Authors: Bob Atkinson
Achnacon had materialised barely ten yards away,
accompanied by two youths. All were dressed in red tartan phillamors. On each
head was perched a blue bonnet, adorned with a representation of a white rose.
The hilts of broadsword and dirk extended from scabbards on either side of Achnacon’s
waistband.
“My apologies for leaving you so long to your
own devices. There was other matters to which I was obliged to attend.”
“It’s good tae see you again,” Andy declared,
his own surly rebel still held in his gaze. “And yer family?”
“Better than many of their kinfolk,” replied the
Highlander. “They have took to the high shielings, with the others who
escaped.” He stepped closer to the two soldiers. “I have come to escort you to
a house one half mile from this spot. There you will meet other strangers like
yourselfs who have come to help. There you will find food…”
“Food?” Rae echoed, his attention instantly torn
from his uprising. “Ye say there’s food at this other place?”
Achnacon nodded.
“That’s what Ah’ve been waiting tae hear!” Rae
exclaimed. “Come on then. What are we hanging about here for?”
At last Andy was able to turn and face the old
man. Achnacon looked tired and haggard, as if part of him had succumbed to his
original destiny. The corporal found himself struggling for words.
“Ah couldn’t stop it… what they did tae yer
house… it wasn’t supposed tae happen until the twenty-first…”
“Corpohral Andy,” Achnacon interrupted, “I was
told how you fought like a hero to safe us all, when others would have run to
safe themselfs. How yourself would not leave a burning house until all had made
their escape. ’Tis I should beg your forgiveness. I had seen the signs and
still I allowed my wits to be stole away…” He indicated the blisters on Andy’s
legs. “I was told yourself was unhurt, but I see this is not the way of it.”
“It’s no’ as bad as it looks.” The corporal
nodded towards Jamie. “Thanks to that wee man…”
A gruff smile touched Achnacon’s grizzled
features. “’Tis no more than I would expect from a Macsorley of
Muirshearlach
.”
“Ye said something about food,” recalled Rae, as
subtly as his stomach would allow.
“Och, but of course. Fine words may nourish a
man’s soul, but they will never fill an empty belly.” Achnacon spoke briefly to
his two young followers, then with an expansive gesture he indicated eastwards.
“Young Lachlan will lead the way. Those who… ah, whose bellies are more empty
than others may dash on ahead with Lachlan.”
As Rae and Ferguson were about to charge off,
the corporal caught their attention.
“The jimpy and the ammo, yer webbing as well.
Collect it and take it with ye.”
Ferguson looked to Rae, who hesitated for a
moment, before making for the out-building to gather his gear. Ferguson did
likewise and in moments the three of them were disappearing over the nearest
hill, Achnacon’s young guide in the lead, like a hare in a greyhound race.
“The old and infirm must tread a softer path,”
said Achnacon. “Young Donald will march at our tail. Our good friend
Muirshearlach
may roam as himself sees fit.”
“Ah’ll bring up the rear with the young lad,”
said Jamie.
A shadow darkened Achnacon’s face. “Be not
offended if Donald declines conversation. ’Tis no easy matter to become the man
of the house overnight.”
Jamie nodded. “Ah’ll get the rest of the gear.”
Like two friends strolling in the park, Achnacon
and Andy made their way slowly along the ancient path.
“Tell me, young Andy, what is the punishment for
insubordination in your army? The Prince will not suffer flogging in the
Highland army, on any account, whatever. But I am told the Chuke off Cumberland
has no such scruples…”
Andy knew the old clansman was still trying to
unravel the mystery of these strangers in his midst, but he was too tired for
mind games.
“You said there were others like us; Ah take it
they’re soldiers too.”
“Two of them was armed, like yourselfs. The
other two? I think not. One is said to be as fair as any lass in Glen
Laragain.”
“One of them’s a woman?”
