Calum's Sword

by Leigh Barker

bound to be an inn there.”

  “Aye,” said John grinning, “there is that. A bonny inn, if I recall.” He slapped Calum on the shoulder and reached for his horse’s reins to set off after the retreating army.

  Calum caught his arm and pulled him up. “Maybe we should rest a while. Just until all those men who’d kill us have gone off for a dram and a bite of supper.”

  John looked back and pulled a face. Disappointed at the delay in the visit to the inn, but not stupid. He nodded. “A rest would be a welcome thing after all that excitement.”

  They sat back against the thick tree, pulled their plaids around them, and closed their eyes. It had been a big day.

 

 

  Colonel York elbowed his way through the mass of redcoats and highlanders as they grabbed whatever they could before heading off for Edinburgh as fast as they could. A soldier in a dirty and bloody redcoat slammed into him, growled, and looked up. York hit him in the teeth with the hilt of the dagger he’d been carrying unsheathed. It was just luck that it hadn’t been the blade. The soldier grunted and fell into the gutter, where he would wake later, robbed and naked. But alive, though very ungrateful.

  York continued up the narrow street, pushing aside smaller men who wouldn’t walk around him, and stepping into doorways to let bigger ones pass. He looked up at the buildings every few yards until he was sure he was where he wanted to be, and then stepped into an alley and the darker shadows against the wall, from where he could see the first-floor windows of the building across the street and the shadowy figures silhouetted against the dirty glass by a flickering candle.

 

 

  It wasn’t a candle that lit the dirty room but an oil lamp with glass now almost completely blackened by smoke. Donald Campbell, the last survivor of the foiled attempt to grab Sir William Richmond, paced nervously back and forth in front of the dirty window and listened to the English captain sitting on the edge of a rough wooden table.

  “If you have no proof of this,” said the captain, “then we have only your word. And that against an English earl and a colonel in His Majesty’s dragoons does not carry much weight.”

  “I have a paper, sir,” said Campbell.

  “A paper?” Captain Lamb stood up and put out his hand. “What kind of paper? Let me see.” He took the crumpled piece of paper from Campbell, leaned over the lamp, and read it. “A pass?”

  “Yes, sir. A pass for me and others to be out of camp on the day of the ambush.”

  Captain Lamb shook his head. “It is not enough.” He handed back the note. “You will have to find something better than this.”

  “Sir?” said Campbell. “Do you want me to tell the colonel we will try for the duke again, so you can wait to catch him red-handed?”

  Captain Lamb shook his head. “No, he will not believe that. One incident with marauding robbers is thin… another will reek like a week-old fish.” He paced slowly for a while as he thought it through. “But he is not done yet, not by a long march. Watch him, and when he makes his next move, come to me.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Campbell, looking worried. “But if he suspects anything, it will be very bad for me.”

  “Then,” said Lamb with a hard look, “make sure he does not suspect anything.”

  Campbell strode to the door, muttering. “M’be so, but I’ll not be the only one to fall.”

  Lamb turned his back and looked out of the window at the mob streaming past, sighed heavily, and returned to the table to extinguish the light.

 

 

  As Campbell stepped out onto the teeming narrow street, Colonel York emerged from the alley, strode after him, and put his hand on the startled man’s shoulder.

  “Sir! What? How?” Campbell wasn’t handling the surprise too well.

  York smiled reassuringly. “Ah, Donald. What the blazes are you doing here?”

  Donald tried to step away, but York’s grip tightened on his shoulder.

  “Here, sir?” said Donald and licked his dry lips.

  “Yes, Donald,” said York with a smile. “Here.”

  “You… err…” Donald looked around quickly in case help was at hand. “You asked me to… err… report to you when the err… job was… err… done.”

  “Ah!” said York, also looking around and seeing Lamb exit the building and head up the street. He recognised him immediately for what he was, an agent for the crown. He smiled. “You did very well to find me here, amid all this…” He waved a hand to illustrate ‘this’.

  “Aye, my lord,” Campbell said, trying to smile and failing. “It’s skill, my lord. What you pay me for.”

  “Well, it’s very impressive. This skill.” York was still smiling, but it wasn’t pleasant. “And is it?”

