The Hill of the Red Fox

by Allan Campbell McLean

  “I am sorry, boy,” he said slowly, “but I was wild when I saw you at the window. As for the money, it is not yourself I would be hiding it from, not at all, at all. But there are other folks in this place who would like to be knowing what I have managed to put by me; folk who would squander their last penny and waste their time in idle talk about those who know the value of thrift.” He pulled at his long upper lip, and added, “Not that there was much in the box, but what is there was earned by the sweat of my brow.”

  He watched me closely, doubtless to see the effect of his words, but I looked down at my feet and did not speak.

  “Well, well, this is a fine chance for you and me to have a crack together, Alasdair,” he said, with some show of heartiness. “The cailleach and Mairi are away so the men must fend for themselves, eh? Sit you down, boy. The tatties are ready and there is cold mackerel in the press. A fine fish the mackerel. I always say there is just the one thing between cold mackerel and cold salmon, Alasdair. Do you know what that is? I’ll tell you. The price, Alasdair, the price. There is salmon going from here to London by the ton; aye, by the ton, boy. And fetching big money. Fools in the city wi’ more money than sense paying over ten shillings a pound for it. Think o’ that, Alasdair. Over ten shillings the pound! But you and me are not so foolish, eh? No ten shillings the pound for Alasdair Cameron and Murdo Beaton. Indeed, no. We take the mackerel — the poor man’s salmon — and what does it cost us?” He snapped his fingers. “Not that, boy. Not a penny piece, Alasdair. And a fine meal it makes us.”

  It was the first time I had ever heard him use my name, and I could not understand his sudden friendliness. All the time he was straining the potatoes and putting out the fish and making the tea, he chattered away unceasingly. When he sat in to table, he made no attempt to say the grace, but pushed the potatoes over to me and urged me to help myself.

  “Take plenty of tatties, Alasdair,” he said. “You will be hungry after the long day at the fank and there is nothing like tatties to build a person up. These are Kerr’s Pink. A grand tattie. Fine and dry. I don’t believe you would get the like o’ these in London, Alasdair.”

  “No,” I said, eating my food without really tasting it, and wondering what he was driving at.

  “Aye, I thought not,” he went on. “It is a fair disgrace the way poor people are robbed in the cities, paying good money for nothing but trash — just trash. Mind you, there is not the equal of these tatties in this place. I took home the seed from Dingwall, Alasdair, and a pretty penny it cost me between freight and everything, but I believe it was worth it for all that.” He pushed the dish across to me. “Take more, boy. Take more. We must feed you up so that your mother will never recognize you, eh?”

  I mumbled something about having had plenty, but he carried on as if he had never heard me, and all the time he was talking he was forking up great mouthfuls of potatoes and fish.

  “Mind, you,” he rattled on, “I see an awful difference in you already. You have fairly put on beef since you came to Achmore. The place is agreeing with you, boy. I believe you are liking it fine here, Alasdair.”

  “Yes, I like it fine,” I said eagerly.

  Murdo Beaton pushed his empty plate away and tipped back his chair, hooking one foot round the leg of the table.

  “I believe you will be after coming here every year,” he said.

  I swallowed a mouthful of strong, sweet tea and nodded.

  “Duncan Mòr says he will take me up to the top of the Storr next year,” I said.

  The words were out of my mouth before I remembered the enmity between the two of them, but he did not seem at all concerned.

  “Well, well, that is very good of the big fellow,” he said, “very good indeed.” He must have seen my look of surprise because he added quickly, “Oh, I have had my quarrels with Duncan Mòr, but he is a good enough man at heart.”

  I was so pleased to hear him speak well of Big Duncan that I could have forgiven him for all his surly conduct of the past few weeks. Perhaps, after all, I had misjudged him. Perhaps there was some simple explanation of the midnight meeting at the salmon fishing station, and the boat that had returned to the bay without one of its passengers. I was going to ask him outright, and I only succeeded in checking myself in the nick of time. If he thought I had been spying on him counting his money, it would not do to admit that I had followed him across the moor to the gorge.

