your response is no less than I had expected, and no more than I had feared.
Before your mind is set, however, you should know they plan to attack you
tomorrow, shortly after noon…”
“…Tomorrow?” echoed Achnacon. “Your Captain
Scott is anxious to see an end to the business.”
“Indeed, sir, that he is. Three companies, with
the bold captain at their head, will approach from the east. A further three
companies will approach from the west, travelling the same route my men and I
followed this very day. Six hundred men, drawn from three regiments, will take
the field against you. Captain Scott’s forces have the easier route, and with
them will come two pieces of field artillery.”
“Artillery?” Achnacon repeated, dismay written
across his face.
“Coehorn mortars. Small, and easy carried over
rough ground, effective up to eight hundred yards. With these he may demolish
any resistance, with small risk to himself. I must own, the man is boorish and
coarse, but he is a methodical soldier.”
Achnacon blanched at the prospect of what they
were about to face. He stole a glance at his comrades, young and old, who
trudged along behind him, each man soaked to the skin. His feisty old friend,
Larachmor, grinned back at him, defying the elements to do their worst.
The rain was now coming down in torrents.
Achnacon could see the clachan of
Ceann Laragain
three or four hundred
yards ahead, and hurried the rain-soaked men towards the nearest cottage. Once
inside they threw off their outer clothing, while one of the old warriors
hurried to light a fire. Before long the smoky warmth from the burning peat
began to penetrate the circle of damp, shivering men.
Larachmor displayed another of his talents by
preparing a large pot of cooked oatmeal. He glowered evilly at the redcoats as
they devoured his food, but he was bound by the laws of Highland hospitality to
deny no starving man shelter or sustenance.
At the first opportunity Achnacon took Longholme
to one side. “Why do your former masters despise us so?” he asked darkly. “In
what way have we made ourselfs unworthy to breathe even the same air as the
beasts of the field?”
“You have defied them, sir,” Longholme
explained. “You would not die when it was ordered that you should. Your very
existence has become an affront to them.”
Achnacon shook his head bleakly. “…At least
there is comfort in knowing the lassies and children will be safe. The
shielings will be a refuge to those who cannot fight.”
“If you refer to your hilltop summer dwellings;
alas, your enemies are aware of their existence. They have foreseen that this
would be your response and plan to deploy a portion of their forces along the
ridges above the valley.”
Across the room Andy saw Achnacon’s face turn
grey, his hands trembling as if the rain had brought on a fever. He hurried
over.
His voice barely more than a whisper, Achnacon
repeated all that the officer had said. Andy wondered aloud if they could trust
the word of a man who had turned his back on his comrades. Longholme’s ear had grown
accustomed to Andy’s vernacular, and he was outraged at the insult.
Instinctively he reached for the sword that had been taken from him at Fort
William. Achnacon stepped in to smooth ruffled feathers, drawing his friend to
one side and insisting he withdraw the slur.
“Ah’m more concerned about the safety of you,
and Ishbel, and all the others, than in yon big eejit’s hurt pride,” Macmillan
hissed defiantly.
“No more than I, my friend, but himself has give
his word of honour, and what would our world be coming to if one chentleman was
to dispute the sworn word of another?”
Andy held his tongue. He had come to love so
much about this archaic world he was reluctant to disturb such noble ideals. In
the end he apologised to the redcoat only to oblige his friend. Honour barely
satisfied, Longholme stiffly rejoined his men.
Andy was still trading disdainful looks with the
officer when Achnacon’s young messenger entered the cottage. The water poured
from the boy’s clothing as he delivered his report. Achnacon questioned the lad
for a few minutes before he ruffled his hair like a proud father, and directed
him towards the fire.