  Campbell blinked slowly and tried to clear his head. “Is it what, my lord?”

  York released the man’s shoulder. “The job, Donald. Is the job done?”

  “Aye, sir. Done, and more.”

  “More, Donald?” York raised his hand. “Never mind. We shall speak of this later. There may well be a bonus for you.” The smile again. “A surprise, as it were.”

  Unconsciously, Donald stared directly up at the now-darkened window. “Thank you, my lord.”

  York followed his look and nodded. “So away with you. We will complete our business in Edinburgh.” He waved his hands to move him on when he showed no sign of leaving. “Away now, before we’re seen.”

  Donald stared at him for several moments, confusion on his face as he tried to see through the impassive smile. When a redcoat patrol approached, he turned and walked quickly up the street.

  York’s smile vanished as he turned to the patrol. “That man!” he called, pointing at Donald. “He has robbed and killed an officer!”

  The soldiers unslung their muskets and spread out across the street, now suddenly emptying of soldiers and women helpers.

  Donald looked back, cried out and started to run. He got three paces before the musket balls shattered his back.

  York walked away in the direction Lamb had taken, drew his dagger, and held it close to his leg, for quick and unseen use.

 

 

  Calum and John were probably close enough to hear the volley that filled the next street with black smoke, but the noise from the mob grabbing everything that wasn’t nailed down drowned it out.

  John grabbed a passing redcoat and hung on to him when he squirmed.

  “What?” said the redcoat, still pulling but getting nowhere.

  “We’re separated from our mates,” said Calum, leaning closer to the captured man and shouting into his ear.

  “So what do you want me to do about it?”

  “It’s the Black Watch,” Calum continued. “Have you seen them?”

  The man glared at him, then realised he wasn’t going anywhere until he answered, as escape from the iron grip wasn’t going to happen any time soon. “I saw some bog-dwellers… highlanders down that way.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Drinking themselves stupid at the inn.”

  John released the man, and he lurched away, shouting something unheard but easily guessed.

  “Did the wee man say there was an inn?” said John.

  “He did that.” Calum set off.

  John watched him go for three paces, gave a start as he realised he was standing when there was an inn nearby, and half-ran after him. The inn wouldn’t close this night, but a battle, especially a losing one, gives men a powerful thirst, and there was only so much ale.

  Ten minutes later they reached the inn, with John now leading, as the drunk and angry soldiers seemed somehow less inclined to shoulder a blacksmith built like a brick outhouse. He pushed open the dirty wooden door and smiled back at Calum, who ducked under his friend’s arm and went in first, followed instantly by the thirsty smith.

  The street had been noisy and full of battered and bloody troops, but this inn was even worse. The walls were practically groaning under the
crush of bodies.

  Calum stopped and waved his friend past to make a path to the bar. Something John didn’t need to be told twice. A minute later, the harassed innkeeper was leaning over the bar awash with ale and waiting to fill the needs of the good man, who had him in a grip of death by the scruff of his neck.

  Another minute and they had mugs of ale in their hands. John downed his in one long swallow and butted the innkeeper on the shoulder with the empty mug. The subtle technique worked, and he had another mug to savour more slowly. This time taking two whole swallows.

  Calum looked around the crowded barroom slowly, saw what he needed, and weaved his way through the drunken men and whores to a table with five highlanders and a growing pile of beer mugs. He put his fists on the table and leaned forward to shout above the din.

  “Where is your regiment?”

  The highlanders looked him up and down slowly. John Mackenzie, a surly and scruffy sergeant of the Black Watch scowled at him and put down his beer. “Who wants to know?” He leaned forward against the table and looked Calum over again. “A MacLean?” He squinted his bleary eyes. “Your clan sides with the Pretender.”

  “Aye,” said Calum, “some of my clan stand with him.” He took his fists off the table and stood upright. “But this MacLean is a scout for the Royal Highland Regiment.”

  The men at the table visibly relaxed, settled back, and picked up their mugs. Mackenzie didn’t.

  “I‘ve no heard of a MacLean scouting for the Black Watch.” He squinted again, for effect. It failed, just making him look stupid.

  Calum shrugged. “It’s a big army.” He met the man’s watery stare. “And do they tell a lowly sergeant