  “I’m glad you spoke well of Duncan Mòr,” I said impulsively. “I’ll tell him so when I see him again.”

  “Oh, but I was never the man to bear a grudge,” said Murdo Beaton. “You see, Alasdair, some folk have a smooth tongue in their heads, but not me. I was aye slow to express myself, and it has given me the name of being a dour sort o’ beggar. You thought I was a dour sort o’ man now, did you not?”

  He thrust his long nose across the table, and his pale blue eyes were fixed squarely on my face. There was a wild gleam in his eyes, as if he were trying to contain some inner excitement, but I scoffed at myself for letting my imagination play tricks on me. There was nothing in the kitchen to excite him; only the two of us, on either side of the table, talking together. No wonder it was the first time I had noticed the strange light in his eyes; he had never before looked at me directly.

  Murdo Beaton repeated his question, “You thought I was a dour sort of man, did you not?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so,” I admitted, a little shamefaced to have been exposed by his frankness.

  “Ach, well, there’s more than yourself made the same mistake, Alasdair,” he said mildly. “Mind you, I was sort of reserved when you first came to Achmore. I thought to myself, here’s a smart boy from the city who will be after thinking the heather is growing out o’ my ears.” He shook his head. “I was wrong, right enough, and I always believe in admitting when I am wrong, which is more than I could say for a few in this place. Oh, I see my mistake now. I should have been frank and open with you from the start, Alasdair, because you are a boy after my own heart. You and I are going to get on fine together.”

  “Well, I’m pleased to hear it,” I said, “but I thought you didn’t want Mairi to talk to me.”

  “Not at all,” he declared. “Right enough, I said something to Mairi just after you came, but that was for the benefit of the cailleach. She is an old, old woman, Alasdair. She was never even the length o’ Kyle, and she has the notion that there is nothing good about city folk. The cailleach is too old to argue with; you must just say something to please her, and then that is the end of it.”

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “My mother had an aunt in Tunbridge Wells, and she didn’t approve of the pictures, so my mother didn’t dare tell her when we had been to a matinée.”

  “Isn’t that just what I am saying myself,” Murdo Beaton maintained. “Old folk get all sorts of queer ideas into their heads, but it is not right to argue with them.”

  “I suppose Mairi will soon be back,” I said, thinking how pleased she would be to see me on such friendly terms with her father.

  “Ach, I told the cailleach to make a ceilidh at Willie The Post’s,” he said. “Willie’s mother and herself are first cousins. Never you mind, Alasdair, what do you say to a spot of fishing off the rocks?”

  “Fine,” I said eagerly, “if you don’t think it will be too dark.”

  “Not at all,” he asserted. “There is a wee bit of mist over the sea, but it is just a grand night for the rocks.”

  I put on my raincoat and wellingtons and followed him to the byre where he took down his long cane rod from the rafters.

  “Aren’t you going to the meeting about the Hill Drainage Scheme?” I asked. “I heard the men talking about it. They said it was to be held at Hector MacLeod’s house.”

  “Well, no, Alasdair,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s not my place to go. You are the tenant here, so I can’t speak for this croft. I am just here with your permission.”

  I felt a secret glow of pride at his words, b
ut I thought it better not to say anything. Still chatting freely, he led the way down the croft and over the moor to the rocks.

  The tide was coming in and running strongly. Murdo Beaton walked out on a big black rock, rather like an enormous table, that was almost awash.

  He handed me the rod and said, “Cast your fly to one side and take it quickly through the water, but mind your step here. The tide is flowing fast and it is easy enough to get cut off on these rocks.”

  He did not need to warn me for I did not like the place. It was almost dark, and the ebb tide seemed to suck greedily at my legs as it washed back off the rock. Then the next wave foamed in to shore, breaking over the rock, and washing hard against my legs. There was something gloomy about the black rock and the mournful cries of the gulls and the sucking and surging of the sea in the rocks.