“T’would appear they are as much a mystery to
yourself as yourself is to them. All I have spoke to carry the same tale; that
the attack upon my people has been ordained, but all have done what they can to
forestall it.”
“Ah don’t know about the others, but a fat lot
of good we were,” Andy said miserably.
Achnacon came to a halt. He grasped the soldier
by the arm. “Because of yourself, Achnacon and his family is safe. Because of
your musket fire, others to the west made their escape before the soldiers
came.”
“How many?” Macmillan asked hoarsely.
“How many?”
“How many didn’t get away?”
“We think two and thirty have been lost.”
“…Aw Dear God…”
Achnacon searched out the soldier’s eyes. “Five
of every six of us is safe. Our losses was least to the west of Achnacon.”
Andy turned away, trying to conceal his
emotions, but Achnacon had seen the brightness in the soldier’s eyes. His own
grief trickled unashamedly down his face, but he allowed his friend the privacy
of his tears. He had proved himself to be brave and resourceful, this young
soldier, but it was clear his soul was more than that of a simple warrior.
The old Highlander looked over his shoulder.
Muirshearlach
had lost no time in befriending young Donald. The lad was being taught how to
march in step, his blue bonnet already traded for the opportunity to carry one
of the soldier’s weapons.
Their destination was the clachan of
Meall An
Fhraoich
, ‘the hill of heather’. Here too one of the buildings was a burnt-out
shell. They were taken to a cottage beside the Laragain burn. Outside, there
was nothing to indicate the building was occupied, but as Andy’s eyes adjusted
to the gloom he could make out little groups clustered here and there. He felt
as though he’d entered a mountain bothy, already occupied by bands of hikers,
each claiming their own portion of space.
A group of women and youths, all bedecked in
various shades of tartan, squatted by the cold ashes of the peat fire, perhaps
drawn there by force of habit. A few of them gazed listlessly in the strangers’
direction.
To their left two men were laid out on
rudimentary beds, with a young woman in attendance. On the other side of the
room a larger bed supported three figures, all apparently asleep. In the middle
was a woman clothed in a tartan similar to Achnacon’s. On either side of her
lay a young couple. Both were dressed, ridiculously, in shorts, sweatshirts and
hiking boots. In the centre of the room, Rae and Ferguson sat at a wooden
table, gorging on the contents of a large communal bowl, like predators
devouring a kill.
Jamie spoke in a hushed voice. “When Achnacon
said there were others like us Ah wondered if we were gonnae meet some of those
recruits. But Ah don’t recognise any of this lot.”
“Aye. It’s like a refugee camp, isn’t it?”
Achnacon spoke quietly to two of the women, and
immediately one made herself busy preparing food while the other began to make
up another bed of sorts.
“The lassies will attend to your needs,” the old
man said softly. “I regret there is other matters to which I, myself, must now
attend.”
“Is there anything we can do?” Macmillan asked.
“No, my friend. For the moment you must rest,
safe your strength. I fear we will have need of yourselfs again before long.”
He summoned the four youths gathered around the ashes of the fire. “Achnacon
must have keen eyes to guard the glen, and strong legs to warn him of danger.
Until we meet again, chentlemen…”
As the old clansman led his troops away, gentle
hands steered the two soldiers towards the table, where one of the women had
already made room for them.
“How’s the grub?” Macsorley asked brightly.
“No’ bad, considering,” Ferguson replied.
“Considering?”
“Considering ye don’t know what yer eating,”
grumbled Rae.
“When ye think of what these people’ve been
through, we can count ourselves lucky we’re getting anything at all,” Macmillan
said scathingly.
“Aye, well, Ah didn’t ask tae be here, so ye’ll
excuse me if Ah don’t tip the waitress.”
“None of us asked tae be here,” hissed the
corporal, “but we’re all in the same mess taegether, and we’re no’ gonnae last
five minutes unless we work as a team.”