  I made a couple of half-hearted casts and, much to my surprise, I caught a small saithe.

  “Well done, Alasdair,” cried Murdo Beaton, and he hurried forward to unhook the fish for me.

  The tide had risen swiftly and the whole of the rock was now underwater. I was afraid of losing my footing on the slippery surface.

  “I think we had better get back,” I said doubtfully.

  “Aye, the tide is rising fast,” he agreed.

  We made our way across the submerged rock to the shore, and I was relieved when my feet touched dry ground again. The mist was drifting in from the sea, and the overhanging cliff was no more than a black shadow in the fading light.

  “Give me the rod,” said Murdo Beaton. “It would never do to be going back wi’ one wee cuddie.”

  He took the rod and worked his way out on a rock that was not yet under water, and started to fish. Every time he had a catch he unhooked the fish and tossed it ashore to me. I watched him anxiously, fearing he might lose his footing and be swept away, for the water was almost up to his knees. But he fished on without the slightest concern until I had over a dozen small fish strung on the line at my feet.

  At last he scrambled over the rocks to me, and said, “Ach well, Alasdair, I doubt we left it a bit late. Still, there is a good fry in that lot, and the wee cuddies are the tastiest o’ the lot.”

  He led the way up the cliff with the long rod slung over his shoulder, and I carried the fish. A smirr of rain had started to fall and when I looked back the sea was blotted out.

  We had crossed the main road when he stopped suddenly and faced me.

  “Dash it!” he exclaimed. “I promised Major Cassell I would take a look at the bothy last thing to see if the door was properly secured. The Major went down himself last night and found it unlocked, and there is a queer penny worth o’ gear stored there.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “If you are tired, away you go to the house.”

  I wondered if he was making an excuse to be rid of me, and all my old suspicions flooded back into my mind.

  “I’m not a bit tired,” I said. “I’ll come with you.”

  However, he seemed to be quite pleased to have me with him and he set off along the track he had taken the night I followed him.

  When we reached the top of the gorge, he stopped and said, “Maybe you won’t be thinking much of this place, Alasdair, when you get back to the city life. Maybe we will never see you again.”

  “No, indeed,” I said. “I just don’t know how I’ll manage to stick it in London for a whole year until the summer holidays are here again.”

  “So that’s the way of it,” he said softly, and carried on again before I had a chance to speak.

  A narrow path, no more than a foot wide, wound round the side of the cliff face. Had he not been leading the way, I would never have found it in the dark.

  Suddenly, he stumbled and let out a cry of pain. I was walking cautiously several yards behind him and when I reached him he was lying on the narrow path writhing in pain.

  “What happened?” I cried.

  “Ricked my ankle,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “I doubt I can never put this foot to the ground.”

  He struggled to his feet, and put both hands on my shoulders.

  “Help me up the path,” he gasped. “I’ll try to hop along behind you as best I can.”

  When we got to the top of the gorge, he sank to the ground, holding his ankle in both hands.

  “Maybe the pain will ease off in a while,” he said. “As long as I can just crawl down and take a look at the door of the bothy. If it were anyone but the Major I would never attempt it this night, but the poor man is depending on me and I promised him I would see that the place is locked up.”

  He tried to get to his feet, but groaned in pain when he felt his weight on his damaged ankle.

  “You’ll never manage it,” I said. “I had better go for you.”

  “Were you ever down there before?” he asked.

  “No, but surely it’s not all that difficult,” I said.

  “Not at all,” he said. “Just follow the track; that is all you need do. You will come to a bridge. Cross the bridge, and the bothy is about fifty yards down the river bank. Mind you, Alasdair, it is myself that is thankful, for my conscience would never let me rest until I had seen to the bothy, supposing I had to crawl down on my hands and knees.”

  I set off cautiously along the track, digging my feet hard into the ground to make sure that I did not lose my footing. I was reminded of a game of snakes and ladders, because one moment I was going in one direction, then the track would wind round sharply and I would be groping my way along in the opposite direction.

  The mist had drifted in from the sea, so that I could not see the river and the bay below or even the waterfall. As I made my way down the roar of the falls became louder, but all I could see was the dim outline of the gorge towering high above me, and a few feet of the path ahead. I was half dazed by the noise of the falls, and I felt sure I would lose my footing and crash down to the foaming torrent of the river far below, and I wished I had not been so foolhardy as to volunteer for the job.

  The loose earth of the track gave way to bare rock, and I almost slipped and fell. I steadied myself and strained my eyes trying to see what lay ahead. I felt the wall of the cliff-face rising vertically above me, and the track appeared to be a narrow ledge cut in the rock. It fell sharply away in front of me and I edged forward slowly until I came up against two iron bars about eighteen inches apart that forked out at an upward angle over the river. They were bound with rough rope, making a sort of cat-walk to the narrow plank bridge that loomed up out of the mist and darkness of the night.

  I crawled up the cat-walk on my hands and knees, and made my way on to the bridge. I stood up slowly and took two uncertain steps forward and then my nerve failed me. I stood quite still, knowing that I could move neither forward nor backwards, and I felt my head reel.

  The roar of the falls was deafening, and I could hear the surge and splash of the river against the rocks far below. I knew with a sudden, terrifying clarity that the only thing between me and the river was a narrow greasy plank with no handrail.

  I blinked the rain out of my eyes and tried to keep a grip on my senses. One false move and I was over the side, and my cries would be drowned in the roar of the falls. In any event, Murdo Beaton was helpless and in no condition to come to my aid. I felt my head swimming, and I knew I must force my limbs into some sort of action before a fit of giddiness overtook me and I toppled off the narrow bridge.

  My first thought was to crawl back the way I had come, but I knew I could never turn round on that greasy plank. I tried to make myself believe that I was standing on a kerbstone and running along it, as I had so often done in London, without slipping once. I dug my teeth into my lower lip until I felt the salt taste of blood, and started to inch forward along the bridge.

  I shall never forget the terror of that walk across the bridge. It was the noise of the falls and the darkness and the sense of not knowing what lay below that was the worst of all. I kept looking down at my feet until I remembered that
the best way to keep one’s balance was to look straight ahead. I forced my eyes up and stepped on gingerly.

  I have no very clear recollection of what happened. I know that I put one foot out and found no solid plank to support me, and I tried to draw back and lost my balance. I seemed to fall very slowly, and I clawed desperately for a support. My fingers closed round an iron bar, and I felt a searing pain in my armpits as the downward motion of my body was checked.

  I hung on desperately, but my hands were cold and numb and the rounded iron bar offered no purchase. Slowly, so slowly that I wondered for a moment if I was imagining it, I felt my hands slipping off the bar. I can recall thinking stupidly what a relief it would be to have the awful strain taken off my arms.

  Chapter 17

  A vice-like grip fastened around my wrists and I was hoisted high in the air and thrown across a broad back. I lay there limply, head downwards, utterly spent. What was happening to me had assumed the vague, nightmarish outlines of a bad dream. I could only lie still and hope that I would wake up in the morning in the snug safety of my bed.

  I was not really conscious of being carried over the bridge and taken behind the shelter of a rock on the other side of the river. All I know is that I was set down as gently as a baby and supported by a strong arm.

  “It is me,” a voice whispered. “Duncan Mòr. Are you hurt, Alasdair?”

  I heard somebody say, “No, I’m fine,” and realized dimly that it must be my own voice. It seemed to be coming from a long way off.

  “Don’t speak. Rest a while,” counselled Duncan Mòr, and his arm tightened around my shoulders.

  I closed my eyes, thankful for his support. My arms felt as if they had been dragged out of their sockets, but the searing pain had subsided to a dull ache. The roar of the falls was not so loud as it had been on the bridge, and I heard the sound of a dislodged stone tumbling down the hillside.