Rae’s chair crashed to the ground as he rose to
his feet. “Ye’ll need tae excuse me too… Chentlemen,” he snarled.
Ferguson grimaced apologetically as he too rose
from the table. “The big man gets a bit moody at times. He’ll be all right in a
couple of days.”
As Fergie followed his friend outside Jamie
murmured: “Just what we needed. A headcase behind the G.P.M.G.”
The N.C.O. managed a long-suffering smile.
“Didn’t ye know? It’s part of the job description.”
The food, Jamie informed his corporal, was cold
brose; an oatmeal dish which clansmen carried with them on their forays. As
they ate, one of the women knelt beside Macmillan and applied an ointment of
sorts to his legs. She was young, perhaps no more than eighteen years old, with
the type of mischievous face that might have been full of the joys of life
under different circumstances. Not once did she make eye contact with either
soldier, although at one point Jamie managed to bring a reluctant smile to her
mouth.
“What did ye say?” Andy wanted to know.
An oblique grin appeared Jamie’s face. “Ah told
her she was doing a grand job, but no’ tae forget the wee blister under yer
sporran…”
The N.C.O. smiled. “She’s a bonny wee thing,
isn’t she?”
“Aye; did ye get a look at that wee doll in the
corner? What a honey.”
The young woman had barely rejoined the others
at the peat fire when the silence was broken by a series of loud moans. One of
the figures in the corner had begun to thrash about in his sleep. His nurse
dabbed his brow with a cloth, while his companion stood awkwardly to one side,
embarrassed at the commotion.
“Time we were introduced,” said Andy. The nurse
had quieted her patient by the time the two men arrived at his bedside. He was
staring intently at her; although his eyes were focused elsewhere.
His companion spoke in Gaelic to Macmillan.
“Sorry, pal, Ah don’t speak the lingo.”
The man gaped stupidly at him.
“No speak
tcheuchter
. Comprendez?”
“You speak English,” the man gasped. “I thought,
with the plaids…” His voice carried the distinctive lilt of the Gael, although
English didn’t appear to be a foreign language to him, the way it did with
Achnacon.
“Naw, we’re wearing this because we lost our
uniforms in a fire last night.” Andy glanced at Jamie, proudly sporting his
blue bonnet. “Although some of us seem tae be going native faster than others.”
The younger soldier held out his hand. “Name’s
Jamie Macsorley, by the way. This is Andy Macmillan.”
Awkwardly the man shook their hands. “I’m very
pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Colin Cameron, this is my brother,
Alistair.”
“Is he all right?” the corporal asked.
“Alistair was shot yesterday in a fight with the
English redcoats. We both were.” Colin stood on one leg to show the soldiers
his bandages. His expression changed from pride to concern. “Himself lost a lot
of blood, then he developed a fever overnight. Mary has not left his side since
he was carried in here.”
“Mary?” the two soldiers echoed in unison.
She remained oblivious to them, even though
Alistair had lapsed once more into unconsciousness.
“I just don’t know what to do. If anything were
to happen to himself…”
Andy guessed the younger brother couldn’t be
much older than eighteen. He looked frightened, alone and utterly out of place.
His gaze flicked nervously from one soldier to
the other. “The old gentleman…?”
“Achnacon.”
“Achnacon. He said there were other… strangers
like Alistair and myself who had appeared in the glen…”
“Aye, that would be us,” Andy confirmed
ruefully.
“That gunfire I heard to the west of here
yesterday…”
“Aye, that would’ve been us as well.”
At the far side of the room the two hikers had
also stirred from their corner. As they made their way over to join the
gathering a spirited discussion broke out between them.
“Mark ma words,” Jamie whispered, “these two
numpties will be bird-watchers from Cleethorpes. Ah’ve seen the type before.”
The newcomers came to a halt while they were
still a few yards away. The male bird-watcher scratched his head, then turned
to the other.
“Don’t suppose your dad ever taught y’any Scotch
words, huh?”